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delicataleWell finally, I finished this fic! Thanks to my darling ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sirona_gs for the super fast beta help!
Clint is sent to lay low in the English countryside, and Phil is sent along. Shenanigans happen. NC-17, ~11,800 words.
Phil Coulson cannot say his life is boring. There is not one day that goes by where he isn’t faced with random international threats and-slash-or one of his assets in some kind of mortal danger, because Phil Coulson’s life is not normal. He doesn’t do 9 to 5 and home to the wife and dog; he does wake up at 3 in the morning on a Sunday to pick up Barton from some bar or hospital, depending on the month; he does the listening to Natasha’s rants about her missions and her needs and fills out the necessary paperwork for her; he does the checking and measuring of Tony Stark’s insanity.
So when Nick Fury calls him into his office one morning and starts with, “You should go on vacation,” Phil is wary. In the twenty years he’s known Fury, ten or so years he’s spent with SHIELD, he’s never been offered vacation time - he doesn’t need it. There is always a catch.
“Sir,” he answers, standing straight. “I don’t think -”
Fury slides a manila folder across his desk towards him; he picks it up. Inside, he finds various pictures of what looks like a charming cottage, with its own private lake, even. Pretty. Phil raises an eyebrow.
“I need Barton to lay low for a while. He barked up the wrong tree during his last mission, and we’ve got some angry Hungarians after him as a result. Hole up for a few weeks, it’s all paid for and ready. Your flight leaves this evening, gives you both enough time to pack.”
Phil knows better than to question any order, but this is definitely not a vacation. Barton, as charming as he can be, will be going stir-crazy two days into his confinement and Phil will be the only one there to perform damage control. He squares his shoulders, lifting his chin.
“Am I the one telling Barton?”
“No, I’ll take care of it. Go pack, Agent Coulson.”
Phil nods, turns on his heels, and leaves Fury’s office.
;;
The cottage is surprisingly nice. Quirky, with an odd floor plan that Phil reviewed on the plane as Barton snored lightly next to him, but spacious, light, interesting. It’s warm in the English Cotswolds but it’s not the sweltering heat of a New York summer, and there is a lingering smell of lavender and honey in the air as Phil follows Barton inside the cottage, listening for the bleep of the car alarm being engaged.
Of course, Barton is unhappy about this turn of events, but he’s been strangely subdued the whole way to England and the drive from London to the cottage. After leaving his bags in the living-room, Barton walks over and opens every curtain and windows, letting the summer breeze in and out of the house, goes upstairs without even visiting the bedrooms to claim one as his own first. Phil is unloading groceries when he hears Barton calling out for him.
“Coulson, come up here!”
Phil checks his ankle holster out of habit before going up the stairs; they open into another sitting-room complete with fireplace and a balcony, on which Clint is standing, looking out. Phil joins him, taking in the lake he’s seen in the pictures, the tall grass, the birds singing to the sun from the forest surrounding them.
“Pretty cool, huh?”
“Why, Barton, you sound like you’re enjoying your exile.”
Barton shrugs, still looking away from Phil, his hands in his pockets. “Never been to England before. Might as well make the most of it.”
There’s something wistful in his voice, something soft in his eyes. Phil doesn’t know why he has to break the spell, but he finds himself doing it anyway.
“Ground rules: you are not to leave this perimeter. You have to the other side of the lake, and the entirety of the house. You do not make yourself seen, or known. You have to disappear.”
Barton turns to Phil, his eyes sharp as he narrows them. The spell is definitely broken, and Phil feels like some kind of idiot for having said that, closing the window that allowed him a rare look into Barton’s life.
“I’ve done it before, sir. You don’t have to worry, nobody will even know I’m here.”
Phil nods, and Barton walks back inside the house, averting his eyes.
;;
It’s not that they don’t get along. They work well together, Phil knows this for a fact, has seen enough mission reports where Barton worked with other handlers to know that the rhythm they have, the easy connection that doesn’t need words to maintain is something rare and special, and not something Barton has with many others inside SHIELD.
But they’re not at work right now, they’re living in each other’s pockets like they’re supposed to be used to it, with virtually nothing to do, and Phil has no idea how long they are going to manage without one or both of them getting an arrow planted in a sensitive part of their bodies. He looks up at the skylight in his bedroom on the first night, unable to sleep, and lets his mind wonder to how exactly this has become his life. Glorified babysitter to a 30-something, ungrateful bastard but at the same time genius marksman, it wasn’t what Phil signed up for when he joined SHIELD, but did he really have room for complaining? For the first time in years, his life isn’t in immediate danger, he doesn’t have to think about paperwork, field reports and interrogations, and he’s not even alone. It’s a series of not-quite-firsts that Phil isn’t sure how to deal with - he is a workaholic and without anything to do he feels like he’s got very little purpose, useless to the cause he’s joined.
He reminds himself this is not a vacation, and he’s here for a reason, to keep Clint Barton safe and alive. Not that Barton can’t take care of himself, but back-up is a notion that is too abstract for him when it shouldn’t be, and Fury would never have trusted him to hole himself up on his own. They’d have found him halfway dead down some side street in London just under a week, Phil is sure of it.
Maybe Fury thought he’d be doing him a favor, sending him here with Barton. Right now, Phil feels just as caged as Barton must do, but he reminds himself this is not punishment. This is trust. Barton is more of an asset than he realizes; they can’t afford to lose him, and Fury knows better than most just how easily Phil will take a bullet for Barton. Fury knows which button to push, and isn’t scared of pressing until it hurts.
;;
It takes two days for Barton to start running in circles. The first two days, he sleeps till noon and shuffles in the kitchen to Phil’s eggs and coffee, disappears upstairs for a few hours and comes back down later to do the dishes without being asked. He goes to sleep early. The third day, Phil notices the subtle changes, the tension in Barton’s shoulders, the bags under his eyes, telltale sign of a bad night. Barton takes his bow case into the downstairs living-room and methodically unpacks and repacks it in precise, economic movements.
They haven’t talked much, kept to themselves and their favorite areas of the house, Barton upstairs, Phil in the kitchen downstairs. He’s discovered a recipe book gathering dust in a cupboard and has been considering going through it, just to pass the time.
On the fourth day, when Barton comes running downstairs for the third time in so many hours, grabbing his bow and inspecting it all over again like he did every time he came downstairs, Phil sighs, closing the recipe book quietly and walking to the living-room.
“You should go out. Go shoot a tree or a rabbit or something.”
Barton looks up, his bow in hand, and smirks up at Phil. “Earn my keep, bring dinner? Is there a recipe in that book you found for rabbit?”
Phil smiles. “I’ll check.”
Barton lets go of his bow, leaning back into the couch cushions. He’s wearing jeans and black t-shirt, just this side of tight, making Phil’s eyes linger over his biceps for a second longer than necessary. He looks away when he realizes.
“I guess I could go exploring.”
Phil nods. “And don’t bring back anything you haven’t gutted and cleaned beforehand.”
Barton grins, looking already better than he did earlier, the skin around his eyes less tense. Phil imagines himself reaching out and smoothing his thumb along the lines on Barton’s forehead, blinking the idea away, frowning to himself.
“I’ll behave, Coulson. Sir.”
He stands up, and Phil reaches out for real this time, grabbing Barton’s wrist and making him look back with a surprised look. “It’s Phil.”
