![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
delicataleAnd there we go, fic! This is readable thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
laria_gwyn and foxxcub, and would not exist without sirona_gs.
Sometimes relationships have to grow through friendship, pushing and pulling, pain, denial and regrets. Canon, set before-to-after Thor. ~5,000 words.
Clint watches Phil rub his thumb over the warm metal of his wedding ring, the heel of his palm resting on the steering wheel of the SHIELD standard car, and the way his gut clenches hot and ugly with jealousy doesn’t startle him anymore. He settles into the passenger seat instead, watching the road in front of them as blankly as he can, focusing on his sense of self, on the floor against his feet and his hands clasped together into his lap. He closes his eyes, slipping into the calm stillness of deep concentration, his other senses perking up, picking up Phil’s steady breathing, the rhythm he absently taps out on the steering wheel, the purr of the engine as they drive on, back from another successful mission – successful enough since nobody died – and back to New York.
He smells the coffee from the empty cups they’ve left in the backseat, tastes sugar at the back of his throat, and lets his mind wander. His thoughts naturally go back to Phil, how he never talks about himself, how desperate Clint is to know more, to dig in under Phil’s skin to learn his secrets, how easily Clint has set this trap for himself and has no idea how to get out of it now. Clint only has himself to blame, taking Phil’s professionalism for something more, for not wanting to let Clint down when too many people have in Clint’s past; and now he only has himself to blame for not being strong enough to try and claw his way out, move on.
It’s okay, it doesn’t impede his ability to work. It’s okay.
;;
It’s a complete mistake when Clint ends up with Phil’s personal files in his hands. He’s asked for his own, but the whole of the SHIELD HQ is in a frenzy over Tony Stark’s latest stunt, and somehow, Clint ends up with Phil’s file. His fingers tremble over the paper as he considers his options.
He knows opening the folder and scanning the pages are a breach of trust and privacy, but he can’t help himself, and the more he reads, the harder his heart beats in his chest, discovering things about Phil he’s never needed to know, wanted Phil to tell him himself, maybe. Clint is a variation of a ninja, something close to a spy, and he’s used to seeing and learning things he’s not supposed to, gathering intel on marks and villains, but this feels too intrusive, and he closes the folder with a sudden snap; Phil is not a mark, he’s the closest thing Clint has to a friend, as dysfunctional as that makes Clint.
But now the wheels in Clint’s brain are churning and turning and proceeding through a plan, even though it’s a terrible idea, because he’s using classified information to try and get what he wants, but there is no stopping the idea growing in his mind.
He is so deeply screwed.
;;
It’s late when Clint slips inside Phil’s office, but he’s not surprised to see Phil himself still working, the click of keyboard echoing with the rhythm of Clint’s heart. Phil raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t look up, and Clint takes a step further into the stuffy office. He wonders how long it’s been since Phil cracked open a window.
“Hey. You eaten?”
“No.” Phil’s voice sounds hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in a while, or he’s getting sick, and Clint resists the urge to ask which one’s the correct answer, because he knows Phil will lie.
“You hungry?”
Phil’s eyes shift from his computer screen to look at Clint for a second. “Don’t really have time, Clint.”
“Ah ah, that’s why I brought dinner to you,” Clint announces, brandishing a brown paper bag and leaving it on Phil’s desk, well away from any folder. He sees Phil open his mouth but doesn’t let it deter him; sitting down, Clint unpacks sandwiches, bags of chips, and two cans of Coke. It’s too late for any kind of caffeine, but the drink is still the first thing Phil goes for, opening it without a word, the click and hiss filling the silence between them. Clint hands Phil a ham and cheese sandwich and their fingers brush over the greasy wrapping paper, making Clint smile.
Phil doesn’t really say thank you, doesn’t really say anything at all, but he doesn’t kick Clint out of his office, either, and Clint counts that as a win.
;;
Mostly they’re quiet around each other. Phil likes to talk, to assuage his authority and make it understood that he doesn’t play around, despite the smirks, but there’s no need for that with Clint. Everybody assumes that Clint is a babbler, likes to fill the void with random words and thoughts, and it’s true, to an extent, but with Phil - with Phil there’s nothing to fill because it’s not uncomfortable, it’s not reminding Clint of dinners alone or long silences over his mother’s newest black eye.
They keep their conversations mostly professional, except when they’re not, when Phil lets a detail slip out; the way he likes his coffee best, which side of the bed he sleeps in, or when Clint just opens up because it’s easy to do with Phil; memories of Barney and Natasha before all this, details of what his favorite foods are. Clint doesn’t even think about it and by the way Phil acts, Clint doesn’t think he does, either, but the way his shoulders relax when Clint brings him dinner or offers to drive him home, it tells Clint enough.
Clint offers Phil an out, one night. He’s looking at Phil’s ring again, the gold glint dulled by time and wear, but still standing out stark against Phil’s skin. Clint leans forward suddenly, but keeps himself from touching it, instead looking up at Phil.
“Why do you still wear it?”
It’s an out; he’s not supposed to know, and Phil doesn’t have to tell him anything, can close up and forget about the fragile relationship they’ve started to build. Fact is, Clint isn’t sure how much longer he can go without being upfront about what he wants, and how he wants Phil – and Phil’s wedding ring is a wall between what Clint can have, and what he wants to have. Phil sighs, looking down at his finger for a moment, thumb brushing the side of it out of habit.
“To avoid exactly this.”
Clint leans back, one hand under his chin, and for a moment he isn’t quite sure if Phil is turning him down or not, but there was no harshness or regret in Phil’s voice, and Clint is still sitting in front of him as if he’d never said anything. For a second, he wishes he could have known Phil’s wife before she died.
;;
Clint grabs Phil’s hand during the last showing of The Lady In Black at the theater two blocks down from HQ, and it’s not because he’s scared, but it’s because he wants to, and their fingers have been brushing in the box of popcorn for an hour before they’d let it tumble to the floor, mostly empty. Clint grabs Phil’s hand and lets his palm slide along Phil’s, his heart beating so fast it’s making him sweat a little, skin clammy against Phil’s, his fingertips sticky with butter and sugar. There isn’t anyone else in the theater but the two of them and the hobo Phil gave enough money to so he could get inside and curl up in the warmth of the cinema for a couple of hours. Kernels crunch under Clint’s soles when he shifts his feet, loud during a dull moment in the movie, and he curls his fingers around Phil’s, who doesn’t pull away – he keeps on staring at the screen, but his fingers squeeze Clint’s, and Clint smiles to himself, leaning back in his seat.
