Chapter Text
By the time he brought Natasha in instead of killing her, Clint had been flirting with Coulson – who quickly became Phil - on comms for a handful of years. It was lighthearted, a cure for boredom on long ops and not intended to go anywhere because Clint respected the hell out of Phil and he didn’t strike Clint as the kind of guy who crossed those kinds of boundaries. It was easy fun; Phil didn’t seem to mind so Clint could flirt, knowing he’d never have to put up or shut up. But there was no question that there was a simmering lust there, too, and sometimes Clint almost got the feeling it wasn’t one-sided.
***
When Clint brings Natasha in from the cold, they have an instant connection. It’s understanding what it’s like to be young and alone; to have skills drilled into you until you collapse; to be used by people who should protect you; to be alone in the world and have to fight every day to survive; to want to be a better person than you know you are. That translates into a working relationship that’s a well-oiled machine; they know instinctively where the other will be, wordlessly anticipate each other’s moves, and Jesus, throw Coulson into the mix, it’s more like a family than his real family ever aspired to be. But there’s also an instant heat between them, smoldering underneath and waiting for the spark that’s going to make something ignite.
As the months go by, Clint’s itching to touch her, to kiss her, to feel her in his arms where he can protect her and she can shelter him from the memories that threaten to rise to the surface. Still, they circle around each other for ages before anything happens, because it goes unspoken that they both know adding sex to their relationship could disrupt the balance that makes everything work so seamlessly.
It was probably inevitable, though, and the first time it happens, it’s almost stupidly predictable and cliché. An op gone bad ending in adrenaline-fueled, “thank god we’re alive” sex. Or, well, “thank god you’re alive” sex, anyway.
Clint’s providing cover from up high when an explosion rocks the building he’s on. It knocks his bow from his hand and throws him off the roof where a ten-story drop awaits. Phil and Natasha both yell in his ear as he falls, and its only absolutely dumb fucking luck he survives. He flails, grasping at anything as he plunges, and somehow his fingers find purchase on a flagpole, abruptly halting his descent. The jarring stop shoots a lightning bolt of pain through his shoulder and he’s barely able to reach up with his other hand to grab the pole before his first one gives way. He can’t remember his heart ever beating so hard or fast in his chest.
In the end, their targets get away because Natasha and Phil both stop pursuit to go after Clint, who has busted through a window to get off the side of the building, miraculously netting only a couple minor cuts. The way he’d slammed into the wall, though, should leave him with ample black and blue up and down his right side, not to mention the partially separated shoulder. They scrape him off the tiled floor of the (thankfully empty) apartment and Coulson dumps them in the safehouse before he takes off to try to pick up their targets’ trail, telling them not to wait for him and to get to the exfil site the next day as planned.
Natasha’s furious with him for almost getting killed, and she shows it by swearing and being none too gentle as she cleans his cuts and sees to his shoulder. He hisses and curses her right back because it wasn’t his fucking fault, and when he’s finally had enough of her ‘ministrations’ he bats her hand away from him. Hard. She narrows her eyes and swings at him and it says a lot about her state of mind that he sees it coming a mile away and easily stops the punch by grabbing her wrist. They both freeze for a split second, breathing hard, before Natasha’s crashing her mouth viciously into his, and Clint’s responding in kind. They’ve practically torn each other’s clothes off by the time they stumble onto the bed.
It’s more of a brawl than anything else; both wrestling for dominance, neither willing to give up control. In the end, after rolling and scrapping for long minutes, Clint swears and rears back onto his knees, pulling her with him so she’s in his lap. She settles then, and things even out; her riding him deep and him finally getting his mouth on hers the ways he so desperately wants. It’s not long before Clint’s body is protesting the position - his thighs burn and the bruises are making themselves known - but he ignores it, afraid to disrupt the fragile equilibrium. He comes before her, but he stays where he is, holding her tight and letting her grind against him until she’s coming with hiccupping breaths against his shoulder. He gives her a handful of seconds to come down and then loosens his hold so she can slide off of him and onto her back on the bed. He falls onto his back next to her and they’re both still panting when he grins at her. She rolls her eyes, but a second later a grin spreads across her face as well and she laughs.
