~ One ~

The first thing Phil said when he walked into his apartment was, "Oh no," which Clint thought was a bit harsh, followed by, "Why?" which was probably fair.

Phil dropped his briefcase by the door and joined Clint in the kitchen, surveying the damage. Bowls and utensils were scattered, dirty, across all the countertops. The stove had a precarious stack of baking sheets balanced on it and there was a large, dark streak of something (Clint couldn't even remember what) across the fridge.

Phil took a breath. "Tell me again why you are here."

Clint pretended to think for a moment, wiping his flour-covered hands off on a tea towel. "Cause you're so fond of me, you wanted me around at home too?"

"Nope, that can't be it. There must have been a good reason…"

"Eye candy?" he tried.

Phil snapped his fingers. "Oh yeah, it's because a robotic, super-assassin death mob broke your leg in two places and you came here to my apartment to hide and heal. And instead, you are" - Phil looked around the kitchen in dismay - "doing science experiments."

"Hey! I take offense to that. I'm not experimenting. I'm baking."

"Baking what? Ammo?" Phil tapped a cookie against the counter, making a sad little thud noise, then ran his fingers over the surface as if to check for dents.

"Ha, ha, very funny, Sir. They're oatmeal raisin, but fuck you very much for the judging. I'm not sure why you thought there was any chance I was going to spend upwards of six weeks cocooned on your couch watching Nanny Jo tame wild monkeys. I don't do bored. I have to do something."

"You could catch up on your paperwork."

Clint laughed. "Yeah, sure."

"I already regret this and it's only been three days. And you were knocked out on painkillers for the first two. Do you have any more of those, by the way?"

"You can't just drug me, Sir. Trust me, they've tried."

"I didn't mean for you." Phil started piling the dirty dishes up by the sink.

Clint smirked behind his back. It was a damn shame that most of the other agents were too scared of him to see just how fucking funny that man was.

"You won't want to miss a second of this, Sir. We're going to have a blast."

"Why on earth would I have a 'blast' watching you destroy my apartment?"

"Cause free cookies! And also cause you like me so much."

"I don't remember saying anything about liking you."

"You didn't have to." Clint leaned over the counter and rested his chin on his palm, then batted his eyelashes at Coulson. "I could see it in your eyes."

Right now those eyes were more exasperated than affectionate, but Clint knew it was mostly an act. Coulson never seemed to mind the epic amount of time Clint spent in his office on a normal day. Actually, considering how much time Coulson spent at work, they were probably going to end up seeing less of each other with Clint stuck here instead of camped out on his office couch.

Somehow, probably by virtue of them both having very secretive work with long hours, Phil had ended up his best friend. He might be his CO in the field, but off the clock, he was surprisingly easy to get along with. They both enjoyed each other's quiet company - or at least he was pretty sure Phil enjoyed it. He tolerated Clint following him around all the time and he had invited him to stay here until he was back in one piece.

Phil had a slightly pinched look around his eyes and Clint wasn't sure if it was work, or he really was being too annoying. "You know, if it's really a problem, I would be fine at a hotel. I mean, I'd be fine at SHIELD, but you're all being worrywarts, so whatever. But I don't have to be here, I can go."

Phil saw his genuine concern and he smiled. "We all know how that would go. You are absolutely awful at taking care of yourself."

Clint hopped around the kitchen trying to put ingredients away, using the counter for support and wondering vaguely where he'd left his crutches. Coulson kept talking, describing all the ways Clint was terrible at taking care of himself, his voice drifting away as he disappeared into the living room.

He fell silent and then suddenly appeared again, without any warning, right at Clint's shoulder. Clint started and turned. Phil was holding out his crutches in one hand while he shoved the sugar jar back up into the pantry with the other. Clint took them gratefully.

"What spawned all this anyway?" Phil asked, shooing Clint to the edge of the kitchen while he bustled around, smacking Clint away every time he tried to help.

