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The engines of the Quinjet hum low and reassuring, a warm, dark sound that feels almost as much like home as the Helicarrier.
Clint glances at the tablet in Coulson’s lap next to him and watches it dip once, twice, before he shakes his head awake again. The same thing happens again and again, a manifestation of the exhaustion Clint feels in his bones but can’t manage to send to his brain. They’ve all been awake for the best part of three days, and Clint ought to catch some shut-eye before debrief like the two softly snoring agents opposite, but instead, he’s transfixed by Phil Coulson bravely fighting off the alluring pull of sleep.
When the tablet goes into standby mode in Coulson’s hands, Clint carefully slips it out of his fingers and places it in the bag by his feet. When he sits back up, Coulson slowly tips towards him with his eyes closed and his head dipped forward, landing against Clint’s shoulder too gently to knock the breath out of him the way it does. Clint figures he’ll wake up and apologise before rearranging himself, but he doesn’t.
Clint’s so tired there are black edges around everything, but he stays still and silent and alert, infinitely aware of the warm weight pressed to his side. Another couple of hours watching his handler’s back; he can do that.
When they land, he pretends to be asleep when Coulson wakes up, but he still shivers at the rush of cool air that gives him goosebumps when he moves away.
-
Barton turns up at Phil’s office door with bandages covering half his shooting arm and a black eye. The usual. At least he’s been to medical.
“Come in,” Phil says, and Barton tosses a curled up sheaf of forms on the desk before flopping onto the couch.
“I gotta do one of those -” he yawns mid-sentence “- blue forms, but I can’t find one, you got a spare?”
Phil rifles through the drawer of a filing cabinet and finds one, grabbing a legal pad to lean it on before turning back. “You can do this later-” he starts to say, but Barton’s already asleep.
-
Phil has two dozen recruitment packets to read through and an injured agent he needs to check on, so he decides to kill two birds with one stone and takes the box of papers down to medical.
Barton’s leg is in traction. He’s sleeping and despite the butterfly stitches over one eyebrow and the drip going into his arm, he looks as peaceful as he always does when he’s asleep. Something about the scene makes Phil’s heart clench. It’s his job to make sure his assets don’t end up hurt like this.
He settles in a chair and pulls out the first file, readies his tablet to make notes. It’s tedious work, but if Barton wakes up Phil can ask his opinion on the potential new recruits, which always makes it more fun.
That’s the idea anyhow. As it is, Phil’s distracted by the relaxing sound of Barton’s not-quite-snores and finds himself fighting to stay awake.
It’s been a long couple of days.
-
Clint drags his fingernails down Phil’s back, gasping into his shoulder as Phil pumps into his body, power and speed and the heavy force of something that’s long been growing between them pulling them together. Clint holds on tight, so hard he knows he’ll leave marks, but he’s glad. Glad to leave a reminder that this is actually happening, and so perfectly, too.
Phil pulls back and finds Clint’s lips so they can kiss again, and Clint feels like he’d fall apart if Phil’s arms weren’t braced either side of him, hemming him in and keeping him there, safe. It’s too much, Clint can barely meet Phil’s eye for fear he’ll not like what he sees, so he pulls him down on top of him again, arms tight around his body.
Phil drags it out, speeding up and slowing down, never letting Clint quite find the rhythm that would finish him off til he holds on and rolls them over so he can ride Phil instead, find a crumb of control over himself so he can come, gasping and crumpling down over Phil as he rides him through his own orgasm. He watches the way Coulson’s eyes shutter closed and the way his forehead wrinkles as he shakes and grasps at Clint, shuddering and pulling him back down for another hungry kiss.
Clint should pull off and go clean up, but he can’t move, not when Coulson’s between his legs looking perfectly content and they’re still sharing the same air, his arms wrapped unmoving around Clint’s body.
“I should go,” Clint murmurs, as much to be polite as because he has any real desire to leave. Phil murmurs something of a complaint, but doesn’t move when Clint shifts off of him, letting him fall to one side with an arm still curled over his hip.
“Stay,” Phil says, as if it’s that easy. He looks so tired all of a sudden. “Just a little while.”
Clint rests his head on the pillow next to him. Phil pulls him close with an arm over Clint’s hip and falls asleep almost right away, and Clint gets stuck looking at the soft sweep of his eyelashes against his cheek, and he knows that if he moves, the hand on his hip will be gone. So he stays and he watches, and he doesn’t even realise he’s slowly falling asleep.
-
“You sh’ld stay,” Clint giggles, knocking into Phil’s shoulder with his own before barrelling away again. Phil reels him back in with a hand around his waist. He’s never seen him this drunk. “I’ makeya breakf’st.”
“You’re drunk,” Phil replies, ignoring Clint’s noise of approval as Phil tries to extricate his house keys from his back pocket. “I’m going to put you to bed.”
“Soun’s good t’me,” Clint slurs, leaning heavily on Phil’s shoulder to bury his face in his neck. Phil keys open the door and gets them both inside. He deposits Clint on the sofa, leaving him there while he runs to the kitchen for a glass of water and to search out aspirin. He finds one under the kitchen sink along with a veritable stockpile of medical supplies.
