Archive of Our Own ^beta

Before the Avengers Initiative, Phil hadn't had any reason to visit his operatives' homes. They got called in when there was a mission, they stayed on base when they were on alert, and despite their complaints, none of them had ever actually been released from medical before they were safe to be alone. Before medical wanted to release them, yes, but not before they could handle themselves. He'd come close with Barton and Romanoff, if driving them home when they were high on painkillers could be considered close.

The Avengers changed everything. Fury had thought--everyone had thought--that the Initiative would be an occasional, even rare, last line of defense. But Thor had been right when he'd said that Earth had announced it was ready for a higher form of war. Suddenly fending off alien infiltrations (though not whole invasions...usually) and extra-dimensional villains and enhanced humans looking for power or glory became more of a weekly event.

They couldn't afford to leave the team scattered over Earth and Asgard. They needed them on call. So SHIELD picked up a lot of Stark Industries’ contracts, Stark picked up the Avengers' tab, and Phil started making a lot more visits to what became Avengers' Tower, where Tony gave each member of the team a floor to themselves in deference to the fact that they were eternally on call, since there simply wasn't anyone else to take a shift.

With all the Avengers living in one place, and four of the six of them not otherwise affiliated with SHIELD, it soon became apparent that it was much more efficient to send Phil to see them when business arose than it was to try and wrangle them into coming to either SHIELD HQ or the Helicarrier. Privately, Phil thought Fury was playing a psychological card as well: if they only came to the carrier when there was a potential crisis, just being there underlined Fury's authority.

So whenever the routine things--overdue reports, background information packets, PR and a dozen other concerns--came up, Phil was sent on a field trip.

Stark's floor was immaculate, all open spaces and modern furniture and computer interfaces. It was pretty obvious that he spent most of his time bouncing between Stark Tower's ten floors of R&D and the floor he'd reserved as his own private lab, a stand in for his garage in Malibu. That area was a disaster of projects in progress, snack food, and discarded clothing.

Bruce's space was straight out of a catalog. Literally; he hadn't had much opportunity to accumulate possessions the last few years. That would change, Phil figured, but for the moment his floor was even more devoid of personality than Stark's.

Natasha's floor had to be redone twice to get in all the security upgrades she preferred, but Stark was good, so none of them were visible. Nevertheless, the first half the floor, the half that the elevator opened into, was a complete set of public rooms, bedroom included, that would do a hotel proud. Phil knew, because he had helped design the security, that behind those was a second set of rooms which was Natasha's true personal space. He'd never been invited there; he didn't expect he ever would be, no matter how much she trusted him. Natasha had never had a place that could be hers alone, that she felt confident no one else could invade. Stark had bought himself a lot of brownie points by making a place that even he couldn't peek into.

Thor's rooms were the dictionary definition of opulent. He couldn't bring anything from Asgard, but you'd never know it, visiting him. It was all gilt and plush cloth and deep pillows and a dining room that could host a feast (and probably would, one day).

Phil had thought that Steve's rooms would be a time capsule, a haven from this strange new world. Instead, they were a jumble of stuff from a range of sources that made Phil's head spin. It wasn't just the eclectic range of music and DVDs, it was kitchen utensils off infomercials and an actual game console and furniture from IKEA alongside designer dishes and board games and a dozen other things. Steve seemed determined to absorb as much popular culture as he could as quickly as possible, as if he'd accepted a mission and was going to see it through if it killed him. He spent a lot of time on the social floor.

But though Steve's rooms hadn't been what he'd imagined, Phil had only really been surprised by Clint's home.

He knew Stark had remodeled the floor a little, but he hadn't paid much attention to the details, since he hadn't been called in to consult. Stepping off the elevator onto Clint's floor for the first time, he had to blink. On the other floors, the elevator either opened directly into the living room, or into an antechamber of some sort. On Clint's floor, the elevator opened onto a large foyer done up in grass green carpet and lit as bright as day. Phil found himself looking up for a long moment, puzzled, because the ceilings seemed far higher than the other floors, higher than the infrastructure should allow. He stared upwards, and eventually it sank in that the ceiling was covered in a single, seamless screen, apparently for the sole purpose of making the room look larger. Shaking his head, Phil looked back down at the wall facing the elevator. There was only one door in it, of course, which made him wonder, why bother having a foyer at all?

Phil walked up to the door. There was no button for a bell, so he knocked. After a moment, the door swung open and Clint grinned at him. "Hey, Coulson. What's up?"

Phil held up the folders he was carrying while he looked Clint up and down. Clint was barefoot and dressed in tattered blue jeans and a faded black t-shirt. There was mint green paint splattered down one pant leg. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting?"

"Nah," Clint said, taking the folders out of his hand. Phil raised an eyebrow. "Okay, kinda," Clint admitted, "but I don't mind. You want to come in?"

Technically he didn't need to, now that the folders had been delivered, but he was curious, and the invitation seemed sincere. "Alright."

Clint stepped back from the door and waved him in. "You're going to have to take off your shoes. I like my carpet the way it is."

Phil passed inside and found himself in a small tiled area. A wood and brass plaque on the wall reinforced the shoe request. Underneath was a wooden shoe rack. Phil toed out of his loafers and set them down on the top shelf of the rack. The tiled area led into a short hall, the plush carpet giving pleasantly under his socked feet. After a couple yards the hall opened onto a large living room on the left, the wall continuing on the right. About halfway down it was pierced by an arch, and on the far side of the living area the wall became the right side of a hallway again.