They’ve been working together for months now, close to a year, and yet this level of familiarity has been a line so distant Phil hadn’t even thought he’d ever cross it, but here he is, feeling Barton’s - Clint’s - pulse under his fingertips, his warm skin, and he’s offering something he would never if they were still in New York. Clint’s smile fades, something a little more serious settling over his features as he nods once, sharp.
;;
Phil spies the cat on the kitchen windowsill one morning when Clint is off for a run around the lake. It's another warm day, and the whole house smells like the bread Phil put in the oven 10 minutes ago, reminding him of his grandparents' house, memories of a childhood he sometimes forgets.
It's a black and grey tabby, and it keeps on sticking its nose to the window until Phil relents, opening the window and offering it a tiny piece of the chicken he roasted the evening before. The cat sniffs it before licking it off Phil's fingers, allowing him to scratch its ears.
Phil can see the cat has a collar and looks well-fed, so he doesn't worry about it getting attached to him, but the way it purrs when Phil drags his fingers through its fur is still pleasing, soothing. It jumps to the kitchen counter a minute later, and Phil looks at the medal on its collar, still petting absent-mindedly.
"Bob, really? Seems people have just as much imagination here than back home. Hello, Bob."
The car purrs, looking up with startling grey eyes at the mention of his name. He pushes his head against Phil's hand, making him chuckle.
"Alright, alright."
"What are you doing?"
Phil is not in the habit of letting himself be surprised, but when Clint's voice resonates through the kitchen from behind him, Phil jumps, turning around quickly. Clint and his soundless feet.
"You should wear a bell around your neck."
Clint smirks, stepping closer when he spots the cat. "Now, wouldn't that completely defeat the purpose of my skills? Who's that?"
"Bob," Phil answers lamely, scratching the cat's chin. "He was by the window. Must be from somewhere in the neighborhood."
Clint leans next to Phil, two fingers on the cat's tail. He smells of fresh sweat and the woods, and he radiates warmth, making Phil want to scoot closer, turn his head and bury his nose in Clint's neck. It's not his smartest line of thought.
"He's gorgeous."
"Hmm."
"Smells good in here, Phil."
"I made bread."
Clint smiles. They're so close their arms are touching, and Bob is lying across the counter to be in easy reach of both their hands.
"If this lasts for much longer, you'll get me too fat to climb trees."
"Trust me, living on take-away and ready meals will do that too. Besides, it keeps me busy."
Clint bumps his shoulder against Phil's. "I like it. Never really got to have healthy home-made meals cooked for me, you know."
Phil wants to ask about the circus, about Clint's past and his brother, these things Phil knows because he's read a file, but not because Clint likes to share. He takes what he can get, though.
Phil smiles back, stealing a glance at Clint's profile. "I like it, too."
;;
Life is quiet. For someone like Phil, too quiet. He can feel the hours tick by when Clint is not in the cottage but somewhere around the lake spying on deers, and even the mundane things he used to take pleasure in, like groceries shopping, become more a chore than anything else. He likes getting out of the house; the drive to Minchinhampton is all small roads woven around sheep and cottages and an ocean of green grass, and the town itself has this out-of-time English charm that leaves Phil wandering the streets for a while, with no aim than to discover more fascinating architecture.
It’s strange; he’s not used to the quiet and peaceful lifestyle, and he finds himself itching to do something that doesn’t involve being at Clint’s heels, something like finding a hobby, knitting or drawing or something he’s never ever thought about in the past - and they’re just six days in. Instead, he finds himself reading. He gets himself a member card from the tiny Minchinhampton library and takes out Jane Eyre to read by the village green or on the balcony at the cottage, goes through The Catcher in the Rye in one afternoon, reads through all seven Harry Potter books on a whim. He makes a list of classics he’s always wanted to read and never got the chance to, checks the library computer for a top 100 movies of the 2000’s and how many he’s missed. It’s not like Phil doesn’t know he won’t have time to read and watch all on lists before going back home, but it’s a good way to pass the time, thinking about these things that make up a culture he’s not entirely aware of, too busy living a life most people would call fantasy.
Sometimes Clint sits next to him as he reads and the two of them just fall into comfortable silence, only troubled by the turn of pages or a foot slipping on the leather couch. Sometimes they’ll have lunch on the tiny balcony, barely big enough for the two of them and a table, and talk about Natasha and Fury and missions going pear-shaped, the kind of discussion they can only have with one another - secrets they share with nobody else in their line of work.
Some days they won’t even see each other for more than a few minutes; Clint will make himself sandwiches and disappear by the lake, Phil will be spending the day out shopping and some fresh air, and they’ll cross paths at night, nodding at each other, a toothbrush in Clint’s mouth.
It’s a quiet kind of life, but Phil doesn’t hate it the way he thought he might.
;;
Phil makes his way upstairs slowly, wincing to himself when floorboards creak under his feet. He's not trying to surprise Clint, but their evening has been so quiet and peaceful up to now that it feels like any and all noises are too loud, too much.
Clint is looking at him when Phil turns into the sitting room, a smile on his lips and a large book over his lap. His feet are tucked underneath his thighs, and he's got one page between his fingertips. There's a fire dancing in the fireplace, casting shadows in unfamiliar places and warming up the room with a earthy glow.
"Mind if I join you?" asks Phil, finding himself whispering over the crackling of the fire, and Clint motions to the couch he's sitting on, patting it lightly. Phil sits next to him, looking at the open book on Clint's lap.
"What are you reading?"
"Nothing. I'm looking at the paintings. It's a catalogue from the London National Gallery."
Phil's eyes focus on the small script underneath the painting. "I've always found 17th Century art quite pretentious. I don't have the time to observe tiny details, and the big picture is never fantastic."
Clint brushes a finger over the photograph of the painting, letting out a slow breath. "I've never been to a museum."
Phil blinks, his eyes roaming over Clint's profile, the side of his face illuminated by the fire, the blue of his iris startling in this light. Phil is reminded of his lists, feeling like they're quite frivolous now, and he wonders what would be on Clint's list if he was to make one.
"I was always traveling, and never to places that had this kind of gallery. I wouldn't have had the time to visit them, anyway. Being in a circus is kind of a tough routine."
Phil hesitates before taking the plunge. "Did you really hate it?"
"Not every day. Not all the time. I have good memories, and I'm grateful, but..."
Barney's memory hangs between the two of them then, heavy and hurtful. Phil leans closer, turning the book to the next page.
"I can be your guide to the New York museums, if you want. The Guggenheim is pretty great. So’s the Met."
Clint turns to look at Phil, his eyes sharp and his smile grateful in a way Phil hadn't expected. He isn't sure it's because of the change in topic or the offer, but he takes it. They're so close now that Phil can feel the heat of Clint's breath on his own face, can smell the coffee on his tongue, and he cannot help himself when his gaze drifts down to Clint's lips for a second.
"That'd be great."
Phil smiles, and forces himself away before he does something really stupid, and Clint seems to blink the moment away as well, scratching his throat and looking down at his book.
"What are you reading?"
"Oh, um. Harry Potter." Phil can feel himself flushing as he lets the words out, and Clint's eyes gleam with amusement in the firelight.
"Wishing you were a wizard?"
"If it could help clean your messes, sure."
They share a smile, another of these little secrets between the two of them, and Phil rolls his eyes when Clint starts chuckling, bumping his elbow in Phil's arm.
"You'd be so bored without us, though."
Phil doesn't doubt that.