He comes back out, and Clint appears to be asleep despite sitting straight up. Phil wakes him up with a hand stroking down one side of Clint’s face, who immediately opens his eyes and grins before pulling Phil close and pressing his face against his belly. “C’n I sleep here?”
Phil pats the back of his head. “No. C’mon, get up.”
Clint whines and holds on tighter.
“Clint.”
“If I let go you’ll leave.”
He’s drunk, so Phil figures Clint won’t hold him to anything he says since he probably won’t remember it. “If you get up and go to bed, I’ll stay,” he lies. There isn’t space in Clint’s little bunk anyway.
Clint looks up and beams, letting go to let Phil help him up, taking the aspirin and water obediently. He doesn’t sway so much when he pulls off his jacket and watches with something Phil can’t think about in his eyes as Phil unties the laces of his boots and pulls them off for him. “You wanna sleep in your jeans?”
Clint quietly says, “Oh. No?”
Phil laughs. “Well, I’m not taking them off.”
“Y’took em off last time.”
Phil doesn’t blush, but his heart does clench a little.
“Get in to bed,” he says, pulling back the covers and trying not to look at Clint in just his jeans.
“But you said.”
“What did I say?”
“You said you’d stay!”
Phil thinks about denying it, but Clint’s looking at him in that way he has, the way he’d looked at him before they’d ended up sleeping together last time.
“Fine,” he says before he can think about it for too long. He can stay for five minutes and then leave.
Clint watches him warily as he takes off his jacket and shucks off his shoes, waiting for him to get on the bed before he joins him as if he doesn’t trust Phil to keep his word. It’s too small for two people really, barely big enough for one, but Clint wrestles with his jeans beneath the covers before cuddling up to Phil and pressing his nose to his neck. He’s hard, an erection pressing against Phil’s thigh, but he seems to fall asleep almost immediately, arms still holding Phil right where he wants him.
“I stayed,” he murmurs against Phil’s neck. It’s barely audible but it makes Phil’s heart beat hard enough he can hear it. When he moves an arm around Clint’s waist, Clint sighs happily and sleepily kisses his neck.
Phil can’t work out how to extricate himself without waking Clint up or at the very least having to talk about things, and Clint’s drunk so it wouldn’t be so much talking as throwing emotions around aimlessly. Having him this close and safe settles something inside Phil that he doesn’t want to examine, so he brushes his fingers up and down Clint’s back in lieu of thinking about anything but the soft sleepy sounds it draws out of him.
He fights it for a long time, but eventually, Phil falls asleep.
-
In the morning, Clint’s hand shoots out to grab Phil’s wrist when he tries to sneak away.
“I said I’d make you breakfast.”
-
There are rose petals everywhere, and it’s meant to be romantic so Clint figures he can’t complain, but still. He stands on one leg to pick one off of the bottom of his foot and Phil takes the opportunity to push him onto the pile on the bed.
“Jerk,” he complains, but it’s a short lived gripe because then Phil’s on top of him licking softly into his mouth.
When they break apart, Clint sighs happily. He’s exhausted.
“I thought that week long op in Gambia left me tired.”
“I know, right?”
“Weddings don’t look this exhausting in the movies.”
Phil nods gravely. “We’ve still gotta have sex, too.”
Clint whimpers. “I never thought I’d say this, but can we do it tomorrow?”
Phil pretends to gasp in distress. “Already bored of me?”
Clint rolls over so he’s gazing down at Phil on his back, surrounded by stupid red petals. “Never.”
Phil yawns and they both laugh before kissing some more. They can kiss as much as they want now. But still. Clint feels like he’s been dragged through a forest.
“Will you hate me forever if I fall asleep right now and wrinkle my suit?”
“Considering how long it took you to find one you didn’t hate, I might be disappointed.”
“‘Disappointed’!? Why don’t you just tear my heart out?”
Phil slips off the bed and finishes peeling the petal off of Clint’s foot before leaning down to kiss it. Clint wriggles his toes in approval. Phil leans up over him and undoes his fly, pulling his pants down as Clint shifts his hips. He props himself up on his elbows to watch Phil hang the pants on a hanger.
“I love you, you know that?”
Phil turns and smiles, rolling his eyes when he realises Clint’s watching him with a bemused look on his face. “If I don’t hang them they’ll get too creased.”
“I know.”
Phil waves the hanger at him. “This is who I am, Clint. This is what you married.”
“I know!”
Phil huffs and rolls his eyes at him. “Take off your jacket before it creases.”
Clint snorts and stands up, undressing and handing everything to Phil to hang in the fancy-ass bag hanger things they have to take everywhere they go. Phil has purple underwear on and Clint has none, and they’re both very appreciative but still too tired to do anything more than hold onto each other and kiss a little before shaking the petals in the direction of the trash can and falling into bed together.
“Always sleep better when you’re around,” Clint whispers against Phil’s neck. Phil runs his hand down Clint’s back, humming in agreement.
“Me too.”