Margarita; Phil/Clint; PG-13
Dec. 11th, 2011 11:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
delicataleAnd there I go again. Please forgive me for this, my God. This is the story where Clint adopts a puppy, and Phil's life becomes much more complicated because of it. Thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
laria_gwyn for the beta, so very much!
Phil has gathered a while ago that this is his life, now. A babysitter of sorts to a bunch of misfits, some of them with powers or amazing suits and a ton of money. Hell, he’s the babysitter of a God, because Fury, somehow, has decided so.
And it’s not that Phil is bitter about it, because he has to admit, this job is more fun than anything he’s been assigned to do in the past. Sure, the Avengers are sometimes reckless, often tiring, and always frustrating, but they give Phil a reason to wake up every morning that is not filling out paperwork and dealing with potentially lethal objects.
Although right now, he is reconsidering his opinion on the whole thing, because one of his Avengers is walking towards the standard issue vehicle Phil is using as his HQ for this raid, a puppy trailing behind him.
A puppy. An honest to God dog is trotting alongside Hawkeye, who doesn’t seem to be bothered by the fact at all, looking down at the puppy from time to time with a smile that is too soft and enthusiastic not to spell trouble for Phil.
Phil steps out of the car, crossing his arms over his chest as a gust of dusty wind rushes past him. Natasha is following close behind, so Phil tries not to raise his voice. “That is not coming in the car, Hawkeye.”
“That? Be considerate, you’ll hurt his feelings, Phil.”
Clint looks down at the dog - some sort of Labrador-type breed, Phil lacks any expertise on the matter - and then looks back up, the two of them sporting matching puppy expressions. It’s very possible that someone is actually actively trying to ruin Phil’s life, because he has an inexplicable fondness for Clint Barton, and Clint is looking at him with the most ridiculous expression on his face right now, and the puppy moves forward and licks the top of Phil’s shoe.
What can he do with that?
“Fine.”
Natasha chuckles, and Phil already knows he’s going to regret this.
;;;
Clint doesn’t knock when he walks into Phil’s office, like he owns the place, and it irritates Phil so much, but no amount of telling off has changed Clint’s terrible habit. Phil guesses it’s too late to change it, now.
“So, we’ve got this mission.”
“I know. Close the door on your way out, Barton.” Phil is not bitter at all that he has to stay in New York this time, sit this one out, still recovering from a gut wound from the last time, when everything went to hell in New Zealand.
“I was wondering if you could look after Margarita while I’m in Europe.”
Phil stills, his eyes focused on the last few words he wrote on his latest report; assets accounted for going blurry under the tension between his eyebrows. Then, very slowly, he turns to look at Clint, who looks much too pleased with himself.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the only one I can trust with him.”
Phil can feel his composure slip as seconds tick by. Under any other circumstances, he’d feel honored by the trust, but it’s not something new. His working relationship with Clint has been going on for a long time now, and the support they’ve provided each other on the field has proven more than once that they could trust each other. What’s new, however, is Margarita.
“You named your dog Margarita?”
The fact that Director Fury allowed Clint to keep the puppy, and even bring him to base every day - to train him, Clint had said, which was ridiculous on many levels Phil didn’t want to think about - is even worse than the name. Right now, the dog is sitting by Clint’s heel, tongue poking out of his mouth in a parody of a stupid smile that would make Phil melt a little if he didn’t already know he was about to find himself burdened with a five month old puppy.
Clint grins, looking even more dangerous with this look on his face. “It’s his favorite.”
Phil sighs. “I don’t think I want to know.”
“So, will you?”
“This is the only time I’ll do it, you hear me? Exceptional circumstances.”
Clint winks at him in answer, and Phil knows he’s got bigger problems than how to dog-proof his apartment.
;;;
Phil watches Margarita chew happily on one of his most expensive shoes, and decides that the feeling in his chest is not fondness, not amused exasperation, no, it’s complete and utter desperation, with a dash of delirium added to the mix. He hasn’t slept in 36 hours, and he’s trying not to blame Margarita and his pathetic wailing, so instead, he blames Clint.
Because this is a pattern. Sure, Margarita is the first animal Clint has forced on Phil, but the whole thing is still something Phil is used to, a role he slipped into easily, due to habit and how simple it is to just take care of what Clint needs. Phil’s not an idiot, he very well knows that his feelings for Clint are not strictly professional, aided by Clint’s habits of being too much in Phil’s space, of smiling a little too large when he’s looking at Phil.
But they’re both professionals. Phil has spent years constructing a facade for the world, and in public, he’s fine, holding on to himself with a steely hand, never letting go.
But right now, in the confines of his apartment, with nobody to judge, he crumbles on his couch and dissolves in laughter, looking at Margarita looking back at him like he’s confused. He lets go of the shoe and pads closer to Phil, pushing his head against Phil’s hand, who pets the dog absentmindedly, his chuckles slowly reducing to pants. He scratches behind Margarita’s ears, sobering up slowly, making the most of the crazy feeling swelling up in his chest. It’s been a while since he’s laughed at all, let alone hysterically.
Once again, he blames Clint.
;;;
Margarita tugs on his leash when he sees Clint, his pained, desperate little snuffing sounds to be let go having no influence whatsoever on Phil, who holds on tight. Even when Margarita barks up at him Phil doesn’t even blink, until Clint is close enough, and Phil has no other choice than to let go. The dog runs into Clint’s arms, who takes his weight, laughing. They look like they haven’t seen each other for months, and suddenly, Phil feels awfully lonely.
“So, did you two have fun?”