;;
Phil realizes just how much boredom has settled in when he finds Clint shaping arrow heads from pieces of dry wood. They pop up on the kitchen counter, the top of the TV set, the stairs - which would be dangerous for anyone less observant than the two of them. They look different, ranging from standard broadheads and field tips to strangely shaped ones that Phil points out to Clint one morning.
“Bodkin point. It’s old school, for battle, not hunting. Not that efficient nowadays.”
The thing is, Phil can’t help but find them nice, almost pretty. They’re unpolished and unwaxed but they’re precise, each strike of Clint’s knife into the wood made with the purpose of create the shape of the arrow head. Phil has never got to see Clint do it, but he finds wood shavings on the floor regularly, and he starts collecting the randomly sized arrow heads, lining them up on the lacquered white top of his bedroom dresser, from smallest to biggest.
Phil has to wonder how long it’ll be before Clint goes over the edge of boredom into insanity, which would definitely turn into recklessness for him; he wonders if it’ll happen before they get the call from HQ that it’s safe to go home. He wants to push, press Clint’s buttons to see what makes him jump and what makes him cower, his own boredom making him want to experiment and try to find all of Barton’s weaknesses.
It’s not the point, though. When Phil feels too much like he’s about to push at Clint’s boundaries, he forces himself away, going for a workout in the forest, a run through the village, a drive, anything to clear his mind and keep him from the morbid idea of watching Clint unleashed on him. Close proximity with absolutely nothing to do and nowhere to go will do that to anyone, allowing too much time in your own head, or trying to get into your companion’s.
So he spends too long taking in tiny details, from the carved arrow heads to the way Clint stalks in and out of the house in the morning, cat-like, silent and deadly. Phil finds it enthralling, watching muscles bunch and shift under Clint’s shirt sleeves, taking in the way he walks like he’s gliding.
They need to get out of there.
;;
"See, Agent Coulson, I didn't peg you for a romantic."
Clint is grinning around a mouthful of popcorn, looking way too much like a cat that got the cream, but Phil just smiles good-naturedly. Clint has let him in more than he has anyone since he started working with SHIELD, and Phil guesses it's only fair to open up as well, even if it's about his guilty but enjoyable habit of watching every rom-com he can get his hands on.
Rummaging through the DVD collection of the cottage, he'd stumbled upon The Notebook, and while it is far from being his favorite, it is cheesy and well-acted enough to provide the kind of entertainment he is looking for. So he'd settled with snacks, but only managed ten minutes before Clint jumped into the seat next to his own, grabbing a handful of popcorn.
"I try not to explode in roses and champagne with every step."
Clint snorts, resting his arm along the back of the couch by Phil's shoulders, who almost says something about not being a teenage girl in a bad 90's movie, but instead shuts his mouth and leans deeper in the couch cushions, a smile on his lips.
"If I didn't know better, I'd think your tough guy in a suit act is just armor and you're actually soft inside, Phil. You have no idea how much Tash would love that gossip."
"The scandal that would be, huh?"
"I can see it from here. Billboards, a special event at the Stark Expo. 'Coulson has a heart!' People would love it."
Phil looks at the tv screen for a moment, watching Allie meet the other man of her life. The man he ended up being in his own version of the movie, the one to be married and left a few months prior to the wedding. He's more of an idiot than a romantic, really.
"I'm sure they would. But what blackmailing material would you have on me if you told the world? Keep your cards close to your chest and strike at the right moment."
Clint looks at Phil, like he's trying to determine if he should be offended by Phil's words or not, the frown on his face confused. Phil looks away, feeling his cheeks flush at how stupid that comment was, how he's let old, long-buried wounds speak for him.
"Phil, I -"
"No, I'm sorry. That was out of line."
"You want to talk about it?"
Phil lets out an humorless chuckle. "Not really."
"Okay. Want to get drunk, then?"
"Sounds like a much better plan."
;;
Phil decides pancakes are in order the next morning. He's mildly hungover, not enough to crave bacon like it;s oxygen, but enough that the idea of grease is appealing.
He sets to work when Clint is still asleep, making use of the blueberries he bought from the Minchinhampton market the other morning, incorporating them into the batter he makes quickly, efficiently. Phil is usually a stress baker, not getting much enjoyment from getting his hands dirty in the kitchen but a strange form of relief; since arriving in England, he's found himself enjoying the process in a simplistic way, something quiet and soothing at the back of his head.
He makes way too many pancakes for two people, and brews a strong pot of coffee, knowing that if there is anything to manage to wake Clint up, that would be it. He's nursing a mug himself when Clint emerges, hair pointing at odd ends and a look of pure, childish delight when he sees the stack of pancakes on the table.
"My hero, seriously, I owe you my firstborn for this."
"Never dramatic, that's nice," is Phil's acerbic answer, but he serves it with a smile, no heat behind the words.
Clint installs himself at the table, immediately going for the pancakes and pouring a generous amount of syrup on top of them while Phil gets him a mug of coffee.
As he deposits it in front of Clint, Clint grabs his wrist, making Phil stop dead in his tracks, eyes on Clint's face. He wants to say something, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, too big and heavy. Clint stands up, not letting go of Phil, and tugs him a fraction closer - which is when Phil should panic, but can't find the strength to at this moment, trapped by Clint's purposeful movements.
The kiss is absurdly gentle and simple for the two of them, a brush a sugary lips against Phil's slightly parted mouth, and again, and again. Clint catches Phil's bottom lip between his teeth, turning the kiss filthy for just a second before he lets go, looking at Phil with wide eyes.
Phil knows that now is the moment to say no, this isn't happening, this can't happen, for both their sakes. There are no fraternisation rules in the SHIELD, but Phil knows better than to get involved in any way with Clint, knows it could potentially ruin their work relationship beyond repair. There is a little voice repeating the words over and over again in his head, sounding suspiciously like Fury, and Phil knows he should listen to it.
But there's also the part of Phil's brain that wants this, wants to lunge in and kiss Clint senseless, get him out of his pyjamas just to be able to touch him, the part of Phil's brain that has been wanting Clint for months. And in this safe house, cut away from the rest of the world, this voice is much louder than any other, telling Phil yes, yes, yes.
"You're overthinking."
Phil raises his eyebrows. "I am?"
Clint grins, leaning close, his nose brushing against Phil's. "Yes. You are, you're thinking about consequences and responsibilities and wrong and right. Don't. Please, don't."
Clint's pleading tone is earnest, and when Phil looks into his eyes he sees something akin to genuine desperation, colliding with a want Phil had no idea Clint felt. Heat surges trough his body and he smiles, kissing Clint lightly again, because he can.
"Breakfast. Don't want it to go cold."
"Wouldn't want that, no."
“So we agree.”
Clint nods, his smile all-too-eager, and Phil tries not to laugh, feeling positively giddy when Clint steps back, letting go of him with obvious reluctance.
“After breakfast, though...”
“After breakfast, you’re doing the dishes.”
Clint bursts out laughing, and Phil can’t help but think again, yes.
;;
Phil opens his eyes, looking down at his fingers, tangled in Clint's moonlight-soaked hair as he lies half on top of him, sleeping. For a moment Phil lets himself think that he could wake up every day to this, to Clint snoring into his ribs, hand wrapped possessively around Phil's hip. For a moment it seems possible and not completely crazy to think this way, to admit he wants it.
