Chapter Text
Two Months Later
The golden evening light slanted across the street, casting a nostalgic glow over the display of jars in the window of a nearby artisanal chutney shop. Phil took a deep, only somewhat exhaust-filled breath, enjoying the mild spring air and the chance to stretch his legs after a day spent hunched over his laptop.
“Hey, babe,” Clint said, laying a hand on Phil’s elbow. “Ease up a minute, yeah?”
Phil looked around, then slowed, wincing as he noticed the tiny hitch in Clint’s gait. He was basically recovered from the Coney Island Squid Incident, but he was still working on building up his endurance.
“I’m sorry,” he said, taking Clint’s hand and resuming a more moderate pace. “Tough PT day?”
“Yeah, they’re really putting me through my paces,” Clint said. “You know how it is.”
Phil squeezed his hand, wishing he’d suggested they take a cab to Steve’s place. Clint was doing so well most of the time that it was easy to forget he wasn’t back to 100% yet. “We could have skipped tonight,” he said. “I’m sure the team would have understood.”
Clint shot him a disbelieving look. “Are you serious? Or do you not read your email, because I know for a fact I saw you copied on that note from Captain I’m-Not-Angry-Just-Disappointed about how he wanted a chance to celebrate our happiness in person. And the one from Jan. And the one from Tony.”
“Apparently just eloping and announcing it with a courthouse selfie on the Avengers group chat isn’t the low-hassle solution we’d hoped,” Phil said, valiantly stifling the urge to make any reference to his pre-nuptial qualms with the plan. Nobody liked an “I told you so,” especially if it was true.
Plus, well. Clint had been mostly naked, sprawled out in a patch of sun in their bed. He’d looked over at Phil, all backlit and gorgeous, and said “I just don’t want to see another sun rise on a day where you aren’t my husband,” and, well. What human being could reasonably be expected to resist something like that? Clint’d had to see one more unmarried sunrise—New York had a 24-hour waiting period, and they didn’t want to draw media attention by requesting a waiver—but it had been the last one.
“Okay, point,” Clint said. “But I still maintain that having to grovel to all our friends is a small price to pay when you consider the prospect of Jan and Tony trying to help us plan a wedding.”
Phil shuddered. “I can only imagine.”
“Yeah, one spread in Vanity Fair was enough for about twelve lifetimes,” Clint said. “Still, it might have been nice to take a honeymoon.”
“We’ll get there,” Phil said. “I think this op is going to wrap up in a few weeks, and then I should be able to take a good chunk of leave.”
“Maybe I should slow my roll with the PT, make sure I’m still on injured reserve when you’re free,” Clint said, grinning. “Otherwise, who knows, I might get kidnapped by a, a giant space platypus or something.”
“Stop, you’ll jinx us,” Phil said, his stomach twisting a little at the thought of Clint getting hurt again, no matter how joking his tone.
“Aw, babe, too soon? I’m sorry,” Clint said, slipping his arm around Phil’s waist and squeezing a little, brushing his cheek with a kiss. “It was just a bad joke.”
Phil leaned into Clint’s side. “Any space platypus who wants you will have to go through me first,” he said, relishing Clint’s raspy little chuckle. “Anyway, don’t impugn your Vanity Fair spread,” he said, trying to change the subject. “That was a great spread.”
Clint waggled his eyebrows. “You’re just saying that because I was shirtless and fondling arrows for most of it.”
“How is that different from any random Saturday?”
“Eyeliner, mostly,” Clint said, and Phil felt his face warm at the memory of one particularly... memorable pose, Clint looking backward over his golden bare shoulder, his bright eyes rimmed with dark liner that made their color look as clear as a tropical lagoon.
He must have tensed, or something, because Clint looked at him for a second and then grinned, wide and sparkling.
“Why, Phillip Coulson,” he said. “Did you jerk off to my pretentious magazine shoot?”
It had been pretentious; that was the worst part. They’d done Clint up in a bunch of pseudo-classical poses, draped him artistically with scarves and loincloths and those armor skirt things from The 300, and done some kind of Photoshop filter to make the images look sort of like paintings. Clint had been lit like he was the focal point in an unusually homoerotic Caravaggio, or possibly the new spokesmodel for an Italian fragrance line.
The headline had read “Eros Meets Apollo.” Phil had ten copies.
It wasn’t that Phil had bought ten copies. He’d bought two, one to read and one to collect. He’d found the other eight in his desk, locker, gym bag, gun case, car, briefing packet for a mission to take down a weapons smuggler in Manila, laptop bag, and slipped inside the envelope of his annual open enrollment packet, because Jasper Sitwell thought he was a funny man and Nick and Victoria did nothing but egg him on.