Clint props himself up on his side and gently places one hand on her ribs as he leans in and catches her mouth in a sweet kiss.
“That was…” she says, uncharacteristically imprecise.
“A long time coming?” he suggests, and she laughs.
“Sure, that works,” she says before she pointedly pushes him over onto his back, reversing their positions. Clint tenses momentarily, but then relaxes again when she tucks into his side. “Don’t do that again,” she murmurs quietly a few moments later.
He squeezes her arm and they both drift off into dreamless sleep.
The next day, when Clint finds scratches and bruises on himself that he’s pretty sure came from Nat and not the fall, it’s unsettling. Distant, unpleasant memories of the Swordsman threaten, but his brain does some nimble backflips to dismiss them because, well, this is Nat, not Duchesne, and Clint can tell the difference.
***
Clint’s a little surprised – though glad - to find not much changes. Their relationship continues to be what it was – smooth and easy in the field, relaxed and close out of it - they just add sex. They don’t advertise the change and no one notices anything. Except Coulson, of course, because he notices everything. One day, a couple weeks later, Clint and Nat are in Coulson’s office laughing about something and he catches Phil do a double take and blink at them, then just smiles and returns to concentrating on his computer screen. When he never says anything about it, Clint takes it as tacit approval.
They still work together seamlessly, but now when they’re home, or in a safehouse without Coulson, more often than not, they share a bed.
The sex is good. But also… not so good. The wrestling matches continue; neither of them wants to cede control to the other, and when, sometimes, Nat finally gives in and lets Clint lead, he always feels a pang of guilt about it. He suspects she feels the same when he relents and gives over control to her. He knows for sure that when he does and she’s pressing into him from above, there’s an omnipresent ripple of panic just under his skin. She always sets a fast pace but he still needs to get out from beneath her as quickly as possible, so more often than not, he snakes a hand down between her legs to help her finish faster.
They just have to find their groove, Clint thinks. It’ll get better.
It doesn’t.
Clint knows that Phil’s made a point to stay out of it. They’re both adults and SHIELD doesn’t have a policy against fraternization; as long as their working relationship doesn’t suffer, Phil won’t get involved. Problem is, Clint could use some involvement.
“Have you even been in a relationship with someone you really care about, but part of it just doesn’t… fit?” Clint asks Phil over patty melts at their favorite diner, ten weeks after he and Nat start sleeping together.
Phil blinks at the question. Clint waits while he thinks about it, hoping Coulson has an answer; if anyone will, it’s Phil.
Phil hesitates, then “No, I don’t think I have.” He looks like he regrets the answer.
Clint nods vaguely. “Oh, okay. Never mind,” he says lightly.
Phil tips his head slightly, a worried crease forming between his brows. “Is everything okay, Clint? Are you and Natasha—"
“Yeah, yeah,” Clint quickly interrupts. “Everything’s fine. Just, you know,” he shrugs and smiles, a fair facsimile of the real thing. “Nat and I are still working out our kinks.” Clint winces. “That didn’t come out the way I intended.”
Phil smiles. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Nah. It’s no big deal. We’re good.” He grins and changes the subject. Phil lets him get away with it, but Clint can see the trace of concern on his face.
*
They end up having a lot of oral sex, which, well, it’s oral sex, so, it’s not bad. But it’s not what either of them really wants.
Clint craves intimacy. He wants to tuck into Natasha from above where he can kiss her and kiss her and kiss her until they both tumble over the edge. Clint cares for Nat, and since he’s not always great at using his words, it’s how he can show her. But he needs to be on top, to feel in control, because his years under the Swordsman’s ‘tutelage’ have left a residual stain.
Natasha wants to throw Clint on his back and pin his wrists to the bed while she fucks him hard and fast. She trusts him – implicitly – but there’s still a part of her that’s permanently ruined by the Red Room. Sex will always be a tool for her, and she can’t relax into it unless she’s on top and in control. Natasha cares for Clint, but for her, that’s beside the point.
One of them can never be happy, and more often than not, neither of them is, entirely. It’s exhausting to always hold yourself in check, to not be able to let instinct take over and just enjoy the moment. It wears on Clint and he figures it must wear on Natasha too, but he doesn’t know what to do about it. As the months go by, it doesn’t get any easier for either of them.