It's hopeless. Phil's thoughts derail to how much danger this would land them both in once back home, back to work; how stupid and careless he's being right now, allowing this to happen. He scrubs his free hand over his face, looking out of the skylight over his head, the stars and the moon clearly visible. It's a nice night.
Possibly this is the two of them going over the edge into complete insanity, pushing just hard enough that they realised their weaknesses were similar. Possibly this is boredom on Clint's part, but Phil is not really insecure and doesn't quite believe that, knowing Clint.
Somehow, Phil doesn't believe any of that, really. He believes they acted on known and assessed feelings, but it's the ‘what's next’ part that feels like walking through a sandstorm.
"You're overthinking again." Of course Clint would wake up from the subtle changes in Phil's breathing and quiet shuffles. Phil can't help but smile.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"Seriously?" Phil looks down as Clint shifts his eyes to be able to look at him. He looks soft around the edges, his smile full of sleep and amusement, and Phil drags his hand down to frame the side of Clint's face, his stomach twisting at the way Clint leans into it, his eyes closing.
"Yeah, seriously."
"I have means to make you stop thinking."
"Or you just talk a good talk."
Clint grins, a little predatory; his eyes are still closed. "You know that's not true, Phil."
He shifts, kissing Phil's ribs lightly, rubbing his nose in the dips, humming to himself. Phil sucks in a breath when the kisses move to his stomach, teeth scraping against the hairs around his belly button.
When Clint's mouth closes around Phil's half-hard cock, he forgets all about recklessness and stupidity and melts into the mattress, his fingers still carding through Clint's hair.
;;
Bob, they discover, has a habit of walking inside the cottage like he owns it, all black fur and low purrs - he especially likes walking in on people in the shower. Phil, never having had a cat in his life, cannot determine if this is normal behavior or not, but he doesn't mind the extra-cuddly company.
He comes in from the balcony once, when Clint is sprawled over the couch with a book and Phil is sitting on the floor by Clint's head, one of the reports he's taken with him in his hand. He's not really paying attention to what he's reading, too focused on the way Clint's index finger and thumb are tracing circles over his collarbones, his arm a heavy, solid weight around Phil's neck.
Phil smiles as the cat steps inside the room, carefully walking to Phil, sniffing him before climbing over his legs.
"You're too late for breakfast, little fella."
"Hmm?" Clint rouses, moving until his face is next to Phil's. "Oh. Hey, Bob. You need to start calling before you come round."
Phil chuckles, forcing himself not to frown when Clint moves his hand to scratch Bob between the ears. He leans against Clint instead, their temples touching as Clint moves down to drop a light kiss on Phil's shoulder, grinning when Bob curls up on Phil's chest.
"Guess he just enjoys cuddling with you."
"Yeah, well, what can I say, I'm a great cuddler."
"That you are. Hey, what's that you're looking at?"
"Oh, just a report from an op finished just before we left."
"So you're reading 3 weeks old reports? Are you looking forward to going back to work that much?"
Phil isn't. He is enjoying their time here way too much, in a way he knows he shouldn't, so the paperwork he'd left in his suitcase for the length of the trip felt now like a way to alleviate the guilt.
"No. No, I'm not, actually."
Clint nudges him lightly until they're face to face, his eyes serious when he leans close and kisses Phil lightly. Phil isn't sure what the kiss means, but he's certain he doesn't want to think about it.
;;
The shower’s hot, almost too hot for Phil, but he’s got Clint right against his back, wet and strong, his hands moving through the bubbles of soap over Phil’s chest. There’s a gasp; Phil isn’t sure who it comes from, but his cock reacts to the noise anyway and he pushes back against Clint, feeling himself starting to sweat even with the water cascading down his face.
“Phil, fuck.”
“Wanna do that again, Clint?”
Clint rests his forehead against Phil’s shoulder, breathing harshly as he flexes his hips, definitely hard now, pushing his cock between Phil’s ass cheeks. “Fuck, yes. Not now, though - enjoying this shower.”
And they have no supplies around besides shampoo and a bar of soap. Phil nods, turning around in Clint’s arms to kiss him, deep and filthy, groaning when Clint moans in his mouth. He takes both their cocks in hand, breaking the kiss with a gasp as Clint’s erection slides against his own, Clint rolling his hips in a quick, breathless rhythm.
Phil is losing it way too fast, tilting his head back when Clint licks at his neck, and just like every other moment they’ve shared since entering the cottage, it’s overwhelming, overpowering to have Clint sagging against him, breathing out needy noises, the muscles in his arms bunching and rolling under the sweaty skin, driving Phil crazy with want.
Clint digs his fingers into Phil’s shoulder, blunt nails no doubt leaving marks as he bites at Phil’s jaw, driving his hips into Phil’s hand, hard, fast, his thighs trembling with the effort. He comes first, clinging to Phil like he’s going to fall down if he doesn’t, but one of his hands wraps around Phil’s, the two of them bringing Phil to orgasm, a tidal wave taking over him. It rushes through his body from head to toe, blinding and deafening him for a moment.
“God, Phil.” The water washes off come from their chests and hands, and Phil can hardly breathe, the steam of the shower making him feel like he’s about to suffocate. Moving is not something he wants to do anytime soon, however.
“Next time, let’s make it a bath, less danger of slipping.”
Clint just laughs.
;;
“Okay, so this one is obviously a bullet wound, but how did it happen?”
Phil leans back, staring at the starlit sky as Clint’s fingers tiptoe over his chest, the air just warm enough for the two of them to be mostly naked outside during the night.
“I’ve been working by Fury’s side for a long time, Clint. Accidents happen.”
Clint’s mouth replaces his fingers, pressing against the puckered scar halfway between Phil’s collarbone and his armpit. “Evading.”
“No more than you are,” Phil replies, pointedly looking at the long, thin scar slicing Clint’s belly, the scar he refuses to talk about, even to doctors and therapists - at least that’s what Phil has read in their reports.
“You want to know? It was Barney. It’s always - my brother.” Clint starts off angry and ends wistful, rolling off Phil to lie on his back in the grass. Phil can hear noises from the lake, water moving, toads croaking, a small splash here and there. It’s quiet, peaceful, completely at odds with the bomb Clint just dropped, confirming what Phil had always believed but never asked. There are a lot of things about Clint’s darker spaces that Phil pins on Barney, but never once has Clint admitted his brother was the cause of so many problems.
Phil takes a slow breath, reaching out with a blind hand and gripping Clint’s wrist, fingers pressed against his pulse point.
“Fury led us into this mission, in the 80’s - Eastern Europe, he had intel on a possible location for Captain America. We were ambushed by a band of fanatic HYDRA followers, and I got shot twice.” Phil’s fingers press against the scar Clint was kissing a moment ago, and then he touches his hip, feeling the rough edges of the second scar underneath his underwear.
Clint’s fingers find Phil’s own, clutching a little desperately. He sounds angry when he speaks next. “Fuck, Fury -”
“He had tapped all of his sources to try and make sure the intel was solid. He couldn’t possibly have known.”
He turns his head to the side, looking at Clint’s jaw clenching and unclenching in the moonlight. The feeling is nice; warm and different, unusual, and Phil shuffles closer, his nose against Clint’s temple.
“When we go home, things are going to be different, aren’t they?” Clint asks, just a whisper, and Phil closes his eyes, desperate not to think about being back to the US and to the lives they led before this, but unable to lie to Clint, either.