If anyone asked him, he’d deny this was a date, just like the countless dinners in Phil’s office or the shooting range. None of it is planned, thought out, decided beforehand, and it’s definitely Clint trying to seduce Phil out of his shell. Phil’s too smart not to know the truth, but he seems to choose to ignore it, maybe because he obviously enjoys spending time with Clint, anyone can see that. Clint tries not to take too much pride in that, but he’s one of the only persons around which the lines around Phil’s eyes relax a little, and it’s enough to make Clint feel incredibly special.
Phil pulls his hand away before the end of the movie, and the loss of warmth makes him frown. He brings his hand to his nose, rubbing the bottom half of his face and lingering for a moment, smelling Phil’s skin into his own.
;;
Natasha looks at Clint with that pout of hers, her eyes betraying her feelings; she’s upset, and Clint takes one of her hands in both of his, thumping his boot against the ground rhythmically. The park is mostly empty, because it’s early and it’s November, but their breakfasts together are the only time where they can be alone and talk without the whole of SHIELD listening in on them.
“What is it?”
She bites the inside of her lip for a second before letting go with a sigh. “It’s stupid. We used to spend time together, and now, getting to see you once a month at eight in the morning is all I can get. We’re both busy, I know, but you spend most of your downtime with Coulson, now.”
Clint can’t help the way he smiles, her overprotectiveness is just adorable. “Are you jealous?”
Her eyes are sharp when she turns to look at him, pulling her hand away from his to get to her coffee. “Should I be?”
He shrugs, looks away as his smile fades, put on the spot. He’d hoped she’d play along and change the topic. But Natasha picks it up right away, the things he doesn’t want to say, and he wishes he was still able to lie to her like he lies to everybody else.
“Are you in love with him?” It’s quiet, and she’s looking away from Clint, like she’s afraid to look into his eyes. There’s no point for Clint to try and deny it, so he bites into his bagel, chews for a minute, contemplating all the ways he can answer this.
“Yes.”
“He’s married.”
“Not really.” It’s not Clint’s place to say.
“He wears a wedding ring.”
“People do a lot of things for a lot of different reasons, Nat.”
She sighs again, this time leaning into him, her head on his shoulder and her nose breathing hot and damp over his neck. She’s still his best friend, and he wants to be able to tell her so many things, all his screw-ups and his reasons to want Phil to smile all the time. Words are stuck in his throat, sounding stupid even to his own brain, and he gives up. He’ll find another time to tell her everything.
“Don’t get your heart broken again, Clint.”
“I’ll try.”
;;
They’re sitting on the roof of the SHIELD HQ building, passing a joint between the two of them. It’s one of these little things that still surprise Clint about Phil, that he wouldn’t be stern about smoking up, and even join in after a while, the weight visibly lifting off his shoulders after a few hits. The air around them is thick with smoke, the city atmosphere around them too dense to let it dissipate quickly, and the woody smell is heady, making Clint close his eyes and tip his head up to the stars. He wants to say something but suddenly Phil’s talking, and Clint closes his mouth, focusing hard on the slow, slurred words.
“You’d have liked her, Melissa. I would have married when I was younger, but she was busy being brilliant, and I was busy following Fury around the world. She had the same kind of humor you do. Dry and witty.”
“You miss her?”
“Every day. And I hate myself when I forget about it, even for a minute.”
Clint wraps his hand around Phil’s wrist, trying to feel his pulse through the layers of his suit. He almost says something but it all feels inadequate, wrong somehow coming from him, when what he wants the most is something he isn’t sure Phil can give. Phil takes a hit of the joint; it sticks to his fingers when he passes it over to Clint. It’s almost finished, too hot when Clint takes a drag, and he flicks it to the floor, crushing it under his foot.
“She didn’t get to move on, why should I?”
Clint can’t resist the words, this time. “Because you’re still alive, Phil. You’re still alive.”
Phil tilts his head down at Clint’s whisper, pressing his nose against Clint’s shoulder as he breathes shakily. It takes all of Clint’s willpower not to cling to him.
;;
“When you get home, how about you come over for dinner?”
Clint looks at himself in his bathroom mirror, his phone pressed tightly to his ear. He’s kind of hopeful, thinking that maybe Phil will say yes, hoping that he’s drilled through Phil’s defenses by now. He curls his free hand around the sink, avoiding to look at how dark the rings under his eyes are. Phil has been in Europe for two weeks now, supervising yet another mission Clint wasn’t needed on, and it’s not what has been keeping Clint up, but it hasn’t been helping.
“Not sure that’s such a good idea.”
Maybe Clint should insist, maybe he should offer lobster, and nothing but conversation, but Phil’s voice is tight, cautious, and Clint knows that he won’t accept, whatever Clint says. His fingers turn white against the porcelain of the sink, pressure building under his skin; he needs a proper sparring session soon.
Clint doesn’t even ask why, he knows already, and there’s no point in burying the knife deeper in the wound.
“But I’ll see you soon?”
Phil’s words go a little way to make Clint feel better, release some of the tension in his body. He forces himself to relax, breathing steadily and closing his eyes, focusing on the sound of Phil shuffling on the other end of the line. Clint spends a second wondering what Phil is wearing, where he is right now, before pushing the thoughts away forcefully – he’s in deep enough without having to add physical frustration on top of it.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
;;
It’s raining the first time Clint makes the decision to go over Phil’s, and the world is blurry around him as he walks up the three steps up to Phil’s door, not even caring about the water running in rivulets over his face, soaking his shirt through. It’s still warm, a nice April day, and Clint has been running, sweat mixing with rain as he breathes hard, inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. He rings the doorbell after only a second of hesitation, dripping on the welcome mat – he only has to wait a few seconds before the door opens, the view of Phil in jeans and a t-shirt, barefoot, greeting him. His wedding ring glints faintly golden in the hallway light.