Their frustration is palpable sometimes. But as hard as it can be, their connection is undeniable. They’re a great team and he can’t imagine his life without her. He may have his doubts about the long-term viability of this kind of relationship, but he doesn’t know how to un-ring this particular bell. He worries a lot but he keeps trying, because, what else can he do? If he’s honest, he’s terrified he’ll hurt her more if he tells her than if he just keeps going along with things the way they are, and the last thing Clint wants to do is hurt Nat.
***
Nearly a year after they start sleeping together, Natasha and Clint and Phil all get separated from one another on a drug cartel surveillance mission in the jungles of Colombia. SHIELD R&D gave them prototype radios for communication, but while they worked perfectly in tests, they completely failed in the field. The three of them lose touch and Clint can’t remember ever feeling so frantic, not knowing for days if Nat and Phil are alive. Judging by their expressions when they find each other after four days, they’ve been feeling the same.
They make it to their exfil and on the flight to Panama they’re all too tired to talk. As soon as they’re alone in their temporary quarters in Panama City, Clint grabs Nat and wraps her in his arms, squeezing like he’s never going to let her go, and if he had his way, he wouldn’t. Nat allows it for all of five seconds before she breaks the embrace and pushes him down onto the bed. She’s on him instantly, seeking her own reassurance that they’re still alive.
The clash is unprecedented. They’re both frightened, relieved, desperate for contact, but after days of feeling helpless, they each need to feel in control and neither is able to surrender to the other. Things escalate badly until they finally give up, panting and frustrated. They lie together, close but not touching - the six-inch space between them a gaping wound, too ragged and wide to knit together. Clint barely sleeps and he suspects the same of Natasha, but they don’t talk, either.
They stumble into the mess at the SHIELD facility the next morning before their scheduled debrief and find Coulson sitting at a table staring bleary-eyed at a file. He’s in the same suit he had on when they parted and his hair looks like he hasn’t run a comb through it in days. He’s slugging back coffee like there’s no tomorrow. He looks up briefly when they sit down in the chairs across from him and his expression carries residual relief. He gives them a wan smile before he returns to studying the pages in front of him. As little sleep as Clint and Nat got, and as tense as they both are, Phil looks worse.
They sit in silence drinking coffee but given how on-edge they are, Clint and Nat inevitably start picking at each other: he’s hogging the salt; she didn’t leave him enough cream.
Phil drops his face into his hands. “For God’s sake,” he groans, shaking his head a couple of times before he looks up at them. “I’ve never in my life seen two people have unresolved sexual tension after they’ve started having sex. Has it occurred to you that this isn’t working? Or that maybe you need to consider a different approach?”
Clint’s coffee cup stops midway from the table to his mouth. Next to him, Natasha has gone still as well.
“Like?” she asks slowly, almost sounding amused. Beside her, Clint’s cup finally shifts out of neutral and makes its way to his mouth, but Phil's outburst is so uncharacteristic that Clint's still gaping at him in shock so he sets it back down without taking a sip.
Phil’s eyes are a little wild when he says, “Like, like… friends without benefits, or platonic life partners, or an open relationship. I don’t know! You two figure it out. But figure something out, because whatever you’re doing, it’s clearly not working.”
Clint shifts uncomfortably because he knows Coulson is right, and after the previous night, he already suspects that if they keep going the way they are, it’s likely to end badly. He’s trying to work out how he could possibly say that to her when she nudges him with her elbow. He looks at her and she’s quirking one eyebrow up at him in question.
Across from them, Phil has tensed and flushed bright red. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry. That was completely inappropriate. I apologize,” he says, staring uncomfortably down at his coffee cup.
Natasha stretches her arm across the table and tugs the cup away from him. “Phil?” she says with mild amusement, “Go get some sleep.”
He blinks at them a couple of times. “Yes. That’s a good idea. Wheels up at 1200 hours. We’ll debrief on the plane.”
Clint watches Phil leave, then turns to Natasha, who’s looking at him speculatively.
“He’s right,” she says easily.