“Yes, they will be.”
;;
Part II
sirona_gs for the super fast beta help!Clint is sent to lay low in the English countryside, and Phil is sent along. Shenanigans happen. NC-17, ~11,800 words.
Phil Coulson cannot say his life is boring. There is not one day that goes by where he isn’t faced with random international threats and-slash-or one of his assets in some kind of mortal danger, because Phil Coulson’s life is not normal. He doesn’t do 9 to 5 and home to the wife and dog; he does wake up at 3 in the morning on a Sunday to pick up Barton from some bar or hospital, depending on the month; he does the listening to Natasha’s rants about her missions and her needs and fills out the necessary paperwork for her; he does the checking and measuring of Tony Stark’s insanity.
So when Nick Fury calls him into his office one morning and starts with, “You should go on vacation,” Phil is wary. In the twenty years he’s known Fury, ten or so years he’s spent with SHIELD, he’s never been offered vacation time - he doesn’t need it. There is always a catch.
“Sir,” he answers, standing straight. “I don’t think -”
Fury slides a manila folder across his desk towards him; he picks it up. Inside, he finds various pictures of what looks like a charming cottage, with its own private lake, even. Pretty. Phil raises an eyebrow.
“I need Barton to lay low for a while. He barked up the wrong tree during his last mission, and we’ve got some angry Hungarians after him as a result. Hole up for a few weeks, it’s all paid for and ready. Your flight leaves this evening, gives you both enough time to pack.”
Phil knows better than to question any order, but this is definitely not a vacation. Barton, as charming as he can be, will be going stir-crazy two days into his confinement and Phil will be the only one there to perform damage control. He squares his shoulders, lifting his chin.
“Am I the one telling Barton?”
“No, I’ll take care of it. Go pack, Agent Coulson.”
Phil nods, turns on his heels, and leaves Fury’s office.
;;
The cottage is surprisingly nice. Quirky, with an odd floor plan that Phil reviewed on the plane as Barton snored lightly next to him, but spacious, light, interesting. It’s warm in the English Cotswolds but it’s not the sweltering heat of a New York summer, and there is a lingering smell of lavender and honey in the air as Phil follows Barton inside the cottage, listening for the bleep of the car alarm being engaged.
Of course, Barton is unhappy about this turn of events, but he’s been strangely subdued the whole way to England and the drive from London to the cottage. After leaving his bags in the living-room, Barton walks over and opens every curtain and windows, letting the summer breeze in and out of the house, goes upstairs without even visiting the bedrooms to claim one as his own first. Phil is unloading groceries when he hears Barton calling out for him.
“Coulson, come up here!”
Phil checks his ankle holster out of habit before going up the stairs; they open into another sitting-room complete with fireplace and a balcony, on which Clint is standing, looking out. Phil joins him, taking in the lake he’s seen in the pictures, the tall grass, the birds singing to the sun from the forest surrounding them.
“Pretty cool, huh?”
“Why, Barton, you sound like you’re enjoying your exile.”
Barton shrugs, still looking away from Phil, his hands in his pockets. “Never been to England before. Might as well make the most of it.”
There’s something wistful in his voice, something soft in his eyes. Phil doesn’t know why he has to break the spell, but he finds himself doing it anyway.
“Ground rules: you are not to leave this perimeter. You have to the other side of the lake, and the entirety of the house. You do not make yourself seen, or known. You have to disappear.”
Barton turns to Phil, his eyes sharp as he narrows them. The spell is definitely broken, and Phil feels like some kind of idiot for having said that, closing the window that allowed him a rare look into Barton’s life.
“I’ve done it before, sir. You don’t have to worry, nobody will even know I’m here.”
Phil nods, and Barton walks back inside the house, averting his eyes.
;;
It’s not that they don’t get along. They work well together, Phil knows this for a fact, has seen enough mission reports where Barton worked with other handlers to know that the rhythm they have, the easy connection that doesn’t need words to maintain is something rare and special, and not something Barton has with many others inside SHIELD.
But they’re not at work right now, they’re living in each other’s pockets like they’re supposed to be used to it, with virtually nothing to do, and Phil has no idea how long they are going to manage without one or both of them getting an arrow planted in a sensitive part of their bodies. He looks up at the skylight in his bedroom on the first night, unable to sleep, and lets his mind wonder to how exactly this has become his life. Glorified babysitter to a 30-something, ungrateful bastard but at the same time genius marksman, it wasn’t what Phil signed up for when he joined SHIELD, but did he really have room for complaining? For the first time in years, his life isn’t in immediate danger, he doesn’t have to think about paperwork, field reports and interrogations, and he’s not even alone. It’s a series of not-quite-firsts that Phil isn’t sure how to deal with - he is a workaholic and without anything to do he feels like he’s got very little purpose, useless to the cause he’s joined.
He reminds himself this is not a vacation, and he’s here for a reason, to keep Clint Barton safe and alive. Not that Barton can’t take care of himself, but back-up is a notion that is too abstract for him when it shouldn’t be, and Fury would never have trusted him to hole himself up on his own. They’d have found him halfway dead down some side street in London just under a week, Phil is sure of it.
Maybe Fury thought he’d be doing him a favor, sending him here with Barton. Right now, Phil feels just as caged as Barton must do, but he reminds himself this is not punishment. This is trust. Barton is more of an asset than he realizes; they can’t afford to lose him, and Fury knows better than most just how easily Phil will take a bullet for Barton. Fury knows which button to push, and isn’t scared of pressing until it hurts.
;;
It takes two days for Barton to start running in circles. The first two days, he sleeps till noon and shuffles in the kitchen to Phil’s eggs and coffee, disappears upstairs for a few hours and comes back down later to do the dishes without being asked. He goes to sleep early. The third day, Phil notices the subtle changes, the tension in Barton’s shoulders, the bags under his eyes, telltale sign of a bad night. Barton takes his bow case into the downstairs living-room and methodically unpacks and repacks it in precise, economic movements.
They haven’t talked much, kept to themselves and their favorite areas of the house, Barton upstairs, Phil in the kitchen downstairs. He’s discovered a recipe book gathering dust in a cupboard and has been considering going through it, just to pass the time.
On the fourth day, when Barton comes running downstairs for the third time in so many hours, grabbing his bow and inspecting it all over again like he did every time he came downstairs, Phil sighs, closing the recipe book quietly and walking to the living-room.
“You should go out. Go shoot a tree or a rabbit or something.”
Barton looks up, his bow in hand, and smirks up at Phil. “Earn my keep, bring dinner? Is there a recipe in that book you found for rabbit?”
Phil smiles. “I’ll check.”
Barton lets go of his bow, leaning back into the couch cushions. He’s wearing jeans and black t-shirt, just this side of tight, making Phil’s eyes linger over his biceps for a second longer than necessary. He looks away when he realizes.
“I guess I could go exploring.”
Phil nods. “And don’t bring back anything you haven’t gutted and cleaned beforehand.”
Barton grins, looking already better than he did earlier, the skin around his eyes less tense. Phil imagines himself reaching out and smoothing his thumb along the lines on Barton’s forehead, blinking the idea away, frowning to himself.
“I’ll behave, Coulson. Sir.”
He stands up, and Phil reaches out for real this time, grabbing Barton’s wrist and making him look back with a surprised look. “It’s Phil.”