Clint is on his knees, his face buried in Margarita’s fur in a display of affection uncommon in the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Phil ignores it as much as he can, stepping back as he watches Margarita lick Clint’s chin.
“Never again, Agent Barton.”
“Oh, he’s pissed. What have you done, Margie?”
That is a terrible, terrible nickname. Phil smiles despite himself, fisting his hands in his pockets, allowing himself to relax slightly while Clint is not paying attention to him, too busy rolling around on the floor with his puppy, looking more open and happy than he’s ever been before.
“Never again.”
;;;
Phil sits in the control room overlooking the gigantic training room, looking down at Clint and Margarita running around the obstacle track, the dog barking from time to time, speeding up and slowing down, running circles around Clint, the two of them obviously playing. There is a bright grin on Clint’s face as he goes to his knees and Margarita runs to him, tackling him to the ground. Phil feels a smile tug at the corner of his lips, but he forces it away when he hears the door open and close.
Steve sits next to him, wearing jeans and a t-shirt one size too small; once again, Phil should ask about that, it’s getting distracting the more Steve works out.
“All right, Rogers?” Phil asks after a minute of silence. They don’t usually...hang out.
“Yeah. Just waiting for the two of them to be done.”
Phil shifts in his seat, moving forward and resting his elbows on his knees as he looks at Clint ordering Margarita to stay before he starts climbing a tree, the puppy staying put on the ground, looking up at his master’s progression.
“You can train around them.”
Steve shakes his head. “Margarita’s scared of me, for some reason.” They exchange a look; they totally know why. “And look at them. They’re having fun.”
Clint’s back on the ground by now, laying in the grass as Margarita tugs on his suit at his hip, making Phil narrow his eyes. If this dog ruins an extremely expensive suit, they’ll have to have words.
“This is a training room. You’re more than entitled to kick them out.”
Steve smiles indulgently. “Even we superheroes need to have some comic relief sometimes, Agent Coulson.”
“I thought Tony had enough fun for the lot of you.”
Steve snorts. “Yeah. It’s okay, I can wait. What are you doing here?”
Phil, if he wasn’t so in control of himself, would flush at that. Caught red-handed, with no excuse at the tip of his lips.
“Um. Just making sure they’re not wrecking the place.” It’s lame, and when Phil looks at Steve, it’s obvious in Steve’s smile that he doesn’t believe Phil, but it has to do.
“Right. Hey, you know what? Agents, too, they’re allowed to have some fun.”
;;;
He says never again, but every time there’s some supervillain to take care of and Phil is leading the teams from whatever makeshift HQ they have settled in this time, he ends up with Margarita by his side. Luckily, the dog is surprisingly quiet and calm in those moments, more often than not curling around either Phil or Pepper’s feet, breathing sleepily against their ankles.
He’s bigger now, lean muscles and contained strength, trained well by Clint and S.H.I.E.L.D’s kennel master, but he’s still got that stupid spark in his eyes when he looks up at Phil, his tongue falling out the side of his mouth. He reminds Phil of Clint way too much.
And this happens over and over again. Phil gets used to the warm and reassuring presence of Margarita by his side as he leads missions, doesn’t even blink when Clint brings Margarita to him before a training session, Tony smirking knowingly in the background.
It’s Pepper that starts calling him out on it, though. It’s another mission and another time where Margarita is sitting by Phil’s side, looking out of the window like he gets what’s going on.
“Are you transferring your feelings for Clint onto Margarita, Phil?”
Phil turns, very slowly, towards her. They’re mostly alone in the controls room, the few agents around too busy gathering intel and data to pay attention to them.
“Excuse me?”
She shrugs delicately. “You’re way too eager to take care of this dog, that’s all. You never say no, never delegate to some paper-pusher, you just...keep him by your side, like he’s a piece of Clint you can protect when Clint himself is out there.”
Phil doesn’t really want to answer that. Pepper has always been scarily perceptive and accurate, just from working with Tony Stark, but when the heat is directed towards him, Phil doesn’t know how to answer, or even how to process it.
So, he ignores it. Turning back to the window, Phil doesn’t say anything, ready to go on with the mission and to forget Pepper even said anything, when Margarita reaches up, and licks the back of his fingers, making Phil close his eyes in defeat. Pepper makes a knowing sound by Phil’s side.
“Just saying.”
;;;
The simplest action to take is for Phil to stop taking care of Margarita. It’ll stop the rumors he knows Tony keeps on spreading, and it’ll make his life easier, all round.
Phil doesn’t expect Clint to look actually hurt when he tells him that, though.
“I don’t get it.”
“There is nothing to get, Barton. I’m busy, I can’t be looking after your things all day long.”
They’re in Phil’s office, Margarita laying at Clint’s feet, and Phil is glad he can’t see the dog’s face, because he’s afraid it could be his undoing, if the look in Clint’s eyes isn’t enough to make him waver already. Phil really needs to get these feelings in check, it’s getting out of hand. He’s not supposed to treat Clint any differently than he treats any of the other Avengers, but he knows he very much does, starting with Margarita. This is not something he’d do for anybody else.
Then again, it’s very possible none of the other Avengers would ask him to take care of their puppy.
“Has he done something?”
Phil huffs out a frustrated breath. “No. That is not the point, Clint.”
“Then what is the point?” There is a dangerous glint in Clint’s eyes, like he’s understanding something Phil doesn’t, and sometimes, Phil hates just how smart all of these people he works with are. His carefully built armor of snark and suits keeps on feeling inadequate, not enough, and he’s so close to exploding and punching one of them sometimes it scares him.