“No,” Phil replied, entirely too late to be convincing.
Clint bit his lip, eyes dancing. “You don’t sound sure.”
“I mean,” Phil said. “Not directly. Although I admit the, er, imagery may have been somewhat… inspiring. Before I met you, of course. I wouldn’t have—after, that would have been creepy.”
“Aw, sweetheart,” Clint said. “I wouldn’t’a minded. I’d jerk off to your photoshoot, if you had one.”
“I’m not exactly the model type,” Phil said, though he couldn’t help feeling a warm glow of pride.
“Bullshit,” Clint said. “Two words: grey suit.”
“That’s mostly tailoring,” Phil said, then yelped when Clint goosed him.
“Yeah, that’s no tailoring, babe,” he said. “Sorry to break it to you, but your ass is a work of art.” His hand lingered on the curve of Phil’s cheek for a moment before he gave it an affectionate pat and let go. “Which, remind me later, we’ve got an appointment.”
“You and… my ass?”
“Yup. I haven’t had my mouth on it in, like, seventeen hours; it’s a travesty.” He actually licked his lips, and Phil felt his face heat and his pants tighten a little.
“Oh, look,” Phil said, trying not to sound flustered. Later, Coulson. There would be time for all that later. “We’re here.”
Steve buzzed them in, and they fit themselves with difficulty into the tiny elevator that had been retrofitted into a weird corner of the building and rode it up to Steve’s floor. The door opened just as Phil was raising his hand to knock—super soldier hearing was a hell of a thing—and Steve stood in the doorway, blocking it with his shoulders and looking shifty.
“Clint, Phil! Hi,” he said. “Thanks for coming. So… promptly.” He twitched, with the air of a man who was very deliberately not looking over his shoulder.
He raised his voice a little. “Congratulations on your wedding, guys! I’m sorry I couldn’t be there, but it’s really great to see you.”
“Thanks, Cap,” Clint said. “Good to be here.” He stepped slightly to one side, like he was going to go around Steve to get into the apartment, and Steve shifted his weight, the tips of his ears going pink.
“Um,” Steve said, still a little too loud. “Ah, thanks so much for all your help with the board, Phil. We had the first meeting last week and everything went great.”
“Yes, so you said in your email,” Phil said, trying not to smile.
“Right,” Steve said. “Yes.” He rested an arm on each side of the doorjamb, looking a little frantic around the eyes.
“For fuck’s sake, Steve, aren’t you supposed to be a master tactician? How are you so terrible,” Natasha said, then slipped under one of Steve’s arms and wrapped Clint and Phil both up in a hard, fast hug—impressive, considering each of them was probably half again as wide as she was, but Phil had long ago stopped trying to figure out her mysterious ways. She shooed Steve inside and gestured them to follow. “Pretend to be surprised,” she murmured as they walked past her.
“Surprise!” an untidy chorus of voices exclaimed.
The room was stuffed with Avengers, crowded around a table so full of food Phil wasn’t sure how it hadn’t collapsed yet. There was a banner hung from the ceiling that said “Congratulations Clint and Phil,” although Phil could faintly see the outline of the words “on Your Retirement” showing underneath their names. A smaller table off to one side held a gorgeous tiered wedding cake, decorated with arrows and SHIELD eagles instead of roses, and next to it, under a crystal dome, was another platter of uni, the individual pieces of sushi molded into little heart shapes.
“Oh,” Clint said, softly, and his eyes grew suspiciously bright. “Guys. Wow, thank you.”
Phil looked around, and everywhere he looked he saw friends; not just Avengers, he realized, but SHIELD too; Jasper and Nick, Melinda and Andrew, Victoria and Izzy, and Jasper’s trainees, who had technically graduated already but were taking some sort of advanced superhero-liaison course. It was hard to imagine a scene less like his first team dinner, not just in the relative lack of chaos, but in how he felt. It hit him, all in a rush; this was his life, these were his friends, Clint was his husband, and he had never been so happy in his life; he’d never even conceptualized being that happy, before.
Clint pulled Phil close and buried his hot face in Phil’s neck, a little overcome; he was always surprised, somehow, by how much people loved him, even though he was the most lovable person Phil had ever met. Phil kissed his cheek, lingering and tender.
“Love you, angel,” he whispered, and he was teasing Clint a little but also he totally meant it.
Clint laughed into Phil’s shoulder, squeezing him tight for a long moment before relaxing and pulling back enough that Phil could see his face, beautiful and beloved and alight with joy.
“Yeah, darlin’,” he said, his voice rough with feeling. “Yeah. Me too.”