They’ve been working together for months now, close to a year, and yet this level of familiarity has been a line so distant Phil hadn’t even thought he’d ever cross it, but here he is, feeling Barton’s - Clint’s - pulse under his fingertips, his warm skin, and he’s offering something he would never if they were still in New York. Clint’s smile fades, something a little more serious settling over his features as he nods once, sharp.
;;
Phil spies the cat on the kitchen windowsill one morning when Clint is off for a run around the lake. It's another warm day, and the whole house smells like the bread Phil put in the oven 10 minutes ago, reminding him of his grandparents' house, memories of a childhood he sometimes forgets.
It's a black and grey tabby, and it keeps on sticking its nose to the window until Phil relents, opening the window and offering it a tiny piece of the chicken he roasted the evening before. The cat sniffs it before licking it off Phil's fingers, allowing him to scratch its ears.
Phil can see the cat has a collar and looks well-fed, so he doesn't worry about it getting attached to him, but the way it purrs when Phil drags his fingers through its fur is still pleasing, soothing. It jumps to the kitchen counter a minute later, and Phil looks at the medal on its collar, still petting absent-mindedly.
"Bob, really? Seems people have just as much imagination here than back home. Hello, Bob."
The car purrs, looking up with startling grey eyes at the mention of his name. He pushes his head against Phil's hand, making him chuckle.
"Alright, alright."
"What are you doing?"
Phil is not in the habit of letting himself be surprised, but when Clint's voice resonates through the kitchen from behind him, Phil jumps, turning around quickly. Clint and his soundless feet.
"You should wear a bell around your neck."
Clint smirks, stepping closer when he spots the cat. "Now, wouldn't that completely defeat the purpose of my skills? Who's that?"
"Bob," Phil answers lamely, scratching the cat's chin. "He was by the window. Must be from somewhere in the neighborhood."
Clint leans next to Phil, two fingers on the cat's tail. He smells of fresh sweat and the woods, and he radiates warmth, making Phil want to scoot closer, turn his head and bury his nose in Clint's neck. It's not his smartest line of thought.
"He's gorgeous."
"Hmm."
"Smells good in here, Phil."
"I made bread."
Clint smiles. They're so close their arms are touching, and Bob is lying across the counter to be in easy reach of both their hands.
"If this lasts for much longer, you'll get me too fat to climb trees."
"Trust me, living on take-away and ready meals will do that too. Besides, it keeps me busy."
Clint bumps his shoulder against Phil's. "I like it. Never really got to have healthy home-made meals cooked for me, you know."
Phil wants to ask about the circus, about Clint's past and his brother, these things Phil knows because he's read a file, but not because Clint likes to share. He takes what he can get, though.
Phil smiles back, stealing a glance at Clint's profile. "I like it, too."
;;
Life is quiet. For someone like Phil, too quiet. He can feel the hours tick by when Clint is not in the cottage but somewhere around the lake spying on deers, and even the mundane things he used to take pleasure in, like groceries shopping, become more a chore than anything else. He likes getting out of the house; the drive to Minchinhampton is all small roads woven around sheep and cottages and an ocean of green grass, and the town itself has this out-of-time English charm that leaves Phil wandering the streets for a while, with no aim than to discover more fascinating architecture.
It’s strange; he’s not used to the quiet and peaceful lifestyle, and he finds himself itching to do something that doesn’t involve being at Clint’s heels, something like finding a hobby, knitting or drawing or something he’s never ever thought about in the past - and they’re just six days in. Instead, he finds himself reading. He gets himself a member card from the tiny Minchinhampton library and takes out Jane Eyre to read by the village green or on the balcony at the cottage, goes through The Catcher in the Rye in one afternoon, reads through all seven Harry Potter books on a whim. He makes a list of classics he’s always wanted to read and never got the chance to, checks the library computer for a top 100 movies of the 2000’s and how many he’s missed. It’s not like Phil doesn’t know he won’t have time to read and watch all on lists before going back home, but it’s a good way to pass the time, thinking about these things that make up a culture he’s not entirely aware of, too busy living a life most people would call fantasy.
Sometimes Clint sits next to him as he reads and the two of them just fall into comfortable silence, only troubled by the turn of pages or a foot slipping on the leather couch. Sometimes they’ll have lunch on the tiny balcony, barely big enough for the two of them and a table, and talk about Natasha and Fury and missions going pear-shaped, the kind of discussion they can only have with one another - secrets they share with nobody else in their line of work.
Some days they won’t even see each other for more than a few minutes; Clint will make himself sandwiches and disappear by the lake, Phil will be spending the day out shopping and some fresh air, and they’ll cross paths at night, nodding at each other, a toothbrush in Clint’s mouth.
It’s a quiet kind of life, but Phil doesn’t hate it the way he thought he might.
;;
Phil makes his way upstairs slowly, wincing to himself when floorboards creak under his feet. He's not trying to surprise Clint, but their evening has been so quiet and peaceful up to now that it feels like any and all noises are too loud, too much.
Clint is looking at him when Phil turns into the sitting room, a smile on his lips and a large book over his lap. His feet are tucked underneath his thighs, and he's got one page between his fingertips. There's a fire dancing in the fireplace, casting shadows in unfamiliar places and warming up the room with a earthy glow.
"Mind if I join you?" asks Phil, finding himself whispering over the crackling of the fire, and Clint motions to the couch he's sitting on, patting it lightly. Phil sits next to him, looking at the open book on Clint's lap.
"What are you reading?"
"Nothing. I'm looking at the paintings. It's a catalogue from the London National Gallery."
Phil's eyes focus on the small script underneath the painting. "I've always found 17th Century art quite pretentious. I don't have the time to observe tiny details, and the big picture is never fantastic."
Clint brushes a finger over the photograph of the painting, letting out a slow breath. "I've never been to a museum."
Phil blinks, his eyes roaming over Clint's profile, the side of his face illuminated by the fire, the blue of his iris startling in this light. Phil is reminded of his lists, feeling like they're quite frivolous now, and he wonders what would be on Clint's list if he was to make one.
"I was always traveling, and never to places that had this kind of gallery. I wouldn't have had the time to visit them, anyway. Being in a circus is kind of a tough routine."
Phil hesitates before taking the plunge. "Did you really hate it?"
"Not every day. Not all the time. I have good memories, and I'm grateful, but..."
Barney's memory hangs between the two of them then, heavy and hurtful. Phil leans closer, turning the book to the next page.
"I can be your guide to the New York museums, if you want. The Guggenheim is pretty great. So’s the Met."
Clint turns to look at Phil, his eyes sharp and his smile grateful in a way Phil hadn't expected. He isn't sure it's because of the change in topic or the offer, but he takes it. They're so close now that Phil can feel the heat of Clint's breath on his own face, can smell the coffee on his tongue, and he cannot help himself when his gaze drifts down to Clint's lips for a second.
"That'd be great."
Phil smiles, and forces himself away before he does something really stupid, and Clint seems to blink the moment away as well, scratching his throat and looking down at his book.
"What are you reading?"
"Oh, um. Harry Potter." Phil can feel himself flushing as he lets the words out, and Clint's eyes gleam with amusement in the firelight.
"Wishing you were a wizard?"
"If it could help clean your messes, sure."
They share a smile, another of these little secrets between the two of them, and Phil rolls his eyes when Clint starts chuckling, bumping his elbow in Phil's arm.
"You'd be so bored without us, though."
Phil doesn't doubt that.