“The point is, he’s distracting. I have a job to do, and it’s to keep you alive. It’s hard enough, I don’t need to be moonlighting as a dogsitter.”
Feelings pass over Clint’s face in a flash, something resembling surprise, then hurt, before he’s back to his careful blank face. Phil hasn’t seen this face in a while, and he tries not to let his stomach knot at its sudden reappearance.
“Fine, okay. I’m sure Sitwell will do it gladly enough.”
Clint stands up, tugging once on Margarita’s leash, getting him up and heeling with just this one movement, and Phil can only wonder if there was anything Clint was going to add to that before he left.
;;;
Thing is, it doesn’t get any better after that. Instead, it gets even worse. Phil catches Clint and Margarita walking out of the S.H.I.E.L.D complex one evening, and Margarita turns around, stopping dead in his tracks, sitting down like he’s waiting for Phil to join them, his tail wagging behind him. Clint turns around, too, and his eyes flash as he watches Phil at the door, unmoving. Then he’s whispering a few words to Margarita, making the dog move again, his ears pitifully down. He keeps on looking back, but Phil doesn’t move until they’re both in Clint’s car.
Phil misses them. It’s a feeling he’s learned to ignore, in his long years as an agent, but he can’t deny it. He misses Margarita curled around his feet as he supervises operations, and he misses the smiles Clint used to give him, the special relationship they had going on for a while, here. It’s like strings severed, and now everything between them is stilted, wrong somehow.
When he gets to his apartment, Phil boots up his laptop and sits in front of an open Google page without typing anything in the search box for a while, his brain telling him, over and over, how stupid this is. In the end he thinks, fuck it, and types animal shelter before hitting search.
He closes his laptop two minutes later, shaking his head resolutely. He is not doing this, it will not resolve anything and will only make his life even more difficult. He’s comfortable in his loneliness, nowadays, used to his empty apartment and to his bed only unmade on one side. He doesn’t need another mouth to feed, he doesn’t need the company.
He’s not doing this.
;;;
The knock at his office door tells Phil it’s not Tony about to come in, but he’s not sure if he can tell it’s not Clint, either, because they’ve been walking on eggshells around each other, practically only communicating during missions, so Clint might be trying to curb his habit.
“Come in.”
It’s not Clint, and Phil has to strangle his disappointment, clenching his jaw at the fact that he’s even disappointed at all.
“Hi Steve. What can I do for you?”
Steve, wearing half of his suit, sits down in front of Phil’s desk, and looks at him for a moment, without saying anything. Phil raises his eyebrows.
“Steve? I’ve got stuff to do, if you don’t mind.”
“Are you okay?”
This team keeps on surprising him. He thought he was better at this, and yet they still manage to make him stop and stare regularly.
“I’m fine, thank you for asking. What is prompting this?”
“You’ve been really short-tempered lately. I mean, I get it, Tony is not easy to deal with on the best of days, but you’ve been worse than usual.”
Phil busies himself rearranging files in a pile on his desk, avoiding Steve’s eyes.
“Thanks for the concern, but there’s no reason for it. Everything’s fine.”
“You don’t hang out with Margarita anymore.”
Phil slams the next file on top of his neatly arranged pile, feeling his temper flare once more. He definitely doesn’t want to talk about this.
“Steve, I’m sure you have better things to do than to try to make me talk about feelings.”
Steve, the bastard, smirks, cocking his head to the side. “I don’t know, it seems like a good challenge. Funny how me mentioning Margarita led to you talking about feelings, too. Someone could draw conclusions.”
Phil is thankfully spared from having to formulate an answer when his phone rings, but the relief only lasts as long as it takes him to hear the urgency in Sitwell’s voice.
”Hawkeye’s been injured.”
;;;
“Margie! Come here, c’mon!”
Margarita turns his head from the door that he’s sitting in front of, hesitating for a moment, before making his choice, barrelling into Phil, who crouches to embrace the dog, abandoning all pretense for a moment, allowing Margarita to lick his cheek. He scratches behind the dog’s ears and around his collar, moving away reluctantly after a moment, aware that they’re not alone.
He shows Margarita his leash, trying to smile and not quite managing. “Coming home with me tonight, boy.”
Margarita looks confused, turning back to the door, sitting down, his tail thumping on the linoleum floor. Phil sighs, and crouches again.
“I know, I know. You can’t stay here, though, Margie. I promise I’ll get you back to him as soon as he’s better.”
Margarita doesn’t budge. Phil sighs, running his fingers along Margarita’s side. He wonders for a second about the scene they’re making, the two of them in the middle of a corridor in the infirmary level of the complex, Phil trying to convince a dog to move away from his master’s hospital room. But then, he realizes he doesn’t really care what anyone thinks, because this feels important to him, more important than not having anyone look at him like he’s anything more than a S.H.I.E.L.D agent.
Because he can’t bring himself to go make sure for himself that Clint will be fine, so making sure that Margarita is taken care of seems to be the next best thing.
“Come on. I’ll let you chew all you want on my favorite shoes.”
Margarita perks up at that, making Phil chuckle despite himself. He picks himself up from the floor, throwing a glance at the door behind which Clint is most probably sleeping. It’s only a leg wound, from what Phil gathered from the report, but he still can’t cross the few feet gaping between him and the door. It would make the possibility of having lost Clint forever way too real.
Instead, he clips Margarita’s collar to his leash, and leads the dog outside.
