Work Text:
It begins in a safe house in a dead end part of Canada, with snow up to the windows, and Coulson’s steady, strong hands wrapping a bandage around Clint’s wrist. Clint remembers with painful accuracy, the way the moonlight fell through the cracks in the blinds, the dust on the top of the dresser and the tables, the tension in his shoulders when Coulson offered him a back rub.
“A massage sir?” Clint grins. “As long as I get a happy ending.” Coulson just quirks an eyebrow at him, completely unimpressed. Clint pulls his shirt off and gets the feeling that Coulson is watching.
It’s not too out of character, Coulson’s always taken care of his assets, and he’s not going to let him miss a shot just because his shoulders are sore. The tightness in his muscles isn’t from shooting, but he’s not telling Coulson that. There’s a cool breeze through a crack in the window and Clint shivers, and Phil’s eyes are deep and dark and his hands are warm on Clint’s skin.
And if Clint had known what was coming, if Coulson had warned him that he was going to do something wonderful and terrible, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe Clint could have squared his shoulders and recollected his thoughts and maybe cracked a joke. He could have pressed his hands into fists and held back what he wanted to do, and focused on what he should do, and they could have avoided each other for a week or two and gone back to square one. Crisis averted.
Instead, Coulson’s breath is warm against the back of his neck, and when Clint turns his head to look at his handler, he’s thrown off guard by an expression of longing. Phil’s eyes are blue, his lips are dry, and Clint has a moment of clarity before those lips are on his. He’s wanted this for too long for him to say no—
After all, this is Phil, who always wears pressed suits and fashions weapons out of paperclips, who has the bluest eyes and the sweetest, quietest smile he’s ever seen, who loves Captain America and antiquing and classical music. Phil who is married, to a cellist with long legs and infinite patience, and apparently more trust than he deserves.
Even then, Clint can’t feel anything but need.
“Sir…” he breathes. Clint tries to compose himself, but his nerves are on fire. He prides himself on seeing straight, but Coulson is much, much too close for that. Coulson straightens his back, turns his face away. There’s something painful and heavy on his brow.
“I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.”
“I don’t mind inappropriate,” he replies, trying to crack a smile. There’s only two of them in the room, in the house, in the forty square miles around the safe house. It’s only them, and their secrets, and if Clint turns off the lights and Phil growls into his mouth and reaches for his pants, it’s their own shame to carry.
Phil falls asleep sticky and satisfied, one arm over Clint, who’s curled into his side. Clint can’t help but wonder, is this how sleeps with his wife, her cheek on his chest, his arm around her waist?
None of this was completely unpredictable. Clint has known, for longer than he’d like to admit, that he’s a little too close, a little too raw, when it comes to Coulson. Coulson who fills his forms out with a fountain pen and drinks too much coffee, who put his hand on Clint’s knee on the flight back from Sarjevo and rubbed his shoulders when Clint slumped in his seat.
None of this was unpredictable, but that doesn’t mean it was inevitable either.
--
They fall into a pattern. Coulson works late, later than he should, and Clint comes to him when all the junior agents have left. Most nights he comes with anticipation burning in his belly, some nights he comes a little buzzed, so he can forget why he’s doing this. But tonight, he comes bearing coffee and donuts and perches on the edge of Coulson’s desk. It’s nice, almost domestic. It soothes the nauseous, dark feeling that Clint’s been harboring, that has been digging at him. Coulson talks to him about things he can’t talk to other people about: he talks to Clint about missions, about an antique store near their next target.
“Clint,” he says, the way he does only after hours, with the blinds closed and the door shut and all the surveillance off. “Thank you for the coffee. And the company. It’s nice being able to talk about work with someone who understands it.”
And Clint thinks of Coulson’s wife. He’s never talked to her, but she probably loves antiquing. She probably loves Coulson too. But she’s a civilian, a musician. She wouldn’t understand these missions.