;;
Phil realizes just how much boredom has settled in when he finds Clint shaping arrow heads from pieces of dry wood. They pop up on the kitchen counter, the top of the TV set, the stairs - which would be dangerous for anyone less observant than the two of them. They look different, ranging from standard broadheads and field tips to strangely shaped ones that Phil points out to Clint one morning.
“Bodkin point. It’s old school, for battle, not hunting. Not that efficient nowadays.”
The thing is, Phil can’t help but find them nice, almost pretty. They’re unpolished and unwaxed but they’re precise, each strike of Clint’s knife into the wood made with the purpose of create the shape of the arrow head. Phil has never got to see Clint do it, but he finds wood shavings on the floor regularly, and he starts collecting the randomly sized arrow heads, lining them up on the lacquered white top of his bedroom dresser, from smallest to biggest.
Phil has to wonder how long it’ll be before Clint goes over the edge of boredom into insanity, which would definitely turn into recklessness for him; he wonders if it’ll happen before they get the call from HQ that it’s safe to go home. He wants to push, press Clint’s buttons to see what makes him jump and what makes him cower, his own boredom making him want to experiment and try to find all of Barton’s weaknesses.
It’s not the point, though. When Phil feels too much like he’s about to push at Clint’s boundaries, he forces himself away, going for a workout in the forest, a run through the village, a drive, anything to clear his mind and keep him from the morbid idea of watching Clint unleashed on him. Close proximity with absolutely nothing to do and nowhere to go will do that to anyone, allowing too much time in your own head, or trying to get into your companion’s.
So he spends too long taking in tiny details, from the carved arrow heads to the way Clint stalks in and out of the house in the morning, cat-like, silent and deadly. Phil finds it enthralling, watching muscles bunch and shift under Clint’s shirt sleeves, taking in the way he walks like he’s gliding.
They need to get out of there.
;;
"See, Agent Coulson, I didn't peg you for a romantic."
Clint is grinning around a mouthful of popcorn, looking way too much like a cat that got the cream, but Phil just smiles good-naturedly. Clint has let him in more than he has anyone since he started working with SHIELD, and Phil guesses it's only fair to open up as well, even if it's about his guilty but enjoyable habit of watching every rom-com he can get his hands on.
Rummaging through the DVD collection of the cottage, he'd stumbled upon The Notebook, and while it is far from being his favorite, it is cheesy and well-acted enough to provide the kind of entertainment he is looking for. So he'd settled with snacks, but only managed ten minutes before Clint jumped into the seat next to his own, grabbing a handful of popcorn.
"I try not to explode in roses and champagne with every step."
Clint snorts, resting his arm along the back of the couch by Phil's shoulders, who almost says something about not being a teenage girl in a bad 90's movie, but instead shuts his mouth and leans deeper in the couch cushions, a smile on his lips.
"If I didn't know better, I'd think your tough guy in a suit act is just armor and you're actually soft inside, Phil. You have no idea how much Tash would love that gossip."
"The scandal that would be, huh?"
"I can see it from here. Billboards, a special event at the Stark Expo. 'Coulson has a heart!' People would love it."
Phil looks at the tv screen for a moment, watching Allie meet the other man of her life. The man he ended up being in his own version of the movie, the one to be married and left a few months prior to the wedding. He's more of an idiot than a romantic, really.
"I'm sure they would. But what blackmailing material would you have on me if you told the world? Keep your cards close to your chest and strike at the right moment."
Clint looks at Phil, like he's trying to determine if he should be offended by Phil's words or not, the frown on his face confused. Phil looks away, feeling his cheeks flush at how stupid that comment was, how he's let old, long-buried wounds speak for him.
"Phil, I -"
"No, I'm sorry. That was out of line."
"You want to talk about it?"
Phil lets out an humorless chuckle. "Not really."
"Okay. Want to get drunk, then?"
"Sounds like a much better plan."
;;
Phil decides pancakes are in order the next morning. He's mildly hungover, not enough to crave bacon like it;s oxygen, but enough that the idea of grease is appealing.
He sets to work when Clint is still asleep, making use of the blueberries he bought from the Minchinhampton market the other morning, incorporating them into the batter he makes quickly, efficiently. Phil is usually a stress baker, not getting much enjoyment from getting his hands dirty in the kitchen but a strange form of relief; since arriving in England, he's found himself enjoying the process in a simplistic way, something quiet and soothing at the back of his head.
He makes way too many pancakes for two people, and brews a strong pot of coffee, knowing that if there is anything to manage to wake Clint up, that would be it. He's nursing a mug himself when Clint emerges, hair pointing at odd ends and a look of pure, childish delight when he sees the stack of pancakes on the table.
"My hero, seriously, I owe you my firstborn for this."
"Never dramatic, that's nice," is Phil's acerbic answer, but he serves it with a smile, no heat behind the words.
Clint installs himself at the table, immediately going for the pancakes and pouring a generous amount of syrup on top of them while Phil gets him a mug of coffee.
As he deposits it in front of Clint, Clint grabs his wrist, making Phil stop dead in his tracks, eyes on Clint's face. He wants to say something, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, too big and heavy. Clint stands up, not letting go of Phil, and tugs him a fraction closer - which is when Phil should panic, but can't find the strength to at this moment, trapped by Clint's purposeful movements.
The kiss is absurdly gentle and simple for the two of them, a brush a sugary lips against Phil's slightly parted mouth, and again, and again. Clint catches Phil's bottom lip between his teeth, turning the kiss filthy for just a second before he lets go, looking at Phil with wide eyes.
Phil knows that now is the moment to say no, this isn't happening, this can't happen, for both their sakes. There are no fraternisation rules in the SHIELD, but Phil knows better than to get involved in any way with Clint, knows it could potentially ruin their work relationship beyond repair. There is a little voice repeating the words over and over again in his head, sounding suspiciously like Fury, and Phil knows he should listen to it.
But there's also the part of Phil's brain that wants this, wants to lunge in and kiss Clint senseless, get him out of his pyjamas just to be able to touch him, the part of Phil's brain that has been wanting Clint for months. And in this safe house, cut away from the rest of the world, this voice is much louder than any other, telling Phil yes, yes, yes.
"You're overthinking."
Phil raises his eyebrows. "I am?"
Clint grins, leaning close, his nose brushing against Phil's. "Yes. You are, you're thinking about consequences and responsibilities and wrong and right. Don't. Please, don't."
Clint's pleading tone is earnest, and when Phil looks into his eyes he sees something akin to genuine desperation, colliding with a want Phil had no idea Clint felt. Heat surges trough his body and he smiles, kissing Clint lightly again, because he can.
"Breakfast. Don't want it to go cold."
"Wouldn't want that, no."
“So we agree.”
Clint nods, his smile all-too-eager, and Phil tries not to laugh, feeling positively giddy when Clint steps back, letting go of him with obvious reluctance.
“After breakfast, though...”
“After breakfast, you’re doing the dishes.”
Clint bursts out laughing, and Phil can’t help but think again, yes.
;;
Phil opens his eyes, looking down at his fingers, tangled in Clint's moonlight-soaked hair as he lies half on top of him, sleeping. For a moment Phil lets himself think that he could wake up every day to this, to Clint snoring into his ribs, hand wrapped possessively around Phil's hip. For a moment it seems possible and not completely crazy to think this way, to admit he wants it.