;;;
Phil knows when Clint is released from the hospital as soon as it happens, called and alerted as requested. He doesn’t let Clint know that he’s got Margarita with him, currently laying on Phil’s couch with his head over Phil’s thighs, but he’s certain someone will tell him quickly enough - before Clint threatens to torch the place down.
So he knows as soon as it happens - Friday mid-afternoon - but Phil doesn’t move a muscle to do anything about it. He’s engrossed in an episode of Hoarders, and Margarita is a comforting weight on his legs, huffing breaths against Phil’s bare forearm. He already knows that Clint will come reclaim his dog, and maybe at that point they can talk. Maybe Phil can explain himself, and explain why he pushed both Clint and Margarita away. Pepper was right, Phil will get nothing but heartache by trying to live without them, or without trying to protect them.
So he might as well tempt fate.
Phil is almost asleep, debating with himself whether to get a pizza or Chinese for dinner when the doorbell rings. Margarita is off the couch and at the door in a flash, barking happily, which tells Phil exactly what he needs to know about his late afternoon visitor. He brushes fur off his Henley as he stands up, walking to the door at a more sedate pace than Margarita, who is now bouncing in front of the door.
Clint blinks with surprise when Phil opens the door, but he’s only got an instant before Margarita is all over him, and Clint laughs, shushing the dog, bending his back instead of his knees to pet Margarita.
“Hey, hey, yes, I’ve missed you too, calm down now, come on.”
A few words have Margarita sitting in front of Clint, looking up at him adoringly. Phil opens the door further.
“Do you want to come in?”
Clint gives him a look, before nodding, and he hobbles inside with the help of a cane, which looks much cooler on him than it should. They sit on opposites ends of the couch, Clint snorting when he sees The Biggest Loser playing on TV.
“You have disgusting taste in television.”
“We established that a long time ago. Does me good to see I’m not the only one that deals with stupid drama all the time.”
Clint doesn’t answer for a long time, long enough that Phil wonders if he’s fallen asleep. But when he looks, Clint is staring straight back at him, eyes unreadable, his hand on Margarita’s head.
“Thank you for taking care of him while I was out.”
Phil nods. “Are you okay?”
Clint shrugs. “I got stabbed in the thigh. All things considered, I’m fine.”
“Good. How long are you relieved for?”
Clint changes the topic sharply, raising his voice just as Phil finishes his question. “You know Margie misses you, right? And now it’s going to be even worse. You could have left him with Sitwell.”
Phil feels anger, then desperation grow inside him, simmering right underneath his skin, ready to explode right away. This is what Clint reduces him to, this is what he makes Phil feel.
“What if I missed him?” His words are deceptively quiet, considering the maelstrom of thoughts and desires rushing through his veins. He wants to punch Clint, and to hold him, push him away and pull him in at the same time.
“You made that choice, didn’t you? You said you wanted nothing to do with us anymore.”
“Could you be just a tiny bit more dramatic?”
Clint just glares at Phil, until Phil rolls his eyes, giving up. He’s not going to win this one.
“I almost got myself a rescue cat.”
“What?” Clint frowns, obviously confused. Phil picks at a loose thread on his shirt.
“I was lonely.”
“Right.”
Phil sighs. “Fine, to the point. I took care of Margarita because it was almost like having a part of you around at all times. And when I was faced with this realization, I...turned away.”
For a moment, Clint doesn’t say anything, and Phil guesses this is it. He’s sure they can get back from this, but it doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy. Then, Clint sits up straighter, his eyes laser sharp on Phil’s.
“Are you saying that you have feelings for me? Because, let me tell you, if getting a dog was all I needed to do to make you realize this, I would have done it a long time ago.”
“I think it was the dog, and the injury.”
Clint grins, shaking his head. “For someone who spends his life judging situations, you’re not very good at the people stuff.”
Clint slides closer on the couch, and Phil smiles, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, you did not show me any clue that you were interested before.”
“Yeah, I talk about movies and bad tv shows on private comm channels to everybody, and I wander into everybody’s offices half naked just for the sake of it, and I ask everybody to take care of my dog because I trust them.”
Phil rolls his eyes. “Fine, you made your point. Margarita?” The dog perks up, looking at him with a hopeful glint in his eyes. “Time to look away now, boy.”
Margarita makes a pitiful noise, but Phil can’t help smiling as he watches the dog lie on the floor, his paws over his eyes. Clint chuckles as he curls his fingers in the collar of Phil’s Henley. “Good one.”
Phil is about to tell him to shut up when he changes his mind, and just closes the gap between the two of them, fitting his lips over Clint’s, his own hand sliding to the back of Clint’s head. It’s a mix of desperation and softness, this kiss, surprising on many levels. Clint smiles against Phil’s mouth, and suddenly it turns a little more hungry, intense. Phil pushes against Clint, letting out a groan when he breaks the kiss, wanting to dive right back in.
So he does, feeling Clint’s mouth open under his own, sweet and yielding, Clint’s fingers pressing into Phil’s ribs at his side, five points of contact that burn him right through his clothes. They pull away with a laugh when Margarita lets out an outraged bark.
“You’re wearing jeans.”
“You’re incredibly perceptive.”
“I like it.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I think I will, actually.”
THE END
laria_gwyn for the beta, so very much!Phil has gathered a while ago that this is his life, now. A babysitter of sorts to a bunch of misfits, some of them with powers or amazing suits and a ton of money. Hell, he’s the babysitter of a God, because Fury, somehow, has decided so.