"It was entirely your fault." Clint decided the best defense was a good offense. "You have that show on your TiVo with the baking and the tent and stuff. I was struck with inescapable inspiration."

Phil stopped cleaning and stared. "You watched Great British Bake-Off and decided to make cookies."

Clint was quiet for a long time as they just stared at each other.

"I may still have some of those pills, yes," he eventually admitted.

Phil shook his head, an affectionate smile teasing the edge of his mouth. He picked up a cookie and shoved it in Clint's mouth. "Go get some rest, Clint."

Clint grinned, speaking around a mouthful of (slightly over-baked) oatmeal raisin. "Yes, Sir."

~ Two ~

"It's small and black, Clint. I really don't know what else to say."

Clint huffed at the phone, tucking it under his ear so he could paw through the files on Phil's dresser with both hands. "Well I don't what else to say, Sir - it's not here!"

Phil growled in frustration. "If I drive all the way home and it's sitting on top of the dresser, I'm going to be annoyed."

"Well, excuse me." Clint shot the phone an incredulous look. "I'm not sure why this is my problem anyway. You know, you keep harping on about how I need to rest to recover and I was trying to rest and all of a sudden my phone was ringing and you started heaping abuse on me, like it's my fault you forgot your notebook at home."

Phil was silent, but Clint could hear his frown over the line and he sighed. "Okay, where did you have it last?"

"I always put it on the dresser."

"Yeah, but where do you actually remember using it last?" Clint started limping around the room, poking at things, hoping for a hint of a black, moleskine cover. For an obsessive, perfectly pressed, anal-retentive guy, Phil's room was a pit. There were papers and books everywhere and without any kind of order or explanation. Phil always managed to find things without too much trouble, but it seemed to require actually being there because he was currently being no help at all.

"Well, I had the Breadwinner files open on the bed last night and I was taking notes there. It was late…" There was a pause and Clint knew Phil was pinching the bridge of his nose and probably wishing he'd ordered a double espresso that morning.

Clint hopped around to the other side of the bed and lifted a stack of papers. "What's Breadwinner?"

There was a pointed pause. It was probably something classified above Clint's clearance, which was only barely below Phil's, but still. Phil handled a lot of things that Clint wasn't supposed to see and he did his best not to learn anything he shouldn't in case someone got upset about his friendship with his handler. "Nevermind, Sir."

"No, it's fine. It's the operation we're planning in retaliation for Iowa City."

"Oh." Clint twisted his upper body so he could spin around and sit on Phil's bed. He looked down at his cast. His right leg was wrapped tight from the foot up over the knee. So Phil was working on tracking down the assholes who had done this to him. "Getting some payback for shackling you to the most annoying houseguest in America?"

Phil chuckled. "Something like that. I took some notes last night and I just need a few pages."

Clint almost asked for more details about the op, but he wasn't actually sure if he wanted to know. He rifled through the stack of files next to the bed with no luck. He could hear Phil typing through the phone. Sighing, he hauled himself up again and starting flinging things around with more vigour and less care.

It was probably in his briefcase or some shit and he'd spend an hour and a half tearing the room apart and Phil would find it at the office. Clint pulled open the top drawer of Phil's bedside table and came to a screeching halt. "Wow."

"Did you find it?" Phil asked hopefully.

"Um."

"Clint?"

" Wow ."

"Oh." There was a muffled noise which Clint was pretty sure was " shit," and he bit his lip hard against the three thousand quips that were building up in his throat, scrambling to be the first one out.

"I knew you were a fan, Sir, but didn't know how big a fan," he finally choked out in barely contained glee.

"I like to read something light before I go to sleep."

"Yeah, I bet you do!" He pulled out the first of the large stack of extremely well-worn, Captain America comics and flipped through it, wondering if any of the pages would stick together. "I thought, ahem , 'reading' them lowered their value or something."