“What –“
Clint cuts Phil off before he has time to say anything more, holding up a hand. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
Phil raises his eyebrows, looking genuinely surprised for something who got shot in the arm three days earlier, like he really didn’t expect anyone to worry about him. It makes Clint grit his teeth, something like anger settling deep in his gut; he wants to step in and check Phil’s bandages, cook him dinner, make sure he’s properly taken care of. There’s nobody to do this for him.
Phil seems to hesitate for a moment, before leaning against the door, his body leaning forward.
“I’m fine. Tired.”
“Can I just – Have you eaten anything today? Taken painkillers?”
Phil looks away, only looking back at Clint after a moment, and he looks defeated. “No. D’you want to come in?”
Clint nods, resolute. “Yes.”
;;
“Why are you doing this, Clint?” Phil’s voice is hard, leaving no room for Clint to play dumb. They’re having this conversation, and they’re having it now, in the shooting range at eleven-thirty at night on a Tuesday. Clint’s arms burn from all the work he’s put in training, and he’s tired, and he can’t even be assed to look surprised.
“Because I love you,” he replies without turning around, without a waver in his voice. A simple truth, a truth he’s gotten used to, that he has no reason to hide or deny. He wears it every day, wraps it around him and walks proud, because that’s all he can do not to break down and beg Phil to just allow him this.
There’s a beat, silence for a moment, but Clint doesn’t look away from the target he’s aiming at. His mind is blissfully clear, and he takes a breath, feeling the string of his bow digging in his fingers, the weight of his weapon into his hand, smelling the dryness around them, catching a whiff of Phil’s discreet cologne. Phil’s sigh cuts through the air.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Clint doesn’t smile, but he wants to. “Then don’t.”
;;
The trapeze platform is surrounded by nets, illuminated by only one spotlight, dusty yellow and bright overhead. He’s spent fourteen hours surveying the fair, looking for one of Loki’s minions with no luck, so he knows exactly that after a lone gymnast walks out of the circus tent, it’s empty. Getting Phil to follow him is easy.
It smells of talc and wood when Clint leads Phil closer, grabbing the net and climbing in easily, muscle memory making it way too easy to roll into the net, turning around to see Phil hesitating for a second before following suit, muscles bunching visibly under his crisp white shirt.
They don’t talk as they climb up the ladders to the trapezes, and Clint doesn’t even think about trying to explain why he’s brought Phil here; he doesn’t think he really has to. It’s his turn to open up, show Phil things nobody else has ever seen. Maybe he has no idea what he’s doing, but it seems to be the only right thing to do anyway, the moment and timing right. He settles on the trapeze, sitting on the bar and swinging lightly, watches Phil sit on the platform itself, holding the trapeze in his hands.
“I used to want to add trapeze into my act, when I was a teenager,” Clint starts, his voice reverberating around in the empty circus tent. It’s full of echoes and shadows under them, and it should be daunting, but Clint relaxes as he sits there, Phil looking at him intently. “I wanted to shoot arrows from up here, swinging. Nobody ever let me do it, of course. I could have done it, though, fucking loved being up here. I hid up here when Barney was angry at me. He never liked heights.”
“He could have shot you from the ground, though.”
Clint smiles, pushing off the platform to swing a bit more, sliding off until his knees are hooked over the bar and he’s dangling, blood rushing to his head.
“He was still my brother.” Things unsaid, not needed to be said, the wrongs in Clint’s life they both know about, they keep them silent. Phil smiles, but it looks crooked in Clint’s upside-down point of view.
“If I get on, will you catch me?”
“Yes.”
And Clint does.
;;
Surprisingly enough – or, not surprisingly at all, it’s Phil that initiates their first kiss. It’s a Friday morning, and Phil tastes of butter and apricot when he leans in and kisses Clint on his doorstep, the door still held between his fingers. It’s unexpected and perfect when Clint flails his hands a little, taken aback, before reaching out to hold the lapels of Phil’s suit jacket between his fingers, not pushing, not pulling, just taking whatever Phil’s willing to offer.
When Phil pulls back, there’s a healthy blush to his cheeks, and he licks his lips before looking down and away, a secret smile on his lips. At this very moment, he looks about ten years younger than he is, and Clint wants to take a picture and frame it, keep it close to his chest forever. He doesn’t move away, a little breathless, staring at Phil with his heart fluttering in his chest, and he wants to say so many stupid things, he wants to laugh and hug Phil and tell him it’s okay, everything is so fucking okay, and they’ll be fine, and he wants to say I love you, and I need you, and yet he doesn’t say anything, waits it out.
Phil breathes out a sigh, looks up and leans close enough for their noses to brush, his eyes crinkled at the corners with a smile. “Let’s go to work,” he says, a whisper against Clint’s lips. Clint is too dumbstruck to protest, and when Phil laughs, it doesn’t even matter that Clint wants to say there, right where he is.
;;
Natasha’s laughter sounds like little bells in the sunshine, when it’s free and genuine, and it might be Clint’s very favorite sound. She tilts her head back, giggling childishly, her hair on fire in the sun, and Clint lies back in the grass, looking up at her. Her laughter is a sound he’s not heard in a while, and he’s missed it, he realizes. When she sobers up, she turns to look down at Clint, the back of her hand against the corner of her mouth.
“Did you really tell him that? And you didn’t get shot?”
Clint nods with a grin, tugging Natasha close to him, breathing deep when she tucks herself close to him on the grass, the July sun beating down hard on them. He’s just done telling her about his latest stunt that made Fury almost have an aneurism, and they’re both avoiding the topic of Phil, not wanting the conversation to turn sour. She knows enough, and Clint still likes the fragility of it all, the novelty that makes it easy to crumble down like a house of cards in a gust of wind. He’s not ready to share, not ready to let it all out, and Natasha seems happy to ignore the things he’s not saying.
“You know, I always thought it’d be you and me, in the end. You and me against the world,” she says, soft against his collarbone, and Clint squeezes her tight, close to him, fingers digging in her upper arm.
“And it is, isn’t it? It is.”
She sighs, because it’s not what she meant, but he’s playing dumb on purpose. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
;;
Clint wakes up to a hand around his waist and Phil’s eyes crinkled at the corner with a smile and the remnants of sleep, looking back at Clint. The first thought that comes to Clint’s mind, after the idiotic feeling of bliss fills his tired limbs, is that he could definitely get used to this.