And it’s not that Phil is bitter about it, because he has to admit, this job is more fun than anything he’s been assigned to do in the past. Sure, the Avengers are sometimes reckless, often tiring, and always frustrating, but they give Phil a reason to wake up every morning that is not filling out paperwork and dealing with potentially lethal objects.
Although right now, he is reconsidering his opinion on the whole thing, because one of his Avengers is walking towards the standard issue vehicle Phil is using as his HQ for this raid, a puppy trailing behind him.
A puppy. An honest to God dog is trotting alongside Hawkeye, who doesn’t seem to be bothered by the fact at all, looking down at the puppy from time to time with a smile that is too soft and enthusiastic not to spell trouble for Phil.
Phil steps out of the car, crossing his arms over his chest as a gust of dusty wind rushes past him. Natasha is following close behind, so Phil tries not to raise his voice. “That is not coming in the car, Hawkeye.”
“That? Be considerate, you’ll hurt his feelings, Phil.”
Clint looks down at the dog - some sort of Labrador-type breed, Phil lacks any expertise on the matter - and then looks back up, the two of them sporting matching puppy expressions. It’s very possible that someone is actually actively trying to ruin Phil’s life, because he has an inexplicable fondness for Clint Barton, and Clint is looking at him with the most ridiculous expression on his face right now, and the puppy moves forward and licks the top of Phil’s shoe.
What can he do with that?
“Fine.”
Natasha chuckles, and Phil already knows he’s going to regret this.
;;;
Clint doesn’t knock when he walks into Phil’s office, like he owns the place, and it irritates Phil so much, but no amount of telling off has changed Clint’s terrible habit. Phil guesses it’s too late to change it, now.
“So, we’ve got this mission.”
“I know. Close the door on your way out, Barton.” Phil is not bitter at all that he has to stay in New York this time, sit this one out, still recovering from a gut wound from the last time, when everything went to hell in New Zealand.
“I was wondering if you could look after Margarita while I’m in Europe.”
Phil stills, his eyes focused on the last few words he wrote on his latest report; assets accounted for going blurry under the tension between his eyebrows. Then, very slowly, he turns to look at Clint, who looks much too pleased with himself.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the only one I can trust with him.”
Phil can feel his composure slip as seconds tick by. Under any other circumstances, he’d feel honored by the trust, but it’s not something new. His working relationship with Clint has been going on for a long time now, and the support they’ve provided each other on the field has proven more than once that they could trust each other. What’s new, however, is Margarita.
“You named your dog Margarita?”
The fact that Director Fury allowed Clint to keep the puppy, and even bring him to base every day - to train him, Clint had said, which was ridiculous on many levels Phil didn’t want to think about - is even worse than the name. Right now, the dog is sitting by Clint’s heel, tongue poking out of his mouth in a parody of a stupid smile that would make Phil melt a little if he didn’t already know he was about to find himself burdened with a five month old puppy.
Clint grins, looking even more dangerous with this look on his face. “It’s his favorite.”
Phil sighs. “I don’t think I want to know.”
“So, will you?”
“This is the only time I’ll do it, you hear me? Exceptional circumstances.”
Clint winks at him in answer, and Phil knows he’s got bigger problems than how to dog-proof his apartment.
;;;
Phil watches Margarita chew happily on one of his most expensive shoes, and decides that the feeling in his chest is not fondness, not amused exasperation, no, it’s complete and utter desperation, with a dash of delirium added to the mix. He hasn’t slept in 36 hours, and he’s trying not to blame Margarita and his pathetic wailing, so instead, he blames Clint.
Because this is a pattern. Sure, Margarita is the first animal Clint has forced on Phil, but the whole thing is still something Phil is used to, a role he slipped into easily, due to habit and how simple it is to just take care of what Clint needs. Phil’s not an idiot, he very well knows that his feelings for Clint are not strictly professional, aided by Clint’s habits of being too much in Phil’s space, of smiling a little too large when he’s looking at Phil.
But they’re both professionals. Phil has spent years constructing a facade for the world, and in public, he’s fine, holding on to himself with a steely hand, never letting go.
But right now, in the confines of his apartment, with nobody to judge, he crumbles on his couch and dissolves in laughter, looking at Margarita looking back at him like he’s confused. He lets go of the shoe and pads closer to Phil, pushing his head against Phil’s hand, who pets the dog absentmindedly, his chuckles slowly reducing to pants. He scratches behind Margarita’s ears, sobering up slowly, making the most of the crazy feeling swelling up in his chest. It’s been a while since he’s laughed at all, let alone hysterically.
Once again, he blames Clint.
;;;
Margarita tugs on his leash when he sees Clint, his pained, desperate little snuffing sounds to be let go having no influence whatsoever on Phil, who holds on tight. Even when Margarita barks up at him Phil doesn’t even blink, until Clint is close enough, and Phil has no other choice than to let go. The dog runs into Clint’s arms, who takes his weight, laughing. They look like they haven’t seen each other for months, and suddenly, Phil feels awfully lonely.
“So, did you two have fun?”
Clint is on his knees, his face buried in Margarita’s fur in a display of affection uncommon in the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Phil ignores it as much as he can, stepping back as he watches Margarita lick Clint’s chin.
“Never again, Agent Barton.”
“Oh, he’s pissed. What have you done, Margie?”
That is a terrible, terrible nickname. Phil smiles despite himself, fisting his hands in his pockets, allowing himself to relax slightly while Clint is not paying attention to him, too busy rolling around on the floor with his puppy, looking more open and happy than he’s ever been before.
“Never again.”