“Does that make me your work wife sir?” he asks, cracking a lazy smile and biting into a donut. He expects Coulsons half-smile, the crinkles in the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t expect him to freeze up, dig his hands into the arms of the chair.
“I have a lot of work to do. You should probably go.” Coulson says. He’s back to being a suit, his face is bland and expressionless, and damnit, at this point, Phil has no right to do this to him.
“With all due respect sir, I don’t think I should.” And this time, he pushes Phil back into his chair. Coulson drops his donut and licks into this kiss. He tastes like powdered sugar and he’s not smiling against Clint’s lips.
It’s a little rough, and Clint shoves some papers on the floor to make room. It’s not fair to anyone, when Phil pulls him close. Clint bites a bruise into Phil’s collarbone and hopes to god his wife sees it.
Clint leaves Coulson’s office some time after midnight, cracking the door shut behind him and nodding respectfully at Coulson, who is buttoning up his shirt and neatening up his paperwork. Clint’s heart is pounding against his ribcage, but he’s used to the adrenaline, the rush that comes from avoiding capture, the nausea that comes from slow-burning guilt.
He’s one of the best agents S.H.I.E.L.D. has. No one can catch him here. He gives Coulson one last kiss, chaste and longing, and wishes that they could.
--
It’s worse when Coulson’s not around. Clint goes on missions, sometimes by himself, sometimes with Natasha, and he executes them like the professional he is. He tries to avoid Natasha’s eyes during debriefing, and ends up just avoiding Natasha, as much as one can avoid the Black Widow.
There are long stretches of silence, empty days when he’s supposed to be recovering from a mission, or prepping for one. Instead, he goes up, perches on the tops of buildings and makes himself comfortable in the ventilation system, biting back another wave of nausea.
Phil’s confused. He doesn’t know what he wants.
Neither does Clint.
--
They get sent to New Mexico. The nights are long and dark and hot. Coulson doesn’t have anything to watch right now, Clint just finished his shift.
“Walk with me Barton.” His words are clipped, his face blank. Clint nods and falls in step, a safe distance between them, where he can’t feel the electricity between their fingers.
It’s not until they’re away from the facility, out of eyeshot and earshot that Coulson stops. He turns to Clint, and Clint aches. There’s exhaustion on Phil’s shoulders, guilt in the lines around his eyes. He loosens his tie and looks up at the moon, shining overhead like a beacon.
“Phil?” Clint asks quietly, as if someone could hear, could sense the breach of etiquette that was happening here. He sits down on a large rock, looks up at his handler.
Coulson sits next to him, laces his fingers in between his. Clint rubs his thumb against Phil’s knuckles soothingly. There’s something on his mind. These days, there always is.
“Clint… would we still be doing this, if I was…” Phil starts, quietly and steadily
“…was what?” Clint asks. There’s apprehension bubbling in his stomach. He doesn’t want to know what he’s about to ask. Coulson shrugs, and Clint knows that he’s the only one who can see the helplessness in that movement, at this moment.
“Single.”
Clint freezes. He knows the answer, because how could they not? How could Clint not be in love with Phil in any world, any universe, where he had the opportunity to be? How could Phil ever think that Clint wanted him because he was… married, because he was taken?
Phil starts to pull his fingers out of Clint’s grasp. Clint isn’t having any of that, even if he can’t get the words out.
“Phil… of course. God. Just, don’t ask stupid questions.” The desert wind is hot even late at night. Clint loosens up Coulson’s collar, breathes in the smell of his cologne, and is suddenly, irrationally angry.
“It’s not a stupid question. It made you think.” Phil replies, mistaking Clint’s long silence for contemplation.
“If you ask questions like that, I swear I’m going to fucking get up and leave.” Clint doesn’t unlace his fingers from Coulson’s but he can’t look at him, can’t see the tenderness and vulnerability that flashes through Phil’s eyes. God, what is he doing here?