"It does," Phil ground out through clenched teeth. Clint knew he would have hung up on him by now, if he didn't need something from him. "I have mint copies as well. Would you get out of my drawers and find my notebook already. "

"'It's the Star-Spangled Man with the Plan!'" Clint read out from a random page, with a dog-eared corner. "Ooh, Sir, I think he's going to take his uniform off, amazing."

"That's it. I'm coming to get the damn notebook. And if I happen to shoot you while I'm there, so be it."

"Wow, you'd threaten an injured man? Rude."

"You're about to be way more than just injured."

Clint tipped backwards on Phil's bed trying desperately not to laugh. He flicked his eyes up and noticed a small, black corner poking out of the gap between the dresser and Phil's garbage can.

"Hey!" He scrambled over the bed, hauling his cast up awkwardly behind him, and pulled it out. "I found it, Sir! The notebook," he clarified quickly, just case there was anything else Phil might be thinking of.

"Oh thank god," Phil muttered to himself. "Text me pictures of the last three pages so I can hang up this phone and hopefully never talk to you again."

"Sure." Clint flipped it open and started looking for the end.

"And, Barton?"

"Yes?"

"You will never tell anyone."

Clint suppressed a laugh. "Yes, Sir!"

~ Three ~

Clint fidgeted on the paper cover, making it crumple and crinkle. The sound echoed irritatingly around the small room. He kept trying to turn his ankle to a comfortable angle but his hip was sore, his knee was sore, and he couldn't wait to get this damn thing off.

And at the same time, he was terrified.

When the doctor came back she'd finally start the process of freeing him from his plaster prison, but it would also be the big reveal of how well his leg had healed. Dr. Chen assured him that his x-rays were wonderful, and they were taking the casts off a whole week and a half earlier than predicted, but Clint was still stressed.

He needed his leg to do his job. Sure, he could still shoot the filling out of an oreo from 200 yards away with no legs at all, but SHIELD wouldn't let him. A permanent injury was cause for retirement or reassignment.

He so wasn't ready to be retired.

And the other option was to be… well, Phil.

There was a gentle knock on the door. Clint mumbled out something approximating an affirmative noise and the door swung open. It was Phil.

"Wow, speak of the devil, Sir."

Phil glanced around the otherwise empty room. "With who?"

Clint rolled his eyes. "Okay, think of the devil. I was thinking I wasn't ready to be behind a desk yet," he rushed out before he had time to process the embarrassment of revealing his insecurities to Coulson. Or that he might be offended that Clint saw being a handler as a downgrade. "You know, if it doesn't…" He waved a vague hand at the leg.

"Ah." Phil sat on a rolly stool in the corner of the room, by the door. "You know, it's always the most difficult assets that are the least interested in becoming CO's, I wonder why that is." Phil smirked at him.

Clint chuckled. "Misspoke there, I think you meant 'most delightful.'"

Phil's smile warmed. "You know, the two aren't mutually exclusive."

Clint squirmed. Phil wasn't often openly appreciative of Clint, as an asset or as a friend. He relied on years of experience with the man to know that if he didn't think Clint was useful, or didn't like him personally, he would have told him to hit the bricks ages ago. Clint looked wildly around the room for some inspiration for a change of subject, but his eyes just came back to rest on Phil. "Wait. What are you doing here?"

Phil held up a file that clearly said "Barton, Clinton" on it. "You didn't tell me you were getting your cast off today."

"I didn't really think it was worth bothering you, Sir." Clint felt the back of his neck heat and hoped Phil couldn't see, but Phil fixed him with a penetrating glare and he doubted he would be so lucky. If anyone could learn to read minds out of sheer willpower, it would be Phil Coulson. Clint swallowed.

"You obviously didn't want to talk about it. You've talked incessantly to me about every other stage of your recovery. You got bumped up nearly two weeks and not a word, even though you knew that as your CO I'd be notified. You knew last night, but instead, you babbled on about wood frogs for two hours because you spent far too much of the day watching nature documentaries."

"They're fucking interesting, you can't say that wasn't interesting." Phil rolled his eyes.