;;;
Phil sits in the control room overlooking the gigantic training room, looking down at Clint and Margarita running around the obstacle track, the dog barking from time to time, speeding up and slowing down, running circles around Clint, the two of them obviously playing. There is a bright grin on Clint’s face as he goes to his knees and Margarita runs to him, tackling him to the ground. Phil feels a smile tug at the corner of his lips, but he forces it away when he hears the door open and close.
Steve sits next to him, wearing jeans and a t-shirt one size too small; once again, Phil should ask about that, it’s getting distracting the more Steve works out.
“All right, Rogers?” Phil asks after a minute of silence. They don’t usually...hang out.
“Yeah. Just waiting for the two of them to be done.”
Phil shifts in his seat, moving forward and resting his elbows on his knees as he looks at Clint ordering Margarita to stay before he starts climbing a tree, the puppy staying put on the ground, looking up at his master’s progression.
“You can train around them.”
Steve shakes his head. “Margarita’s scared of me, for some reason.” They exchange a look; they totally know why. “And look at them. They’re having fun.”
Clint’s back on the ground by now, laying in the grass as Margarita tugs on his suit at his hip, making Phil narrow his eyes. If this dog ruins an extremely expensive suit, they’ll have to have words.
“This is a training room. You’re more than entitled to kick them out.”
Steve smiles indulgently. “Even we superheroes need to have some comic relief sometimes, Agent Coulson.”
“I thought Tony had enough fun for the lot of you.”
Steve snorts. “Yeah. It’s okay, I can wait. What are you doing here?”
Phil, if he wasn’t so in control of himself, would flush at that. Caught red-handed, with no excuse at the tip of his lips.
“Um. Just making sure they’re not wrecking the place.” It’s lame, and when Phil looks at Steve, it’s obvious in Steve’s smile that he doesn’t believe Phil, but it has to do.
“Right. Hey, you know what? Agents, too, they’re allowed to have some fun.”
;;;
He says never again, but every time there’s some supervillain to take care of and Phil is leading the teams from whatever makeshift HQ they have settled in this time, he ends up with Margarita by his side. Luckily, the dog is surprisingly quiet and calm in those moments, more often than not curling around either Phil or Pepper’s feet, breathing sleepily against their ankles.
He’s bigger now, lean muscles and contained strength, trained well by Clint and S.H.I.E.L.D’s kennel master, but he’s still got that stupid spark in his eyes when he looks up at Phil, his tongue falling out the side of his mouth. He reminds Phil of Clint way too much.
And this happens over and over again. Phil gets used to the warm and reassuring presence of Margarita by his side as he leads missions, doesn’t even blink when Clint brings Margarita to him before a training session, Tony smirking knowingly in the background.
It’s Pepper that starts calling him out on it, though. It’s another mission and another time where Margarita is sitting by Phil’s side, looking out of the window like he gets what’s going on.
“Are you transferring your feelings for Clint onto Margarita, Phil?”
Phil turns, very slowly, towards her. They’re mostly alone in the controls room, the few agents around too busy gathering intel and data to pay attention to them.
“Excuse me?”
She shrugs delicately. “You’re way too eager to take care of this dog, that’s all. You never say no, never delegate to some paper-pusher, you just...keep him by your side, like he’s a piece of Clint you can protect when Clint himself is out there.”
Phil doesn’t really want to answer that. Pepper has always been scarily perceptive and accurate, just from working with Tony Stark, but when the heat is directed towards him, Phil doesn’t know how to answer, or even how to process it.
So, he ignores it. Turning back to the window, Phil doesn’t say anything, ready to go on with the mission and to forget Pepper even said anything, when Margarita reaches up, and licks the back of his fingers, making Phil close his eyes in defeat. Pepper makes a knowing sound by Phil’s side.
“Just saying.”
;;;
The simplest action to take is for Phil to stop taking care of Margarita. It’ll stop the rumors he knows Tony keeps on spreading, and it’ll make his life easier, all round.
Phil doesn’t expect Clint to look actually hurt when he tells him that, though.
“I don’t get it.”
“There is nothing to get, Barton. I’m busy, I can’t be looking after your things all day long.”
They’re in Phil’s office, Margarita laying at Clint’s feet, and Phil is glad he can’t see the dog’s face, because he’s afraid it could be his undoing, if the look in Clint’s eyes isn’t enough to make him waver already. Phil really needs to get these feelings in check, it’s getting out of hand. He’s not supposed to treat Clint any differently than he treats any of the other Avengers, but he knows he very much does, starting with Margarita. This is not something he’d do for anybody else.
Then again, it’s very possible none of the other Avengers would ask him to take care of their puppy.
“Has he done something?”
Phil huffs out a frustrated breath. “No. That is not the point, Clint.”
“Then what is the point?” There is a dangerous glint in Clint’s eyes, like he’s understanding something Phil doesn’t, and sometimes, Phil hates just how smart all of these people he works with are. His carefully built armor of snark and suits keeps on feeling inadequate, not enough, and he’s so close to exploding and punching one of them sometimes it scares him.
“The point is, he’s distracting. I have a job to do, and it’s to keep you alive. It’s hard enough, I don’t need to be moonlighting as a dogsitter.”
Feelings pass over Clint’s face in a flash, something resembling surprise, then hurt, before he’s back to his careful blank face. Phil hasn’t seen this face in a while, and he tries not to let his stomach knot at its sudden reappearance.
“Fine, okay. I’m sure Sitwell will do it gladly enough.”
Clint stands up, tugging once on Margarita’s leash, getting him up and heeling with just this one movement, and Phil can only wonder if there was anything Clint was going to add to that before he left.