Phil doesn’t say anything else. He just kisses Clint in the moonlight, long and slow and strained, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. Clint opens the top few buttons on his shirt, kisses his jaw and his throat, and feels Phil’s hands around his waist, holding him tight like he’s the only thing he can reach.
They hear a siren call from the base, and Phil pulls away, straightens his tie, and doesn’t look at Clint when he walks back.
--
It’s a week later. Clint’s in the break room getting another cup of coffee, because he’s tired and hasn’t been sleeping well, and needs to stay alert. One of the junior agents is muttering something about Coulson, so of course Clint needs to pause, listen closely.
“…I feel bad for his wife, almost. She’s a nice lady. I wouldn’t cheat on a woman that pretty.” The agent is saying. Clint’s grip on the coffee cup is too tight.
“I don’t think Agent Coulson would do something like that. He’s a good guy,” the other agent says uncomfortably, as if she knows Clint is listening.
“Good guys can do bad things. And Coulson’s kind of a dick—“
Clint decks him. They make him get a psych evaluation and he doesn’t say anything, just sits grim-faced in his chair and wishes he could tell someone.
--
Coulson’s fallen asleep at his desk. Not enough coffee, and too much work. Clint sneaks in, and looks at Phil’s face, the tired lines, the thinning hair. He looks ten years younger. Clint thinks he’s beautiful.
When Phil wakes up, Clint kisses his knuckles and he looks at him, tensely, longingly. Phil pushes him up against the wall, his eyes blue and wanting, his wedding ring gleaming under the florescent lights.
Clint knows that this is something they should stop. He considers it sometimes, when Coulson’s not around. He imagines what he would say: ‘Me or her Phil. This isn’t fair to anyone.’
He imagines forcing Phil to make that decision, but he never follows through.
He’s scared to death that Coulson won’t choose him.
--
He’s avoiding Coulson when Loki comes. Clint’s been avoiding him for a few days now. He’s been hoping that the distance will clear his mind somehow, make him realize what he really wants…. And what he should do instead.
Loki clears Clint’s mind all right. He clears everything.
(And later on, Clint will be sick to his stomach thinking about it. But right now, for the first time in months, Clint knows what he wants and what he’s going to do about it. There is no guilt, that all comes later.)
--
He knows, in the back of his mind, in the rush and heat of battle, that something is missing. Phil’s voice, low and steady, isn’t there to ground him, to persuade him not to make a stupid jump, or to tell him to take a shot.
Phil isn’t there at all. Clint swears he’ll visit him as soon as this is over, because fuck, he didn’t realize how much he wanted him till just now. It feels a little bit like freedom, realizing what he’s finally going to ask of Phil—what he needs from Phil.
--
The dust clears. Phil is still gone. Finally, much too late, Natasha tells him why.
And after four months and two weeks of sneaking around and hiding and feeling sick to his stomach, four months and two weeks of touching Phil and lying about it and avoiding his best friend because he can’t stand to see judgment, or even worse pity, in her eyes, four months and two weeks of regretting his decisions and being completely, utterly unable to say no and feeling sick to his stomach,
Clint finally throws up.
Phil’s dead anyway. There’s no one left to impress.
--
Coulson’s wife was a patient, understanding woman, and now she’s a patient, understanding widow. She couldn’t know much about what Phil did, for her own safety, but she wants his coworkers at the funeral anyway.
She speaks over his grave and cries, and Clint thinks that she is impossibly beautiful, and he is impossibly selfish, and all he wants is Phil.
There is cello music as they lower the casket into the ground.
--
The widowed Mrs. Coulson gets his dog tags and his suits and the compensation money. Clint snuck into Phil’s office though, stole his sunglasses and the coffee mug Clint bought him.
Clint still has a pair of Phil’s cufflinks he kept from one night when the sex was slow and sweet and he still thought that he could do this.
Phil’s wife still wears her wedding ring.