Clint nods. He’s relieved he wasn’t the one to have to say it first, but he figures the least he can do is meet her half-way. “Yeah. I’m sorry.” He gives her a half-smile and when she gives him a full one in return, it’s bittersweet. “So… what does this mean?”
“Well,” Natasha says. “I liked the sound of ‘platonic life partners’.”
The knot in his chest loosens. Clint likes the sound of it, too.
***
A week after Phil opened his mouth and inserted his foot, Clint sits down across from Phil in his office and sets a small, velvet box in front of Phil, on top of a stack of files on the desk. Phil stares for a few seconds then looks at Clint, who is chewing nervously on his bottom lip.
“I appreciate the gesture, Clint, but I’m not sure I’m ready for this type of commitment,” Phil deadpans.
Clint snorts, relaxing a little. “It’s not for you.”
Phil’s mouth goes dry and his stomach clenches because while he’s never seriously considered crossing the handler/asset line, he’s harbored some feelings for his agent since the first time Clint had given him a genuine smile, about six months after SHIELD brought him in. The reaction is ridiculous because it’s not like he hasn’t been fully aware that his two agents have been sleeping together for nearly a year. But this would make it undeniably real. And it would mean his deeply repressed fantasy about a ‘him-and-Clint’ would need to be put out of mind altogether. “For Natasha?” he asks as smoothly as he can.
“Yeah.” Clint nods, his eyes bouncing back and forth from the box to Phil.
It’s obvious he intends for Phil to open the box, but he can’t bring himself to. “You’re… going to propose?”
Clint rolls his eyes, then sits forward and snatches the box back, opens it, then returns it to the same spot on the files, facing Phil.
His relief is enormous. It’s not a ring. It’s a necklace: silver and delicate, with a small arrow interrupting the chain. Phil can’t stop the smile from tugging up his lips- he’s relieved, but it’s also a sweet gesture. Phil has a sudden, easy, realization that he doesn’t just ‘have feelings’ for Clint, but he’s probably a little bit in love with him.
Phil picks up the box to look more closely. “Where did you get it?”
Clint honest-to-god blushes. “I, uh… I saw it in a shop down in SoHo. Seemed like a good ‘platonic life partner’ gift.”
Phil suspects it wasn’t quite that simple - that Clint probably had it specially made – but he ignores that because he’s more surprised at the other reveal. “Platonic life partners?”
Clint shrugs. “You were right. We weren’t working as ‘that’ kind of couple.”
Phil stares at the necklace for another couple of seconds before closing the box and placing it back on the desk. “I’m sorry, Clint.”
Clint waves him off. “Don’t be. We both knew it wasn’t working. It just took you saying it for us to admit it to each other.”
Phil’s face must betray the fact that he’s horrified that what he’d said may have been the catalyst for their shift in relationship, because Clint derails him immediately. “Stop it, Phil,” he says. “It wasn’t your fault. I told you months ago that we didn’t fit. This is us just finally admitting it. We’re both good with it, I promise.”
The next time he sees Natasha she’s wearing the necklace, and except for missions, she never takes it off. Phil hangs on to his guilt for a couple more weeks, until it’s clear they both seem perfectly content with their decision and things don’t change between them in any way Phil can see. He can’t help wondering for the nth time what it was these two couldn’t do for each other, but he reminds himself again that its none of his business.
***
Where Clint and Natasha had crashed together like meteors on a collision course, Clint and Phil don’t so much collide, as they move inexorably into tighter and tighter orbit around each other until they’re so close there’s no room left to deny what they feel.
Almost two years after his agents determine they’re better together as partners and not partners, Phil and Natasha find Clint in a grimy basement in Vilnius, Lithuania, following a two-day search.
“Coulson,” Natasha says, her voice low and furious as she darts across the room. He’d kicked in the door and she’d entered first, gun and flashlight raised.
He sees what she’s seen as soon as he steps across the threshold – Clint, lying on his side, naked and his body discolored with so many bruises that in the dim light it almost appears as though he’s wearing dark clothing. Phil’s body’s gone numb as he crosses the room to where Natasha is murmuring softly to Clint as she sizes up his restraints. Clint’s trying to open his eyes but can’t because they’re swollen shut.