Clint felt the hot flush make its way up over his ears. Phil was surprised, upset even, that Clint hadn't mentioned his appointment - not for work reasons, but because it seemed like he'd hidden it personally. That it hadn't come up at the dinner table, or in front of the tv after, or when Phil had said goodbye and driven off for work.

And yeah, when he thought about it that way he definitely had hidden it. Because he could have caught a ride in with Phil and spent the afternoon curled up on the couch in his office, shooting puppy dog eyes at the junior agents until they brought him coffee and pastries from the mess.

But instead, he'd said nothing, paced ineffectually on his crutches for two hours, called a cab and then spent the whole ride wondering if his cab driver was really a member of the mob that was after him, and was about to kill him.

So why had he hidden it? "I'm kinda nervous, if I'm honest," he finally admitted.

"You didn't seem nervous before." Phil tipped his head, curious but not pressing. "This is early, that's a good thing."

"I know." Clint picked at the fluffy gauze poking out of the top of his cast. "But before it was just kinda funny and now I'll have to go to physio and stuff. What if it's - what if I can't - "

"Clint." Phil's voice was gentle.

"Yeah?"

"You don't have to earn your way back on the team. I know what you can do and you'll take as much time as you need to to get fit again, but you didn't get benched, you got hurt. You don't have to prove yourself - to me or to anyone."

Clint looked up, startled, and opened his mouth to reply - though he had no idea what he was going to say - when the door opened and Dr. Chen waltzed in.

"Good morning Agent Barton. Oh! Hello, Agent Coulson." If she thought it was weird that he was there, she didn't say anything. Phil smiled placidly across the room at Clint as Dr. Chen fired up the cast saw.

Clint just blinked back, totally floored. How was it that Phil always seemed to find the centre of Clint's insecurities as accurately as Clint found a bullseye? He swallowed a little at the rush of grateful emotion and then gasped at the intense feeling of cool air hitting his newly freed skin.

Dr. Chen finished the examination, giving Clint lots of advice for taking care of his healing bones and a referral for physio. "This is healing fantastically, Agent Barton." She smiled up at him. "Do a good job with your physio and I expect you'll be back on your feet, one hundred percent, in no time!"

"Really?" He was stunned. She nodded, then snapped off her gloves and left the room, giving Phil a smile as she slipped out. Clint stared down at his leg. It looked pale, and he'd lost some muscle tone, but it was still his leg. He poked it tentatively. Ouch.

"You can stay with me a little longer," Phil said. "It's still going to be hard for you to get around for a bit."

Clint took a breath. He couldn't hide under Phil's wing forever. "No. Thanks, Sir, but I think I better be forced to get by on my own at this point." He was going to miss it though.

Phil's phone started ringing and he stood, frowning down at it, but before he reached the door, he turned back. "Clint? Don't ever think you don't have people who have your back. You know you can call me, for anything."

Clint's throat felt a little tight as his heart swelled in his chest. "Yes, Sir."

~ Four ~

Even though Phil didn't have a window in his office, Clint could feel the growing darkness outside. It was way too late - they should both be back in their own homes. But Clint's SHIELD room seemed small and lonely now. He'd gotten used to being around Coulson in the evening, eating dinner and yelling at the TV together. He'd even gotten used to how disgustingly early Phil would wake up and start making noise in the kitchen - because it always came with fresh coffee.

Though he hadn't said anything, Phil seemed to feel the same way. He'd invited Clint to stay in his office and work late three nights this week already, ordering dinner each time.

They'd kind of run out of things to work on - Breadwinner was planned out to the last second - but neither seemed inclined to be the first to say goodnight.

Clint poked his chopsticks into a container of fried rice, trying to grip a few shrimp at once without making it clear he was fishing. Open files lay scattered around the floor between them.

Coulson sat with his back pressed against the front of his desk, legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. He flipped idly through a stack of papers while eating strips of lemon chicken almost automatically. He had his suit jacket off and the sleeves of his crisp, white shirt were rolled up to the elbow. His tie had long been discarded.