It's hopeless. Phil's thoughts derail to how much danger this would land them both in once back home, back to work; how stupid and careless he's being right now, allowing this to happen. He scrubs his free hand over his face, looking out of the skylight over his head, the stars and the moon clearly visible. It's a nice night.
Possibly this is the two of them going over the edge into complete insanity, pushing just hard enough that they realised their weaknesses were similar. Possibly this is boredom on Clint's part, but Phil is not really insecure and doesn't quite believe that, knowing Clint.
Somehow, Phil doesn't believe any of that, really. He believes they acted on known and assessed feelings, but it's the ‘what's next’ part that feels like walking through a sandstorm.
"You're overthinking again." Of course Clint would wake up from the subtle changes in Phil's breathing and quiet shuffles. Phil can't help but smile.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"Seriously?" Phil looks down as Clint shifts his eyes to be able to look at him. He looks soft around the edges, his smile full of sleep and amusement, and Phil drags his hand down to frame the side of Clint's face, his stomach twisting at the way Clint leans into it, his eyes closing.
"Yeah, seriously."
"I have means to make you stop thinking."
"Or you just talk a good talk."
Clint grins, a little predatory; his eyes are still closed. "You know that's not true, Phil."
He shifts, kissing Phil's ribs lightly, rubbing his nose in the dips, humming to himself. Phil sucks in a breath when the kisses move to his stomach, teeth scraping against the hairs around his belly button.
When Clint's mouth closes around Phil's half-hard cock, he forgets all about recklessness and stupidity and melts into the mattress, his fingers still carding through Clint's hair.
;;
Bob, they discover, has a habit of walking inside the cottage like he owns it, all black fur and low purrs - he especially likes walking in on people in the shower. Phil, never having had a cat in his life, cannot determine if this is normal behavior or not, but he doesn't mind the extra-cuddly company.
He comes in from the balcony once, when Clint is sprawled over the couch with a book and Phil is sitting on the floor by Clint's head, one of the reports he's taken with him in his hand. He's not really paying attention to what he's reading, too focused on the way Clint's index finger and thumb are tracing circles over his collarbones, his arm a heavy, solid weight around Phil's neck.
Phil smiles as the cat steps inside the room, carefully walking to Phil, sniffing him before climbing over his legs.
"You're too late for breakfast, little fella."
"Hmm?" Clint rouses, moving until his face is next to Phil's. "Oh. Hey, Bob. You need to start calling before you come round."
Phil chuckles, forcing himself not to frown when Clint moves his hand to scratch Bob between the ears. He leans against Clint instead, their temples touching as Clint moves down to drop a light kiss on Phil's shoulder, grinning when Bob curls up on Phil's chest.
"Guess he just enjoys cuddling with you."
"Yeah, well, what can I say, I'm a great cuddler."
"That you are. Hey, what's that you're looking at?"
"Oh, just a report from an op finished just before we left."
"So you're reading 3 weeks old reports? Are you looking forward to going back to work that much?"
Phil isn't. He is enjoying their time here way too much, in a way he knows he shouldn't, so the paperwork he'd left in his suitcase for the length of the trip felt now like a way to alleviate the guilt.
"No. No, I'm not, actually."
Clint nudges him lightly until they're face to face, his eyes serious when he leans close and kisses Phil lightly. Phil isn't sure what the kiss means, but he's certain he doesn't want to think about it.
;;
The shower’s hot, almost too hot for Phil, but he’s got Clint right against his back, wet and strong, his hands moving through the bubbles of soap over Phil’s chest. There’s a gasp; Phil isn’t sure who it comes from, but his cock reacts to the noise anyway and he pushes back against Clint, feeling himself starting to sweat even with the water cascading down his face.
“Phil, fuck.”
“Wanna do that again, Clint?”
Clint rests his forehead against Phil’s shoulder, breathing harshly as he flexes his hips, definitely hard now, pushing his cock between Phil’s ass cheeks. “Fuck, yes. Not now, though - enjoying this shower.”
And they have no supplies around besides shampoo and a bar of soap. Phil nods, turning around in Clint’s arms to kiss him, deep and filthy, groaning when Clint moans in his mouth. He takes both their cocks in hand, breaking the kiss with a gasp as Clint’s erection slides against his own, Clint rolling his hips in a quick, breathless rhythm.
Phil is losing it way too fast, tilting his head back when Clint licks at his neck, and just like every other moment they’ve shared since entering the cottage, it’s overwhelming, overpowering to have Clint sagging against him, breathing out needy noises, the muscles in his arms bunching and rolling under the sweaty skin, driving Phil crazy with want.
Clint digs his fingers into Phil’s shoulder, blunt nails no doubt leaving marks as he bites at Phil’s jaw, driving his hips into Phil’s hand, hard, fast, his thighs trembling with the effort. He comes first, clinging to Phil like he’s going to fall down if he doesn’t, but one of his hands wraps around Phil’s, the two of them bringing Phil to orgasm, a tidal wave taking over him. It rushes through his body from head to toe, blinding and deafening him for a moment.
“God, Phil.” The water washes off come from their chests and hands, and Phil can hardly breathe, the steam of the shower making him feel like he’s about to suffocate. Moving is not something he wants to do anytime soon, however.
“Next time, let’s make it a bath, less danger of slipping.”
Clint just laughs.
;;
“Okay, so this one is obviously a bullet wound, but how did it happen?”
Phil leans back, staring at the starlit sky as Clint’s fingers tiptoe over his chest, the air just warm enough for the two of them to be mostly naked outside during the night.
“I’ve been working by Fury’s side for a long time, Clint. Accidents happen.”
Clint’s mouth replaces his fingers, pressing against the puckered scar halfway between Phil’s collarbone and his armpit. “Evading.”
“No more than you are,” Phil replies, pointedly looking at the long, thin scar slicing Clint’s belly, the scar he refuses to talk about, even to doctors and therapists - at least that’s what Phil has read in their reports.
“You want to know? It was Barney. It’s always - my brother.” Clint starts off angry and ends wistful, rolling off Phil to lie on his back in the grass. Phil can hear noises from the lake, water moving, toads croaking, a small splash here and there. It’s quiet, peaceful, completely at odds with the bomb Clint just dropped, confirming what Phil had always believed but never asked. There are a lot of things about Clint’s darker spaces that Phil pins on Barney, but never once has Clint admitted his brother was the cause of so many problems.
Phil takes a slow breath, reaching out with a blind hand and gripping Clint’s wrist, fingers pressed against his pulse point.
“Fury led us into this mission, in the 80’s - Eastern Europe, he had intel on a possible location for Captain America. We were ambushed by a band of fanatic HYDRA followers, and I got shot twice.” Phil’s fingers press against the scar Clint was kissing a moment ago, and then he touches his hip, feeling the rough edges of the second scar underneath his underwear.
Clint’s fingers find Phil’s own, clutching a little desperately. He sounds angry when he speaks next. “Fuck, Fury -”
“He had tapped all of his sources to try and make sure the intel was solid. He couldn’t possibly have known.”
He turns his head to the side, looking at Clint’s jaw clenching and unclenching in the moonlight. The feeling is nice; warm and different, unusual, and Phil shuffles closer, his nose against Clint’s temple.
“When we go home, things are going to be different, aren’t they?” Clint asks, just a whisper, and Phil closes his eyes, desperate not to think about being back to the US and to the lives they led before this, but unable to lie to Clint, either.
“Yes, they will be.”
;;
Part II