“Breakfast?”Phil asks, voice slightly rough. Clint doesn’t even want to consider getting out of bed, shuffling closer and trailing fingertips along Phil’s side, curling over his hip and tiptoeing along the ridges of his spine, feeling around smooth skin for scars he knows are there. Phil leans into the touch, his back arching as his eyes flutter close, and Clint takes advantage to lean in, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses along Phil’s collarbone. Phil groans, looking indecisive about staying here and pulling away, but finally he manages to roll off, chuckling when Clint tries to reach for him.
“Come on, Clint, we’ve got work. Well, I do, anyway, and I was hoping you’d make me your grilled cheese sandwich.”
Clint makes a little sound, burying his face in the pillow even though he’s smiling, again thinking he could get used to this, Phil prodding him along through the morning, teasing and easy, more open than he ever is with anyone else, anywhere else. It’s Clint’s best kept secret, something that is so private and unique he wants to keep it secure, hidden deep in the recesses of his own heart.
When he looks up, Phil is grinning at him, and Clint chuckles, unable to help himself. “Fine.”
;;
Phil crosses his arms over his chest as Clint walks into his office, his face set and hard. On his desk is his personal file, and Clint feels something twist in his stomach, bites his lip as he lingers near the door, feeling stupidly guilty. Phil looks too contained and blank not to be angry, and Clint can only imagine one reason why.
“Agent Gordon kindly told me when I requested my file that there had been a mix-up a while ago. You failed to tell me about this, Clint,” it’s not a question, Phil is not asking Clint to tell him, now. He already knows, and he’s already angry, and Clint could possibly apologize and grovel for an hour to no effect. It’s like any other fuck up, only this time it’s between the two of them, personal, and it might just be this much worse.
Clint considers lying, but it’d just push Phil further away. Instead, Clint sighs, hangs his head low, and doesn’t say anything.
“Did you read it?”
Clint looks up, taking in the hard glint in Phil’s eyes; he’s ready for a fight, wants one, and Clint can’t back down. “Yes, I read it. You read mine, didn’t you?”
“I was your handler, I had to.”
Clint rolls his eyes. He can taste blood in his mouth where he’s bitten his lip raw. “Don’t give me that shit. You’re just doing exactly what you’ve been doing every time you got scared, and you’re finding excuses to push me away.”
Phil uncrosses his arms, fingers toying with a dog-eared piece of paper. “If you stayed away, things might be easier on both of us.”
Clint sighs, shaking his head as he grabs the door handle. He’s had enough. “Let me know when you’re done being a coward.”
;;
Clint finds the wedding ring on the top shelf of his locker. It’s been two weeks since he and Phil had their fight, and everything has been quiet, subdued – between the two of them, and everyone around them, too, sensing dark moods. Clint is determined to wait it out; he’s spent enough time being pushed away by Phil, and this was the last straw. He’d actually thought he’d managed to break through, get Phil to accept that things were moving and growing and changing; he’d obviously been completely off base on this one.
But this, this is unexpected, and Clint twirls the ring in between two of his fingers, hypnotised by the way it reflects light. For the first time, he sees the engraving on the inside, the M & P curving along, and it’s like the breath is punched right out of him, the load of implications finding this ring in his belongings means.
Clint knows that he should go and talk to Phil, get an explanation out of him, or an apology, something, anything that could explain this in better terms than Clint’s brain can, but he’s stuck here, looking at this ring in between his fingers, and how much he wants, how much he craves, and how little he can express it all.
This is the gesture he’s been waiting for. Not something big and loud and unusual, but a quiet rocking of Clint’s world, the way only Phil has ever been able to do. Clint’s heart starts beating so fast it rattles against his ribcage almost painfully, like a perfect shaped bruise on the inside of his chest, the kind that wants to press on to feel more alive with every beat.
;;
Clint kisses Phil before he says anything, because if he doesn’t he’ll lose his mind, and it’s all okay because Phil melts into him and clings to his arms and lets out a small sound of relief that can only spur Clint on, make him shift even closer. When he pulls back, he trails a series of open-mouthed kisses along Phil’s cheek, jaw, and Phil arches into it and digs his fingers into Clint’s shoulders, his smile pressed secretly into Clint’s neck.
“You were right,” he says in a broken whisper, and Clint nods, because he knows he was, he’s okay with that, and Phil seems to be too.
“It’s okay, it’s – it’s okay,” and it’s like a chant, from Clint’s lips to the shell of Phil’s ear, and no more apologies are needed, no more words. They kiss again, because they can, and it’s been weeks since the last time they have, and Clint has missed touching Phil more than he realized. This time around Phil tastes of bad coffee and sugar, and there’s sweat at his temples and the back of his neck – he gives as good as he gets and sounds just as desperate as Clint feels, which is perfect, perfect.
They barely make it out of the hallway of Phil’s house, and Clint has rug burns for days afterwards, on his shoulder blades and hips and the flat of his palms, but they feel good when he rubs his thumb against them, or when Phil’s eyes run over them, dark and secret.
;;
“So, you’re telling me you’re happy? Really happy?”
Clint nods at Natasha’s question, handing her a coffee, lots of cream and two sugars. She looks at him, indecisive. “You don’t fight?”
“We fight, we bicker, we annoy the hell out of each other, but we make up.”
Natasha smiles to herself, looking away into the distance, the bright Fall day turning leaves to golds and oranges. “Who would have thought you’d be relationship material.”
“Not me. I want to make it work, though, Nat.”
She leans into him, smelling of citrus and softness against his cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you out.”
;;
The wedding ring on Phil’s finger has been replaced by a thin leather band that nobody asks about. It’s not even something Clint asked about, either, but he still likes to brush his thumb over it and he likes to know what it’s all about, that he doesn’t have to ask to know. Clint is content with letting the world guess, absolutely unperturbed by any of it.
They fight; he and Phil, about the most random things, at the strangest moments. Over breakfast, in bed, in the office, they fight about safety, scares, jealousies, what movie to watch. And yet, it’s not a loud relationship; they make up as easily as they start fighting, and they manage to keep it to themselves, even if they’re a terribly kept secret.