Two months ago, Clint would have been deeply disturbed to see Phil so naked , but after living together - and seeing him in a t-shirt and sweatpants more than once - it just gave him a nice, cozy feeling. Instead of being embarrassed that Clint had invaded his private life, Phil seemed to welcome the company.

Drawing his eyes away from Phil, Clint stared down at the plans in front of him. Something was bugging him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He ran a hand over the map again, and a sudden, clenching feeling of dread twisted in his gut as he finally saw it.

"Sir?" Phil lifted his eyes from the pages in his lap. "I don't like this. This whole section of the factory will be completely uncovered. You need two snipers on this job."

"Clint…" Phil started, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"I swear to god, Sir, I'm not just trying to insert myself in this op." Phil didn't look convinced. "Look."

Phil set his food, and the stack of papers, aside and shifted forward onto his knees, leaning over the map. Clint traced the problem areas with his finger, his sniper's eyes seeing angles no one else would see. There was a whole section of the active area where Coulson, or one of his team, could get trapped with no sniper support.

"If something goes down here, or here, you'd be in big trouble. Even with two, this one spot is still risky, but with only one..."

"Hmm." Phil frowned and slipped back into his spot, folding his knees up and resting his arms on them. He looked at Clint, eyes narrowed. "You're not ready."

Clint stretched out his bad leg, feeling the achy pull of the spots where the fractures had been. He was right, Clint wasn't ready. He felt stiff and unsteady. But there wasn't anyone else available with the skills necessary. Even at his worst, he was still the best sniper at SHIELD, and he didn't trust anyone else to have Coulson's back on something like this.

"I will be, if I have to be."

Phil looked at him for a long time. Clint knew he'd seen his x-rays, physio notes, and range reports. This wasn't really about being physically ready, though. Clint had been out of action for over three months and being in the field - especially in a perch - took a psychological strength that you couldn't build, or rebuild, overnight.

Finally, Phil nodded sharply. "Okay." Clint tapped the spot on the map he wanted his perch to be and Phil nodded again. "We leave at 0600. You'd better go get some sleep."

Clint hauled himself up off the floor, scooping up an empty container and tossing it gracefully into the trash can in a perfect free throw. "Swish! See you tomorrow."

Phil gave him a strange look. "Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"You'll be careful." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, Sir." Clint nodded. "Always."

~ Five ~

The team lay around the jet in various states of disarray. They'd all come out of Breadwinner mostly unscathed - a few bumps and bruises that would hurt more tomorrow when the adrenaline had worn off.

Clint pushed through the crowd of splayed limbs to sit next to Phil. "Nice moves, Sir."

Phil didn't raise his eyes from the tablet where he was vigorously typing out his reports. "Thanks."

"I especially liked the bit where you managed to get yourself stuck in the only spot in the entire factory where neither sniper could see you. That was great."

"Barton…"

"No, really, Sir. I happen to know, for a fact, that you had been over that map seven hundred times. I was there. I pointed the spot out. And yet. There you were, saying something sarcastic to a room full of bad guys and then getting smacked right out of view. You have a gift."

Phil pursed his lips.

"My favourite part, though, by far, was when I had to drag my leg which, until recently, was in two more pieces than it's supposed to be, across a gravel rooftop and halfway down a fire escape so I could get eyes on you."

Phil set the tablet down. "Well, while we're going over everything in great detail, I feel obliged to remind you that that was exactly what I told you not to do."

They glared at each other for a moment, at a standoff.

Seeing Phil drop out of sight, and the man who had hit him stalk off after him had been heart-stopping. Clint could close his eyes and still see Phil's gun skittering across the floor out of reach, the grimace of rage twisting up his attacker's face.

Phil was an incredible field agent, but Clint preferred him tucked safely behind a headset, calling the shots instead. They hadn't even had comms this time - maybe all for the best. Clint wanted no memory of the sound of the butt of that man's gun connecting with Phil's face.