“Bout time,” Clint manages, but if Phil hadn’t seen the tiny movement of his lips, he wouldn’t have believed the words came from his agent’s mouth because the sound that comes out is a raw, cruel mockery of the voice he’s so fond of.
Phil kneels in front of him. “Well, we did stop for coffee,” he manages, falling back on deadpan to mask other, less comfortable emotions. Clint snorts his amusement but that quickly turns into a grimace. “Easy, Clint,” Phil tells him, laying a gentle hand on Clint’s shoulder. He flinches under the touch and Phil jerks his hand away.
Natasha’s pulled out a knife to cut the thick plastic zip-ties that are pretty much impossible to release any other way. They’ve dug deeply into Clint’s arms and legs. She makes quick work of the ties on his wrists - ignoring Clint’s cry of pain because they have to come off regardless - and moves on to his ankles. Clint moans loudly as he shifts to move his arms in front of himself. Phil wants to help him, but stops himself, afraid he’ll cause more pain. Clint reaches out blindly, grasping the bottom of Phil’s shirt, just above his belt. “Can’t see you,” he whispers, fingers digging in hard.
“I’m right here,” Phil tells him unnecessarily as he settles his right knee next to Clint’s head and gently directs it to rest there to relieve the awkward angle of his neck. He places one hand lightly on the crown of Clint’s head, the other he drops to his own left knee because everywhere else on Clint’s body looks like it will hurt to touch.
Natasha swears in Russian when Clint lets out a high-pitched keen as she works to sever the zip-tie around his ankles. Phil’s seen Clint in all kinds of pain over the years, but he’s never heard a sound like that come from his asset. “Clint?” Phil asks, working hard to keep his voice from betraying his growing panic.
“Injected me with something,” Clint grits out. “Hurts,” he adds with a protracted whimper.
Phil sweeps his flashlight over Clint’s arms and he can make out three distinct injections sites in the crook of one elbow. Over Clint’s head, Natasha shoots Phil a worried look before she finally succeeds in slicing through the zip-tie on Clint’s legs. They jostle a little as they release and his body goes rigid before he moans.
“Easy, Clint,” Phil tries to sooth, then sees shivers wrack though Clint’s body. It’s February in Eastern Europe and the basement is dank and cold but they couldn’t take the time to get Clint dressed even if they had any clothes for him; they hadn’t exactly been discreet as they’d blasted their way into the AIM stronghold. Clint shudders violently and Phil curses under his breath as Natasha maneuvers around behind Clint and gives Phil a single nod.
“I’m sorry Clint, but we’ve got to move you,” Phil tells him, trying to keep his voice calm and steady as he carefully unpins Clint’s fingers from his own shirt. It earns him a disgruntled sound. “The jet’s not far.” Despite the cold, he can see a sweat breaking across Clint’s body and much as he wishes they could wait for medical attention, they can’t stop because reinforcements are certainly coming. Clint nods minutely, grim but accepting.
He and Natasha each take an arm and lift him, then Phil bends and scoops Clint into a bridal carry, following Natasha as she leads with her gun sweeping in front of them. Phil can hear and feel Clint’s labored breathing, the way it catches in his throat and sounds disconcertingly wet. Just before they get to the jet, he turns his head and dry heaves several times and by the end, he’s significantly paler than he was before.
“Agent, get us moving,” Phil orders tightly. It’s not necessary; Natasha’s already on her way to the cockpit and she has them off the ground faster than Phil thought possible. Phil could put Clint on the medical gurney – probably should - but he doesn’t even consider it. Instead he puts a cushion and a couple of blankets on the floor beneath them, wraps Clint in a couple more, then puts his own back against the wall and Clint between his legs, resting against his chest. The jet’s cold and Clint’s still shivering, but Phil’s careful not to squeeze him at all because that will just hurt him more and Phil’s already going to have to scrub his brain to try to forget the agonized sounds Clint’s been making.
“Do you know what they gave you?” Phil asks, once they’re safely in the air.
“No,” Clint whispers and shakes his head minutely. “Sadistic bastards… shot me up ‘n hit me… never felt anything like this,” he says, his voice choked and strained. His face contorts and he arches his back, but that itself seems to cause renewed agony. “Hurts to talk,” he whispers again after he’s settled a little.