Clint gets a leather band done for himself, and doesn’t answer when he’s asked about it, but Phil kisses it every night, a smile on his lips.
laria_gwyn and foxxcub, and would not exist without sirona_gs. Sometimes relationships have to grow through friendship, pushing and pulling, pain, denial and regrets. Canon, set before-to-after Thor. ~5,000 words.
Clint watches Phil rub his thumb over the warm metal of his wedding ring, the heel of his palm resting on the steering wheel of the SHIELD standard car, and the way his gut clenches hot and ugly with jealousy doesn’t startle him anymore. He settles into the passenger seat instead, watching the road in front of them as blankly as he can, focusing on his sense of self, on the floor against his feet and his hands clasped together into his lap. He closes his eyes, slipping into the calm stillness of deep concentration, his other senses perking up, picking up Phil’s steady breathing, the rhythm he absently taps out on the steering wheel, the purr of the engine as they drive on, back from another successful mission – successful enough since nobody died – and back to New York.
He smells the coffee from the empty cups they’ve left in the backseat, tastes sugar at the back of his throat, and lets his mind wander. His thoughts naturally go back to Phil, how he never talks about himself, how desperate Clint is to know more, to dig in under Phil’s skin to learn his secrets, how easily Clint has set this trap for himself and has no idea how to get out of it now. Clint only has himself to blame, taking Phil’s professionalism for something more, for not wanting to let Clint down when too many people have in Clint’s past; and now he only has himself to blame for not being strong enough to try and claw his way out, move on.
It’s okay, it doesn’t impede his ability to work. It’s okay.
;;
It’s a complete mistake when Clint ends up with Phil’s personal files in his hands. He’s asked for his own, but the whole of the SHIELD HQ is in a frenzy over Tony Stark’s latest stunt, and somehow, Clint ends up with Phil’s file. His fingers tremble over the paper as he considers his options.
He knows opening the folder and scanning the pages are a breach of trust and privacy, but he can’t help himself, and the more he reads, the harder his heart beats in his chest, discovering things about Phil he’s never needed to know, wanted Phil to tell him himself, maybe. Clint is a variation of a ninja, something close to a spy, and he’s used to seeing and learning things he’s not supposed to, gathering intel on marks and villains, but this feels too intrusive, and he closes the folder with a sudden snap; Phil is not a mark, he’s the closest thing Clint has to a friend, as dysfunctional as that makes Clint.
But now the wheels in Clint’s brain are churning and turning and proceeding through a plan, even though it’s a terrible idea, because he’s using classified information to try and get what he wants, but there is no stopping the idea growing in his mind.
He is so deeply screwed.
;;
It’s late when Clint slips inside Phil’s office, but he’s not surprised to see Phil himself still working, the click of keyboard echoing with the rhythm of Clint’s heart. Phil raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t look up, and Clint takes a step further into the stuffy office. He wonders how long it’s been since Phil cracked open a window.
“Hey. You eaten?”
“No.” Phil’s voice sounds hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in a while, or he’s getting sick, and Clint resists the urge to ask which one’s the correct answer, because he knows Phil will lie.
“You hungry?”
Phil’s eyes shift from his computer screen to look at Clint for a second. “Don’t really have time, Clint.”
“Ah ah, that’s why I brought dinner to you,” Clint announces, brandishing a brown paper bag and leaving it on Phil’s desk, well away from any folder. He sees Phil open his mouth but doesn’t let it deter him; sitting down, Clint unpacks sandwiches, bags of chips, and two cans of Coke. It’s too late for any kind of caffeine, but the drink is still the first thing Phil goes for, opening it without a word, the click and hiss filling the silence between them. Clint hands Phil a ham and cheese sandwich and their fingers brush over the greasy wrapping paper, making Clint smile.
Phil doesn’t really say thank you, doesn’t really say anything at all, but he doesn’t kick Clint out of his office, either, and Clint counts that as a win.
;;
Mostly they’re quiet around each other. Phil likes to talk, to assuage his authority and make it understood that he doesn’t play around, despite the smirks, but there’s no need for that with Clint. Everybody assumes that Clint is a babbler, likes to fill the void with random words and thoughts, and it’s true, to an extent, but with Phil - with Phil there’s nothing to fill because it’s not uncomfortable, it’s not reminding Clint of dinners alone or long silences over his mother’s newest black eye.
They keep their conversations mostly professional, except when they’re not, when Phil lets a detail slip out; the way he likes his coffee best, which side of the bed he sleeps in, or when Clint just opens up because it’s easy to do with Phil; memories of Barney and Natasha before all this, details of what his favorite foods are. Clint doesn’t even think about it and by the way Phil acts, Clint doesn’t think he does, either, but the way his shoulders relax when Clint brings him dinner or offers to drive him home, it tells Clint enough.
Clint offers Phil an out, one night. He’s looking at Phil’s ring again, the gold glint dulled by time and wear, but still standing out stark against Phil’s skin. Clint leans forward suddenly, but keeps himself from touching it, instead looking up at Phil.
“Why do you still wear it?”
It’s an out; he’s not supposed to know, and Phil doesn’t have to tell him anything, can close up and forget about the fragile relationship they’ve started to build. Fact is, Clint isn’t sure how much longer he can go without being upfront about what he wants, and how he wants Phil – and Phil’s wedding ring is a wall between what Clint can have, and what he wants to have. Phil sighs, looking down at his finger for a moment, thumb brushing the side of it out of habit.
“To avoid exactly this.”
Clint leans back, one hand under his chin, and for a moment he isn’t quite sure if Phil is turning him down or not, but there was no harshness or regret in Phil’s voice, and Clint is still sitting in front of him as if he’d never said anything. For a second, he wishes he could have known Phil’s wife before she died.
;;
Clint grabs Phil’s hand during the last showing of The Lady In Black at the theater two blocks down from HQ, and it’s not because he’s scared, but it’s because he wants to, and their fingers have been brushing in the box of popcorn for an hour before they’d let it tumble to the floor, mostly empty. Clint grabs Phil’s hand and lets his palm slide along Phil’s, his heart beating so fast it’s making him sweat a little, skin clammy against Phil’s, his fingertips sticky with butter and sugar. There isn’t anyone else in the theater but the two of them and the hobo Phil gave enough money to so he could get inside and curl up in the warmth of the cinema for a couple of hours. Kernels crunch under Clint’s soles when he shifts his feet, loud during a dull moment in the movie, and he curls his fingers around Phil’s, who doesn’t pull away – he keeps on staring at the screen, but his fingers squeeze Clint’s, and Clint smiles to himself, leaning back in his seat.
