A/N: Thanks to dysprositos for a quick beta. This is pure fluff for a friend who needed it.

Clint slumped against the wall of the elevator. He didn't give one fuck if he got mud on the sleek silver of Avenger Tower transportation. He didn't figure he could stand on his own right now if he tried, and Tony's bots could always use something to do. So he slumped, and it felt like it took ten years to get to his floor.

The door opened, and Phil and Steve were waiting. Phil was still in his dress pants and his white shirt, although it was untucked and half unbuttoned, his undershirt visible. If Clint hadn't been awake for the last sixty hours, he'd have been turned on at the sight, and, as it was, once Steve wandered out of the kitchen in a pair of loose-fitting grey sweatpants and a tight, white t-shirt, he felt a feeble attempt by his run-down body to get interested in more than sleep. It was feeble, though, and he might have tripped getting off the elevator, so instead of sexy times he got Phil's arm around his waist and Steve's, "Shit, Clint," as he set his bowl of cereal on the table and moved to Clint's other side.

Clint pulled them to a stop, and leaned full-on into Steve, mumbling, "'S'okay. I'm just really tired. Debrief took…a long time." He breathed deep, soaking in the fresh cotton smell of Steve's shirt and the warm feeling of Phil's hand on his hip. Phil released him, and Clint was too tired to be ashamed at his whimper at the loss of Phil's touch.

"Shhh. Let me have your bag. You need to shower," Phil admonished. He took the bag gently, dropped it on the floor near the couch, and stepped in front of Clint and Steve with a warm smile. Clint lost a little time staring into Phil's blue eyes, and when he blinked, Phil was unzipping Clint's vest and then kneeling down to take his boots. Steve just held him in his vice-like arms and let Phil divest him of what he could. Within a few moments, a small pile of equipment had sprung up on the wood floor next to the couch with Clint's bag, and Clint was down to just his underwear and sweat-soaked t-shirt. Phil leaned in and kissed him gently and Clint could taste the scotch Phil had been having with his paperwork and baseball game.

Phil pulled back and leaned into the two of them, brushing Clint's muddy hair off his forehead before glancing up at Steve, who was seriously the only reason Clint hadn't face-planted on their dining room floor yet. "You wanna clean him up? I'll let the others know he's home," Phil said. Steve nodded, shifting Clint's weight so that they could walk to the bathroom.

They started toward the bathroom, and Clint's brain started to fixate on the tempting thoughts of hot water pelting his skin. Steve called over his shoulder, "Get some food? I'm betting he hasn't eaten in a while."

They knew him too well.

The water was scalding, and Steve, who had undressed as well and hadn't let a hand off of Clint since the living room, let it pelt Clint until his skin was pink, and then he cooled it a little. He massaged shampoo through Clint's hair, the fruity kind he loved, and his strong hands raked out four days' worth of mud and grime while keeping a steadying hand against Clint's back. Steve shifted Clint so that he was leaning back against the pale blue tile of the shower and rubbed sandalwood soap down Clint's arms and legs. When he was done, he pulled Clint into his arms and pressed into him, a shaky breath leaving him trembling against Clint's chest, the water sluicing between their bodies and his fingers gripping Clint's back tightly.

Clint ran his hand through Steve's wet hair and took a moment to whisper, "I'm okay. I'm just tired, Steve, but I'm okay," and took a brief turn at holding them up under the warm spray.

A few minutes later, they were dried off and Clint pulled on star-adorned soft flannel pajama pants and took the warm navy Henley Steve held out and pulled it over his head with a sigh. Steve finally leaned in and brushed his lips against Clint's, and Clint pulled him closer, deepening the kiss for a moment, just to assure his lover that he was, really, okay. He pulled back and Steve looked him up and down with a small frown before he shook his head with exasperation. "You're dead on your feet, Clint. I hate it when they do that to you."

Clint shrugged, and didn't really have an answer that wasn't the job, so he just stayed quiet as Steve took his hand and led him back out to their living room. The others were there now, gathered around the dining room table that was laden with Thai takeout and drinks, filling their plates. Natasha set hers down when she saw Clint and she pulled him into a tight embrace, whispering "Are you hurt?" and accepting his grin and head shake 'no' before going back to her plate.

Tony gave him an elbow and said, "Any time's a good time for Thai food, huh?" and Clint stared back, bewildered.

"I don't know what time it is," he admitted after a beat.

Bruce handed him an empty plate and said, "About eleven-thirty on Thursday" before wandering off to get some food.

Clint stood there, holding a plate, and Phil reached out and took it gently, asking "The usual?" At Clint's nod, he proceeded to fill Clint's plate.

Steve was at his elbow again, leading him toward the couch. Clint wanted to sink into it and fall asleep for three days, but he was really hungry, and also knew the crick in his neck would not be worth it, so he leaned into Tony, who had sprawled in the corner of the couch and used his shoulder as a temporary pillow.

He might have actually dozed off because after what felt like a blink, Tony shrugged him off and said, "Eat your dinner, Junior. You need it."

He grinned up at Phil and took the plate into his lap with a yawn. Natasha settled herself on the floor in front of him and looked up. "Spill your food on me and you'll have to fight this minute, no matter how tired you are, Barton."

He only managed a "Shut up," in response, so totally off his game. He ate, though, and realized he was ravenous. Steve had switched to a new baseball game, and Bruce had settled in next to Clint. The team always took the first hour or two after he came home to touch, lean, hover around him until he was settled and they were sure he was okay before leaving him to Phil and Steve again. They said it was their prerogative and Clint knew they were right. He joined in on nights when it was one of the others. Bruce took Clint's plate when he was finished, Nat picked up one of Clint's feet and started a massage, and Tony wrapped his arm around Clint's shoulders, rubbing his hand down Clint's bicep, and the last of the op tension seeped out of Clint's body.

Phil and Steve cleared the food and put it away, loaded the dishwasher and gathered the pile of clothes and equipment into the laundry area while Clint's teammates took their own assurances. Finally, though, as Clint felt himself lean a little too hard on Tony and was seriously having trouble keeping his eyes open, Steve turned the television off and Tony leaned forward, pulling his arm gently from Clint's shoulders.

Bruce took the chance to lever Clint to his feet and wrap his arms around him in a hug, running his hand through Clint's damp hair and whispering, "That was a long one, Clint." Clint was Bruce's 'I-need-two-hours-without-Tony-pestering-me' card, and anytime an op of Clint's lasted more than three days he complained about missing chess games.

Clint sighed and nodded into Bruce's shoulder. "Sorry."

Bruce released him and gently pushed him into Steve's arms, and Clint leaned with his back against Steve's chest. "Thanks, guys," he said as Tony, Bruce, and Natasha waved and climbed onto the elevator to head to their own floors. As the doors closed, he slumped a little more.

"Come on, sleepyhead," Steve said. He pulled Clint to the bedroom where Phil was turning the covers down and dimming the lights.

"You guys coming?" Clint mumbled as he shuffled into the bathroom to brush his teeth, and in answer Phil came in and did the same at his own sink.

Clint finally climbed into bed and burrowed under the covers, and Phil climbed in behind him, pulling Clint's back against his chest while Steve climbed in the other side, letting Clint drape his leg across him and pull him close. Clint buried his face in the back of Steve's neck, and he breathed deep and whispered, "Honeys, I'm home." The beat of his heart settled as Steve and Phil chuckled, their bodies sending ripples of happiness through Clint's chest.

He fell asleep to the feel of their laughter.