;;;
Thing is, it doesn’t get any better after that. Instead, it gets even worse. Phil catches Clint and Margarita walking out of the S.H.I.E.L.D complex one evening, and Margarita turns around, stopping dead in his tracks, sitting down like he’s waiting for Phil to join them, his tail wagging behind him. Clint turns around, too, and his eyes flash as he watches Phil at the door, unmoving. Then he’s whispering a few words to Margarita, making the dog move again, his ears pitifully down. He keeps on looking back, but Phil doesn’t move until they’re both in Clint’s car.
Phil misses them. It’s a feeling he’s learned to ignore, in his long years as an agent, but he can’t deny it. He misses Margarita curled around his feet as he supervises operations, and he misses the smiles Clint used to give him, the special relationship they had going on for a while, here. It’s like strings severed, and now everything between them is stilted, wrong somehow.
When he gets to his apartment, Phil boots up his laptop and sits in front of an open Google page without typing anything in the search box for a while, his brain telling him, over and over, how stupid this is. In the end he thinks, fuck it, and types animal shelter before hitting search.
He closes his laptop two minutes later, shaking his head resolutely. He is not doing this, it will not resolve anything and will only make his life even more difficult. He’s comfortable in his loneliness, nowadays, used to his empty apartment and to his bed only unmade on one side. He doesn’t need another mouth to feed, he doesn’t need the company.
He’s not doing this.
;;;
The knock at his office door tells Phil it’s not Tony about to come in, but he’s not sure if he can tell it’s not Clint, either, because they’ve been walking on eggshells around each other, practically only communicating during missions, so Clint might be trying to curb his habit.
“Come in.”
It’s not Clint, and Phil has to strangle his disappointment, clenching his jaw at the fact that he’s even disappointed at all.
“Hi Steve. What can I do for you?”
Steve, wearing half of his suit, sits down in front of Phil’s desk, and looks at him for a moment, without saying anything. Phil raises his eyebrows.
“Steve? I’ve got stuff to do, if you don’t mind.”
“Are you okay?”
This team keeps on surprising him. He thought he was better at this, and yet they still manage to make him stop and stare regularly.
“I’m fine, thank you for asking. What is prompting this?”
“You’ve been really short-tempered lately. I mean, I get it, Tony is not easy to deal with on the best of days, but you’ve been worse than usual.”
Phil busies himself rearranging files in a pile on his desk, avoiding Steve’s eyes.
“Thanks for the concern, but there’s no reason for it. Everything’s fine.”
“You don’t hang out with Margarita anymore.”
Phil slams the next file on top of his neatly arranged pile, feeling his temper flare once more. He definitely doesn’t want to talk about this.
“Steve, I’m sure you have better things to do than to try to make me talk about feelings.”
Steve, the bastard, smirks, cocking his head to the side. “I don’t know, it seems like a good challenge. Funny how me mentioning Margarita led to you talking about feelings, too. Someone could draw conclusions.”
Phil is thankfully spared from having to formulate an answer when his phone rings, but the relief only lasts as long as it takes him to hear the urgency in Sitwell’s voice.
”Hawkeye’s been injured.”
;;;
“Margie! Come here, c’mon!”
Margarita turns his head from the door that he’s sitting in front of, hesitating for a moment, before making his choice, barrelling into Phil, who crouches to embrace the dog, abandoning all pretense for a moment, allowing Margarita to lick his cheek. He scratches behind the dog’s ears and around his collar, moving away reluctantly after a moment, aware that they’re not alone.
He shows Margarita his leash, trying to smile and not quite managing. “Coming home with me tonight, boy.”
Margarita looks confused, turning back to the door, sitting down, his tail thumping on the linoleum floor. Phil sighs, and crouches again.
“I know, I know. You can’t stay here, though, Margie. I promise I’ll get you back to him as soon as he’s better.”
Margarita doesn’t budge. Phil sighs, running his fingers along Margarita’s side. He wonders for a second about the scene they’re making, the two of them in the middle of a corridor in the infirmary level of the complex, Phil trying to convince a dog to move away from his master’s hospital room. But then, he realizes he doesn’t really care what anyone thinks, because this feels important to him, more important than not having anyone look at him like he’s anything more than a S.H.I.E.L.D agent.
Because he can’t bring himself to go make sure for himself that Clint will be fine, so making sure that Margarita is taken care of seems to be the next best thing.
“Come on. I’ll let you chew all you want on my favorite shoes.”
Margarita perks up at that, making Phil chuckle despite himself. He picks himself up from the floor, throwing a glance at the door behind which Clint is most probably sleeping. It’s only a leg wound, from what Phil gathered from the report, but he still can’t cross the few feet gaping between him and the door. It would make the possibility of having lost Clint forever way too real.
Instead, he clips Margarita’s collar to his leash, and leads the dog outside.
;;;
Phil knows when Clint is released from the hospital as soon as it happens, called and alerted as requested. He doesn’t let Clint know that he’s got Margarita with him, currently laying on Phil’s couch with his head over Phil’s thighs, but he’s certain someone will tell him quickly enough - before Clint threatens to torch the place down.
So he knows as soon as it happens - Friday mid-afternoon - but Phil doesn’t move a muscle to do anything about it. He’s engrossed in an episode of Hoarders, and Margarita is a comforting weight on his legs, huffing breaths against Phil’s bare forearm. He already knows that Clint will come reclaim his dog, and maybe at that point they can talk. Maybe Phil can explain himself, and explain why he pushed both Clint and Margarita away. Pepper was right, Phil will get nothing but heartache by trying to live without them, or without trying to protect them.