If anyone asked him, he’d deny this was a date, just like the countless dinners in Phil’s office or the shooting range. None of it is planned, thought out, decided beforehand, and it’s definitely Clint trying to seduce Phil out of his shell. Phil’s too smart not to know the truth, but he seems to choose to ignore it, maybe because he obviously enjoys spending time with Clint, anyone can see that. Clint tries not to take too much pride in that, but he’s one of the only persons around which the lines around Phil’s eyes relax a little, and it’s enough to make Clint feel incredibly special.
Phil pulls his hand away before the end of the movie, and the loss of warmth makes him frown. He brings his hand to his nose, rubbing the bottom half of his face and lingering for a moment, smelling Phil’s skin into his own.
;;
Natasha looks at Clint with that pout of hers, her eyes betraying her feelings; she’s upset, and Clint takes one of her hands in both of his, thumping his boot against the ground rhythmically. The park is mostly empty, because it’s early and it’s November, but their breakfasts together are the only time where they can be alone and talk without the whole of SHIELD listening in on them.
“What is it?”
She bites the inside of her lip for a second before letting go with a sigh. “It’s stupid. We used to spend time together, and now, getting to see you once a month at eight in the morning is all I can get. We’re both busy, I know, but you spend most of your downtime with Coulson, now.”
Clint can’t help the way he smiles, her overprotectiveness is just adorable. “Are you jealous?”
Her eyes are sharp when she turns to look at him, pulling her hand away from his to get to her coffee. “Should I be?”
He shrugs, looks away as his smile fades, put on the spot. He’d hoped she’d play along and change the topic. But Natasha picks it up right away, the things he doesn’t want to say, and he wishes he was still able to lie to her like he lies to everybody else.
“Are you in love with him?” It’s quiet, and she’s looking away from Clint, like she’s afraid to look into his eyes. There’s no point for Clint to try and deny it, so he bites into his bagel, chews for a minute, contemplating all the ways he can answer this.
“Yes.”
“He’s married.”
“Not really.” It’s not Clint’s place to say.
“He wears a wedding ring.”
“People do a lot of things for a lot of different reasons, Nat.”
She sighs again, this time leaning into him, her head on his shoulder and her nose breathing hot and damp over his neck. She’s still his best friend, and he wants to be able to tell her so many things, all his screw-ups and his reasons to want Phil to smile all the time. Words are stuck in his throat, sounding stupid even to his own brain, and he gives up. He’ll find another time to tell her everything.
“Don’t get your heart broken again, Clint.”
“I’ll try.”
;;
They’re sitting on the roof of the SHIELD HQ building, passing a joint between the two of them. It’s one of these little things that still surprise Clint about Phil, that he wouldn’t be stern about smoking up, and even join in after a while, the weight visibly lifting off his shoulders after a few hits. The air around them is thick with smoke, the city atmosphere around them too dense to let it dissipate quickly, and the woody smell is heady, making Clint close his eyes and tip his head up to the stars. He wants to say something but suddenly Phil’s talking, and Clint closes his mouth, focusing hard on the slow, slurred words.
“You’d have liked her, Melissa. I would have married when I was younger, but she was busy being brilliant, and I was busy following Fury around the world. She had the same kind of humor you do. Dry and witty.”
“You miss her?”
“Every day. And I hate myself when I forget about it, even for a minute.”
Clint wraps his hand around Phil’s wrist, trying to feel his pulse through the layers of his suit. He almost says something but it all feels inadequate, wrong somehow coming from him, when what he wants the most is something he isn’t sure Phil can give. Phil takes a hit of the joint; it sticks to his fingers when he passes it over to Clint. It’s almost finished, too hot when Clint takes a drag, and he flicks it to the floor, crushing it under his foot.
“She didn’t get to move on, why should I?”
Clint can’t resist the words, this time. “Because you’re still alive, Phil. You’re still alive.”
Phil tilts his head down at Clint’s whisper, pressing his nose against Clint’s shoulder as he breathes shakily. It takes all of Clint’s willpower not to cling to him.
;;
“When you get home, how about you come over for dinner?”
Clint looks at himself in his bathroom mirror, his phone pressed tightly to his ear. He’s kind of hopeful, thinking that maybe Phil will say yes, hoping that he’s drilled through Phil’s defenses by now. He curls his free hand around the sink, avoiding to look at how dark the rings under his eyes are. Phil has been in Europe for two weeks now, supervising yet another mission Clint wasn’t needed on, and it’s not what has been keeping Clint up, but it hasn’t been helping.
“Not sure that’s such a good idea.”
Maybe Clint should insist, maybe he should offer lobster, and nothing but conversation, but Phil’s voice is tight, cautious, and Clint knows that he won’t accept, whatever Clint says. His fingers turn white against the porcelain of the sink, pressure building under his skin; he needs a proper sparring session soon.
Clint doesn’t even ask why, he knows already, and there’s no point in burying the knife deeper in the wound.
“But I’ll see you soon?”
Phil’s words go a little way to make Clint feel better, release some of the tension in his body. He forces himself to relax, breathing steadily and closing his eyes, focusing on the sound of Phil shuffling on the other end of the line. Clint spends a second wondering what Phil is wearing, where he is right now, before pushing the thoughts away forcefully – he’s in deep enough without having to add physical frustration on top of it.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
;;
It’s raining the first time Clint makes the decision to go over Phil’s, and the world is blurry around him as he walks up the three steps up to Phil’s door, not even caring about the water running in rivulets over his face, soaking his shirt through. It’s still warm, a nice April day, and Clint has been running, sweat mixing with rain as he breathes hard, inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. He rings the doorbell after only a second of hesitation, dripping on the welcome mat – he only has to wait a few seconds before the door opens, the view of Phil in jeans and a t-shirt, barefoot, greeting him. His wedding ring glints faintly golden in the hallway light.