Phil must have seen some flicker of pain cut through Clint's expression because he softened suddenly. "How did you know I said something sarcastic?" he asked.

Clint just looked at him.

"Yeah, okay," Phil admitted.

Phil's gaze dropped back down to his tablet. Clint tried to focus on giving his bow a post-op once over, but he couldn't stop reliving Phil getting hit. He glanced around the jet to make sure no one was looking, and then reached up with one finger to gently tip Phil's chin to the side. Phil looked surprised but gave in to the pressure. An angry red welt was blooming up out of his collar already. Clint sighed and dropped his hand, and his eyes, back down to the bow in his lap.

He frowned at the dirt and gravel that had been ground into the grip. This was going to be a bitch to clean. There was a small noise on his right and he looked back up again. Phil was staring at him.

Phil stared at him a lot. In fact, Clint had started to categorize Phil's looks. There was a very particular one that he employed when he was willing Clint not to say exactly what he knew Clint wanted to say, a whole selection of looks for when Clint had done something stupid, and even one for when Clint suggested that there might be better comics than Captain America.

This one was new.

"What? What'd I do?"

Phil just shook his head, almost dreamily, and said nothing. His eyes stayed fixed on Clint's face and Clint stared back, utterly confused.

"Will you two get a room, already?" Myerhill's grumpy voice rang out through the silence.

A couple agents snickered and Clint shot a grumpy look across the jet towards the puddled tac suit that was Myerhill. Phil smiled. "Barton, do you have any stun rounds left?"

"Yeah." The rest of the team giggled as Myerhill protested.

"Myerhlil seems a bit grouchy, probably time for his nap." He shot him a smile and Clint laughed.

He twirled his bow mock-threateningly. "Yes, Sir!"

~ Six ~

Clint had the entire next day off so he did what he always did and took a book and two drinks to Phil's office. He put the mug of coffee - black, one sugar - on Phil's desk and collapsed on the couch with his coke and The Hunger Games.

He stretched out onto the cushions, kicking his feet out over the arm so they dangled free. He was a bit sore from yesterday, but not as bad as he expected to be.

Phil barely acknowledged his presence, just picked up the coffee and took a sip, fully absorbed by his work.

Clint got sucked in by Katniss and nearly an hour passed before he found his attention wandering. He looked up from his book just in time to catch Phil smirking at his email. Probably about to tell someone how horrifically they had fucked up. I love that smile, wandered amiably through his mind.

He looked back down at his book.

Then back up at Phil.

Holy shit, I love that man.

Clint stared for a long time. The book slipped out of his hands, forgotten.

He loved how he moved, how he fought, how he smiled, how he frowned, how he yelled - even how he yelled at Clint. He loved all of it.

Phil happened to glance up from his work and met Clint's intense gaze. His brow creased as he took Clint in. He probably looked like he'd been hit in the face with a dead fish.

"Clint?" Phil asked. "What's wrong?"

"I just realized something, Sir."

"What's that?"

"I'm in love with you."

Phil raised an eyebrow in surprise, then smiled. His smile grew bigger until he broke into laughter, leaning back in his chair, shoulders shaking.

Clint couldn't help but smile back. "What? Are you mocking me?"

"Not at all. I was - you know yesterday? On the Quinjet?"

"Yeah, when you were giving me that weird look?"

"Yeah. Exactly. Well, that's what I was thinking."

"That I'm in love with you?" Seemed a bit unfair. To know that about someone and not tell them.

Phil laughed again. "No, idiot. That I'm in love with you. I just didn't want to talk about it on a jet full of people who work for me."

"Oh." Clint stared at him in open amazement. "That's nice."

"I'm glad you think so." Phil smiled at him some more then turned back to his work.

Clint picked up his book again. Prim's name got called at the Reaping. He put it back down again. "Hey, Sir?"

"Mhm?"

"Do you want to do something about it?"