“Then don’t,” Phil tells him. “Don’t talk, Clint. Just rest.”
Clint makes a disgruntled noise.
“What?” Phil asks softly.
“Can’t see you,” Clint repeats his earlier complaint.
“I know. I’m sorry,” Phil says as he gently places his right hand back on Clint’s head. His left hand he carefully sets in Clint’s left hand, letting him decide if he wants to grip it. He does, loosely. Truthfully, Phil’s glad Clint can’t see his face because it would give him away in a heartbeat.
“Phil,” Clint rasps as he shifts minutely then groans.
“I’m here,” Phil murmurs.
“Phil, I…” Clint’s head is leaning against Phil’s shoulder and the pressure increases as Clint’s words cut off.
“Shh. It’s okay. We’ve got you now.” Phil wishes Clint would just fall asleep or pass out or something – anything that might give him some relief. He doesn’t, and Phil feels every tremor and gasp for the entire flight.
It’s nearly three hours to the closest SHIELD facility that has a medical unit that might be equipped to deal with an unknown situation like they’re facing. By the time Natasha sets the jet down, Clint’s frighteningly pale and sweating profusely, though he doesn’t seem to have a fever.
It’s not until Phil is alone in his temporary quarters at the SHIELD facility several hours later that he sits on his bed and quietly has a nervous breakdown.
***
Twenty-four hours after they’d gotten Clint to the hospital, the doctors have assured Phil and Natasha that whatever it was he’d been injected with has cleared his system. He’s still a black and blue mess, though, so they’ve given him pain relievers and sedatives to help him sleep. Phil’s sitting in the surprisingly comfortable hospital chair next to Clint’s bed while Natasha stands by his side, gently carding one hand through Clint’s hair, her other hand fingers the tiny arrow around her neck.
“What are you waiting for?” Natasha asks quietly, clearly talking to Phil, though she hasn’t taken her eyes from Clint.
Phil could play ignorant, but there’s no point in doing that with Natasha – they know each other too well. “I honestly don’t know,” Phil tells her. Then a moment later, confesses, “I think I’m afraid it won’t work with me either, and I’m not sure I could handle that as gracefully as you did.”
“That won’t be a problem,” she tells him.
“You sound very sure.”
“Because I am.” She finally turns to face him. “Don’t wait anymore.” She glances back over her shoulder where Clint is beginning to stir, then leaves them alone in the room.
Phil watches Natasha leave, then stands and takes her place next to Clint.
***
The first time Clint stays the night at Phil’s (which, ridiculously, is more than a month later because Phil’s being chivalrous and overprotective of Clint’s injuries), Clint can’t deny that he’s a little tense in anticipation of how things might go, worried that he and Phil will have the same complications as he and Natasha did. His brain skitters away from that possibility every time the fear starts to take hold, because since that first kiss in the hospital, Clint’s begun to admit to himself that he’s in love with Phil. Yes, he’d loved Nat – still does – but he’s in love with Phil.
But it’s different with Phil from the very start. It’s not frantic, it’s just… simmering heat that has him shivering as he responds to Phil’s touch without having to fight his instincts. It’s slow and deliberate and by the time they get their clothes off and make it onto the bed, Clint’s skin is singing and they’re both panting with anticipation. Clint subtly leads them so they’re lying on their sides where they stay for several long moments as they explore each other. Phil’s touch is gentle as his fingers skim down Clint’s chest to his cock. He gives a few teasing tugs, all the while, nipping at Clint’s mouth. When their touches grow more heated and purposeful, Phil rolls them so he’s hovering above as he pushes his mouth down onto Clint’s with more intent.
Clint tries not to, but he feels his body tense involuntarily. Phil feels it too and stops, then starts to pull away. Clint doesn’t let him; instead he shifts their momentum and rolls them so he's on top, caging Phil’s head between his arms. He watches Phil, waiting for his reaction, but there is none and Phil doesn’t resist at all. Cint searches Phil’s face and sees a flicker of confusion, quickly replaced by understanding. Phil smiles and Clint relaxes, and a second later, Clint’s being pulled down into a wet and dirty kiss.
It’s perfect.