“What –“
Clint cuts Phil off before he has time to say anything more, holding up a hand. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
Phil raises his eyebrows, looking genuinely surprised for something who got shot in the arm three days earlier, like he really didn’t expect anyone to worry about him. It makes Clint grit his teeth, something like anger settling deep in his gut; he wants to step in and check Phil’s bandages, cook him dinner, make sure he’s properly taken care of. There’s nobody to do this for him.
Phil seems to hesitate for a moment, before leaning against the door, his body leaning forward.
“I’m fine. Tired.”
“Can I just – Have you eaten anything today? Taken painkillers?”
Phil looks away, only looking back at Clint after a moment, and he looks defeated. “No. D’you want to come in?”
Clint nods, resolute. “Yes.”
;;
“Why are you doing this, Clint?” Phil’s voice is hard, leaving no room for Clint to play dumb. They’re having this conversation, and they’re having it now, in the shooting range at eleven-thirty at night on a Tuesday. Clint’s arms burn from all the work he’s put in training, and he’s tired, and he can’t even be assed to look surprised.
“Because I love you,” he replies without turning around, without a waver in his voice. A simple truth, a truth he’s gotten used to, that he has no reason to hide or deny. He wears it every day, wraps it around him and walks proud, because that’s all he can do not to break down and beg Phil to just allow him this.
There’s a beat, silence for a moment, but Clint doesn’t look away from the target he’s aiming at. His mind is blissfully clear, and he takes a breath, feeling the string of his bow digging in his fingers, the weight of his weapon into his hand, smelling the dryness around them, catching a whiff of Phil’s discreet cologne. Phil’s sigh cuts through the air.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Clint doesn’t smile, but he wants to. “Then don’t.”
;;
The trapeze platform is surrounded by nets, illuminated by only one spotlight, dusty yellow and bright overhead. He’s spent fourteen hours surveying the fair, looking for one of Loki’s minions with no luck, so he knows exactly that after a lone gymnast walks out of the circus tent, it’s empty. Getting Phil to follow him is easy.
It smells of talc and wood when Clint leads Phil closer, grabbing the net and climbing in easily, muscle memory making it way too easy to roll into the net, turning around to see Phil hesitating for a second before following suit, muscles bunching visibly under his crisp white shirt.
They don’t talk as they climb up the ladders to the trapezes, and Clint doesn’t even think about trying to explain why he’s brought Phil here; he doesn’t think he really has to. It’s his turn to open up, show Phil things nobody else has ever seen. Maybe he has no idea what he’s doing, but it seems to be the only right thing to do anyway, the moment and timing right. He settles on the trapeze, sitting on the bar and swinging lightly, watches Phil sit on the platform itself, holding the trapeze in his hands.
“I used to want to add trapeze into my act, when I was a teenager,” Clint starts, his voice reverberating around in the empty circus tent. It’s full of echoes and shadows under them, and it should be daunting, but Clint relaxes as he sits there, Phil looking at him intently. “I wanted to shoot arrows from up here, swinging. Nobody ever let me do it, of course. I could have done it, though, fucking loved being up here. I hid up here when Barney was angry at me. He never liked heights.”
“He could have shot you from the ground, though.”
Clint smiles, pushing off the platform to swing a bit more, sliding off until his knees are hooked over the bar and he’s dangling, blood rushing to his head.
“He was still my brother.” Things unsaid, not needed to be said, the wrongs in Clint’s life they both know about, they keep them silent. Phil smiles, but it looks crooked in Clint’s upside-down point of view.
“If I get on, will you catch me?”
“Yes.”
And Clint does.
;;
Surprisingly enough – or, not surprisingly at all, it’s Phil that initiates their first kiss. It’s a Friday morning, and Phil tastes of butter and apricot when he leans in and kisses Clint on his doorstep, the door still held between his fingers. It’s unexpected and perfect when Clint flails his hands a little, taken aback, before reaching out to hold the lapels of Phil’s suit jacket between his fingers, not pushing, not pulling, just taking whatever Phil’s willing to offer.
When Phil pulls back, there’s a healthy blush to his cheeks, and he licks his lips before looking down and away, a secret smile on his lips. At this very moment, he looks about ten years younger than he is, and Clint wants to take a picture and frame it, keep it close to his chest forever. He doesn’t move away, a little breathless, staring at Phil with his heart fluttering in his chest, and he wants to say so many stupid things, he wants to laugh and hug Phil and tell him it’s okay, everything is so fucking okay, and they’ll be fine, and he wants to say I love you, and I need you, and yet he doesn’t say anything, waits it out.
Phil breathes out a sigh, looks up and leans close enough for their noses to brush, his eyes crinkled at the corners with a smile. “Let’s go to work,” he says, a whisper against Clint’s lips. Clint is too dumbstruck to protest, and when Phil laughs, it doesn’t even matter that Clint wants to say there, right where he is.
;;
Natasha’s laughter sounds like little bells in the sunshine, when it’s free and genuine, and it might be Clint’s very favorite sound. She tilts her head back, giggling childishly, her hair on fire in the sun, and Clint lies back in the grass, looking up at her. Her laughter is a sound he’s not heard in a while, and he’s missed it, he realizes. When she sobers up, she turns to look down at Clint, the back of her hand against the corner of her mouth.
“Did you really tell him that? And you didn’t get shot?”
Clint nods with a grin, tugging Natasha close to him, breathing deep when she tucks herself close to him on the grass, the July sun beating down hard on them. He’s just done telling her about his latest stunt that made Fury almost have an aneurism, and they’re both avoiding the topic of Phil, not wanting the conversation to turn sour. She knows enough, and Clint still likes the fragility of it all, the novelty that makes it easy to crumble down like a house of cards in a gust of wind. He’s not ready to share, not ready to let it all out, and Natasha seems happy to ignore the things he’s not saying.
“You know, I always thought it’d be you and me, in the end. You and me against the world,” she says, soft against his collarbone, and Clint squeezes her tight, close to him, fingers digging in her upper arm.
“And it is, isn’t it? It is.”
She sighs, because it’s not what she meant, but he’s playing dumb on purpose. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
;;
Clint wakes up to a hand around his waist and Phil’s eyes crinkled at the corner with a smile and the remnants of sleep, looking back at Clint. The first thought that comes to Clint’s mind, after the idiotic feeling of bliss fills his tired limbs, is that he could definitely get used to this.