Phil set his pen back down and swiveled around in his chair until he faced Clint fully. "You want to talk about this now?" His tone was gentle, giving Clint an easy out, if he wanted one. He didn't.

"Yeah."

Phil was quiet for a moment and Clint could practically see the gears turning in his head. "It could put both our careers in jeopardy. If it goes wrong -"

"I know. I'm not - I love being a SHIELD agent, don't get me wrong, I love it. But it's my job, Phil. I need a life too. And I've seen your TiVo, man, you do too."

Phil rolled his eyes, but smiled too. "Rude."

"Shut up, I'm doing a thing."

"What? Rambling insultingly?"

"Hey!" Clint crossed his arms and pouted at Phil.

Phil smirked again and scooted his chair across the room until his knee bumped against the end of the sofa where Clint's feet hung off the arm. He reached out and put his hand gently on Clint's ankle. "Clint, I'm your superior. I'm not in any way saying I don't want to. I just have to be sure you know what you're doing."

"Everyone already thinks we are."

Phil's eyes were piercing and Clint couldn't look away. "I know. This is different."

"Phil…" He took a deep breath. "I think it's worth it. I know we could keep on like this, co-workers, friends. I want more though. I know I only just realized it about ten seconds ago, but I want more. If you don't, I'd rather keep this" - he gestured around the office - "than push you and lose it all. But if you do too, and we don't, I'm going to fucking hate myself for being too much of a wuss to give us a shot."

Phil's hand tightened around his ankle and something heavy lifted away from his features. He smiled, warm and happy. "Come over for dinner tonight?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely, Sir."

They stared dopily at each other for about two minutes longer than was appropriate for grown men, then Phil seemed to shake himself a little and started to slide his chair back to his desk.

"Hey, Phil, come here for a sec."

Phil eyed him warily and Clint adopted his most innocent expression. "You've got a little something - " He gestured towards his own neck. Phil looked 100% unconvinced, but he got up and walked over to where Clint lay. Clint twisted so he was half sitting, feet still stretched out along the couch cushions. He held Phil's gaze the whole way over, then smirked when it flicked down to his mouth.

He reached up and Phil bent forward, bracing one hand on the back of the couch. Clint slid his fingers around Phil's tie. "Got a little something on your…" He trailed off as Phil leaned in close enough that he could feel his breath and the heat radiating off his skin. "...tie."

"Clint," Phil whispered and Clint was pretty sure he intended to finish that up with something along the lines of, "we shouldn't do this at work," so he shut him up the only way he could think to. He gave Phil's tie another tug, sliding backwards and pulling Phil down with him until their lips pressed together.

At first, Clint was almost disappointed. He'd kind of expected fireworks or butterflies or something, but the kiss was calm and sweet and gentle. It didn't feel new or thrilling, it felt right. Because Phil wasn't new or thrilling, he was home . And the kiss was like finally coming home. Clint felt peace fill him up from head to toe. He sunk into the cushions and Phil finally tipped off his own feet to stretch out over top of him.

His tongue flicked against Clint's lip and oh, there were the butterflies. His hand ghosted up Clint's thigh and oh, there was thrilling. Their hips slotted together and they both gasped out of the kiss.

Phil took a careful breath and peeled himself off Clint. He straightened his suit, then, without looking back, marched over to his desk and sat down with what was clearly manufactured determination.

Clint smiled to himself, still stretched out on the couch, legs spread wide and clothes rumpled. He watched the tips of Phil's ears turn pink and knew he was fully aware of the sight that awaited him if he looked over. Clint preened with the knowledge that he could make the unflappable Phil all flapped and flustered.

"Dinner tonight?" he called out, slipping as much innuendo as possible into his voice and grinning when Phil shifted in his seat.

"Yup," he replied tersely. "Read your book, Clint."

Clint laughed. He was happier than he had been in a long, long time. If it all went to shit, it would be worth this one moment.

"Yes, Sir." He crossed his ankles back over the far arm of the couch and picked up his book.