So he might as well tempt fate.
Phil is almost asleep, debating with himself whether to get a pizza or Chinese for dinner when the doorbell rings. Margarita is off the couch and at the door in a flash, barking happily, which tells Phil exactly what he needs to know about his late afternoon visitor. He brushes fur off his Henley as he stands up, walking to the door at a more sedate pace than Margarita, who is now bouncing in front of the door.
Clint blinks with surprise when Phil opens the door, but he’s only got an instant before Margarita is all over him, and Clint laughs, shushing the dog, bending his back instead of his knees to pet Margarita.
“Hey, hey, yes, I’ve missed you too, calm down now, come on.”
A few words have Margarita sitting in front of Clint, looking up at him adoringly. Phil opens the door further.
“Do you want to come in?”
Clint gives him a look, before nodding, and he hobbles inside with the help of a cane, which looks much cooler on him than it should. They sit on opposites ends of the couch, Clint snorting when he sees The Biggest Loser playing on TV.
“You have disgusting taste in television.”
“We established that a long time ago. Does me good to see I’m not the only one that deals with stupid drama all the time.”
Clint doesn’t answer for a long time, long enough that Phil wonders if he’s fallen asleep. But when he looks, Clint is staring straight back at him, eyes unreadable, his hand on Margarita’s head.
“Thank you for taking care of him while I was out.”
Phil nods. “Are you okay?”
Clint shrugs. “I got stabbed in the thigh. All things considered, I’m fine.”
“Good. How long are you relieved for?”
Clint changes the topic sharply, raising his voice just as Phil finishes his question. “You know Margie misses you, right? And now it’s going to be even worse. You could have left him with Sitwell.”
Phil feels anger, then desperation grow inside him, simmering right underneath his skin, ready to explode right away. This is what Clint reduces him to, this is what he makes Phil feel.
“What if I missed him?” His words are deceptively quiet, considering the maelstrom of thoughts and desires rushing through his veins. He wants to punch Clint, and to hold him, push him away and pull him in at the same time.
“You made that choice, didn’t you? You said you wanted nothing to do with us anymore.”
“Could you be just a tiny bit more dramatic?”
Clint just glares at Phil, until Phil rolls his eyes, giving up. He’s not going to win this one.
“I almost got myself a rescue cat.”
“What?” Clint frowns, obviously confused. Phil picks at a loose thread on his shirt.
“I was lonely.”
“Right.”
Phil sighs. “Fine, to the point. I took care of Margarita because it was almost like having a part of you around at all times. And when I was faced with this realization, I...turned away.”
For a moment, Clint doesn’t say anything, and Phil guesses this is it. He’s sure they can get back from this, but it doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy. Then, Clint sits up straighter, his eyes laser sharp on Phil’s.
“Are you saying that you have feelings for me? Because, let me tell you, if getting a dog was all I needed to do to make you realize this, I would have done it a long time ago.”
“I think it was the dog, and the injury.”
Clint grins, shaking his head. “For someone who spends his life judging situations, you’re not very good at the people stuff.”
Clint slides closer on the couch, and Phil smiles, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, you did not show me any clue that you were interested before.”
“Yeah, I talk about movies and bad tv shows on private comm channels to everybody, and I wander into everybody’s offices half naked just for the sake of it, and I ask everybody to take care of my dog because I trust them.”
Phil rolls his eyes. “Fine, you made your point. Margarita?” The dog perks up, looking at him with a hopeful glint in his eyes. “Time to look away now, boy.”
Margarita makes a pitiful noise, but Phil can’t help smiling as he watches the dog lie on the floor, his paws over his eyes. Clint chuckles as he curls his fingers in the collar of Phil’s Henley. “Good one.”
Phil is about to tell him to shut up when he changes his mind, and just closes the gap between the two of them, fitting his lips over Clint’s, his own hand sliding to the back of Clint’s head. It’s a mix of desperation and softness, this kiss, surprising on many levels. Clint smiles against Phil’s mouth, and suddenly it turns a little more hungry, intense. Phil pushes against Clint, letting out a groan when he breaks the kiss, wanting to dive right back in.
So he does, feeling Clint’s mouth open under his own, sweet and yielding, Clint’s fingers pressing into Phil’s ribs at his side, five points of contact that burn him right through his clothes. They pull away with a laugh when Margarita lets out an outraged bark.
“You’re wearing jeans.”
“You’re incredibly perceptive.”
“I like it.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I think I will, actually.”
THE END
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2011-12-11 12:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-11 01:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-11 01:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-11 01:12 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2011-12-11 02:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-11 02:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-11 03:10 pm (UTC)...i've never considered naming a dog after a drink before. but it fits so well. and so CUTE!!!! the three of them are so damned cute!
brava.
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Date: 2011-12-11 03:45 pm (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed it!
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Date: 2011-12-11 04:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-11 04:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-11 07:00 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2011-12-11 08:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-11 08:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-12 07:16 pm (UTC)Do you maybe plan to write some more for Phil and Clint? :D
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Date: 2011-12-12 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-12 07:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-11 09:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-12 07:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-12 01:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-12 07:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-12 02:02 am (UTC)YES
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Date: 2011-12-12 07:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-12 11:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-12 11:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-12 09:07 pm (UTC)This was adorable! <3
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Date: 2011-12-12 09:19 pm (UTC)Thank you!
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Date: 2011-12-15 04:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-19 02:31 am (UTC)