“Breakfast?”Phil asks, voice slightly rough. Clint doesn’t even want to consider getting out of bed, shuffling closer and trailing fingertips along Phil’s side, curling over his hip and tiptoeing along the ridges of his spine, feeling around smooth skin for scars he knows are there. Phil leans into the touch, his back arching as his eyes flutter close, and Clint takes advantage to lean in, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses along Phil’s collarbone. Phil groans, looking indecisive about staying here and pulling away, but finally he manages to roll off, chuckling when Clint tries to reach for him.
“Come on, Clint, we’ve got work. Well, I do, anyway, and I was hoping you’d make me your grilled cheese sandwich.”
Clint makes a little sound, burying his face in the pillow even though he’s smiling, again thinking he could get used to this, Phil prodding him along through the morning, teasing and easy, more open than he ever is with anyone else, anywhere else. It’s Clint’s best kept secret, something that is so private and unique he wants to keep it secure, hidden deep in the recesses of his own heart.
When he looks up, Phil is grinning at him, and Clint chuckles, unable to help himself. “Fine.”
;;
Phil crosses his arms over his chest as Clint walks into his office, his face set and hard. On his desk is his personal file, and Clint feels something twist in his stomach, bites his lip as he lingers near the door, feeling stupidly guilty. Phil looks too contained and blank not to be angry, and Clint can only imagine one reason why.
“Agent Gordon kindly told me when I requested my file that there had been a mix-up a while ago. You failed to tell me about this, Clint,” it’s not a question, Phil is not asking Clint to tell him, now. He already knows, and he’s already angry, and Clint could possibly apologize and grovel for an hour to no effect. It’s like any other fuck up, only this time it’s between the two of them, personal, and it might just be this much worse.
Clint considers lying, but it’d just push Phil further away. Instead, Clint sighs, hangs his head low, and doesn’t say anything.
“Did you read it?”
Clint looks up, taking in the hard glint in Phil’s eyes; he’s ready for a fight, wants one, and Clint can’t back down. “Yes, I read it. You read mine, didn’t you?”
“I was your handler, I had to.”
Clint rolls his eyes. He can taste blood in his mouth where he’s bitten his lip raw. “Don’t give me that shit. You’re just doing exactly what you’ve been doing every time you got scared, and you’re finding excuses to push me away.”
Phil uncrosses his arms, fingers toying with a dog-eared piece of paper. “If you stayed away, things might be easier on both of us.”
Clint sighs, shaking his head as he grabs the door handle. He’s had enough. “Let me know when you’re done being a coward.”
;;
Clint finds the wedding ring on the top shelf of his locker. It’s been two weeks since he and Phil had their fight, and everything has been quiet, subdued – between the two of them, and everyone around them, too, sensing dark moods. Clint is determined to wait it out; he’s spent enough time being pushed away by Phil, and this was the last straw. He’d actually thought he’d managed to break through, get Phil to accept that things were moving and growing and changing; he’d obviously been completely off base on this one.
But this, this is unexpected, and Clint twirls the ring in between two of his fingers, hypnotised by the way it reflects light. For the first time, he sees the engraving on the inside, the M & P curving along, and it’s like the breath is punched right out of him, the load of implications finding this ring in his belongings means.
Clint knows that he should go and talk to Phil, get an explanation out of him, or an apology, something, anything that could explain this in better terms than Clint’s brain can, but he’s stuck here, looking at this ring in between his fingers, and how much he wants, how much he craves, and how little he can express it all.
This is the gesture he’s been waiting for. Not something big and loud and unusual, but a quiet rocking of Clint’s world, the way only Phil has ever been able to do. Clint’s heart starts beating so fast it rattles against his ribcage almost painfully, like a perfect shaped bruise on the inside of his chest, the kind that wants to press on to feel more alive with every beat.
;;
Clint kisses Phil before he says anything, because if he doesn’t he’ll lose his mind, and it’s all okay because Phil melts into him and clings to his arms and lets out a small sound of relief that can only spur Clint on, make him shift even closer. When he pulls back, he trails a series of open-mouthed kisses along Phil’s cheek, jaw, and Phil arches into it and digs his fingers into Clint’s shoulders, his smile pressed secretly into Clint’s neck.
“You were right,” he says in a broken whisper, and Clint nods, because he knows he was, he’s okay with that, and Phil seems to be too.
“It’s okay, it’s – it’s okay,” and it’s like a chant, from Clint’s lips to the shell of Phil’s ear, and no more apologies are needed, no more words. They kiss again, because they can, and it’s been weeks since the last time they have, and Clint has missed touching Phil more than he realized. This time around Phil tastes of bad coffee and sugar, and there’s sweat at his temples and the back of his neck – he gives as good as he gets and sounds just as desperate as Clint feels, which is perfect, perfect.
They barely make it out of the hallway of Phil’s house, and Clint has rug burns for days afterwards, on his shoulder blades and hips and the flat of his palms, but they feel good when he rubs his thumb against them, or when Phil’s eyes run over them, dark and secret.
;;
“So, you’re telling me you’re happy? Really happy?”
Clint nods at Natasha’s question, handing her a coffee, lots of cream and two sugars. She looks at him, indecisive. “You don’t fight?”
“We fight, we bicker, we annoy the hell out of each other, but we make up.”
Natasha smiles to herself, looking away into the distance, the bright Fall day turning leaves to golds and oranges. “Who would have thought you’d be relationship material.”
“Not me. I want to make it work, though, Nat.”
She leans into him, smelling of citrus and softness against his cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you out.”
;;
The wedding ring on Phil’s finger has been replaced by a thin leather band that nobody asks about. It’s not even something Clint asked about, either, but he still likes to brush his thumb over it and he likes to know what it’s all about, that he doesn’t have to ask to know. Clint is content with letting the world guess, absolutely unperturbed by any of it.
They fight; he and Phil, about the most random things, at the strangest moments. Over breakfast, in bed, in the office, they fight about safety, scares, jealousies, what movie to watch. And yet, it’s not a loud relationship; they make up as easily as they start fighting, and they manage to keep it to themselves, even if they’re a terribly kept secret.
Clint gets a leather band done for himself, and doesn’t answer when he’s asked about it, but Phil kisses it every night, a smile on his lips.