Clint was already disappearing into the arch on the right, so Phil followed and found himself in a very large kitchen. The appliances were all stainless steel, the cupboards were faced with a blond wood, the countertops done in pale gray stone. And there were a lot of cupboards, covering two good-sized walls and beneath a kitchen island, as well. To the left the space opened into a spacious area occupied by a table and chairs.

Clint set the folders down on the counter and opened a cupboard. He took down a mug, filled it from a half full coffee carafe on the counter, and held it out to Phil. Phil took it, a little at a loss for words.

Clint took in his expression and laughed, scratching at the back of his neck. "I know, the kitchen is huge," he said. He glanced around it fondly. "I wasn't expecting it, but I guess that's what happens when Tony Stark asks you what would be in your dream kitchen and you actually tell him."

"You have a dream kitchen?" Phil asked. Then he quickly took a sip of the coffee to cover his chagrin at asking such a stupid question. He blinked as the brew hit his tongue--It was very good coffee, far better than the crap they made do with on duty.

Clint smiled and leaned back against the kitchen counter. "Yeah. A whole dream house, actually, but aside from the basic structure, the kitchen is the only part that's done. I had to take a compromise on the 'house' part, but I was always going to have to compromise on that if I wanted to live in the city, and I think Tony got the front door feeling down pretty good, so..." He shrugged.

That explained the foyer. "Why isn't more of it done?" Phil asked. Stark had bent over backwards to get everything ready for the others. Clint waved Phil over to the kitchen table, pausing to pour himself a cup of coffee on the way. The table was about the right size for six people and made of the same blond wood as the kitchen cupboards. There was something that looked exactly like a window next to it, casting a warm light into the room, but Phil knew they were on the interior of the building. StarkTech, no doubt.

"It wouldn't feel like my place if I let someone else put it together for me," Clint said. He slid into the chair kitty corner from Phil and used a spoon to pull the sugar bowl at the center of the table towards himself. Two heaping teaspoons went into his coffee. "I had a hell of a time convincing Tony I didn't want to let contractors handle it. The kitchen was half a concession to Tony and half me not wanting to wait to be able to cook."

Phil managed to swallow the words you cook?, though he guessed from Clint's expression that they showed on his face. "This isn't at all what I expected," he admitted.

Clint chuckled and leaned back in his chair. Between the blond wood and the warm yellow walls and the artificial sunlight pouring through the not-a-window and the scent of coffee, Phil felt like...well, a little like he did on the rare occasions he was able to visit his mother. "Let me guess," Clint said. He paused to take a long sip of his coffee. His eyes half closed as he savored it before he went on. "You figured I'd be holed up in a fortress like Nat. Or maybe living light, like Bruce."

Phil raised a hand and tilted it back and forth. "Somewhere in between."

"I know living on the move for so long hits some folks that way," Clint said, "but it just made me want somewhere to put down roots, you know? That was one of the things that convinced me to sign up with SHIELD. Missions might be all over the place, but there's always a home base to come back to." He rubbed a hand over the table. "I've been collecting things for awhile. Found this sucker in California. Tony actually had to hire movers to get me out of my old place." Clint chuckled. "I think everyone else packed up their worldly belongings in a duffle bag or two."

"I think you're right." Phil nodded at Clint's paint splattered jeans. "So if the place isn't finished, is that what you were in the middle of?"

Clint nodded. "Painting the bathroom." He perked up. "Hey, you want the grand tour?"

Phil couldn't say no to the obvious anticipation on Clint's face and soon found himself padding after Clint and getting a running commentary on every room in the man's new home. Down the hall, past the kitchen and dining area, but on the same side of the apartment, was the master bedroom, carpeted in deep amethyst purple and with pale gray walls. ("Same as my old place. I think Stark laughed for, like, an hour," Clint confessed. "But I really like the color, okay? It's warm and cool at the same time, and kings used to go out decked out in purple. It's fucking noble.") The master bathroom featured a shower that could easily hold two people and a bathtub that looked more like a hot tub.

Then an office, currently furnished from IKEA and largely occupied with home decorating paraphernalia. At the end of the hall was a laundry room, plus an area for storage, empty but for a lonely box of Christmas decorations. Turning to work their way back towards the front of the place, Clint showed off the rooms on the other side of the floor: The guest bathroom, which was the one getting the mint green treatment. The guest bedroom, which was completely unfurnished, obviously a low priority. ("Stark has guest suites," Clint explained. "I want the room, but I doubt I'll need it any time soon." He looked away, then, but not before Phil caught a hint of disappointment.) Then a den ("Or something," Clint said. "I like having a room I can play with.") and finally the living room.

The living room was pretty far along, as works in progress went. The walls were still primer-white, but the carpet was a rich burgundy and there was a matching couch and set of armchairs in a dark grey. There were no windows--or imitation windows--probably because the focal point of the room was a huge flat screen TV hung on one wall, but the room was bright when Clint flipped on the overhead lights.

"This color scheme really didn't work in the old place," Clint said, dropping into one of the armchairs and waving at Phil to take a seat. Phil sat on the couch--easily long enough for even Thor to stretch out on--and set his now-empty coffee mug on the coffee table. "Too dark. But Tony said the new living room was going to be three times the size of the old living room and that it'd probably work. He was right." Clint wrinkled his nose at that, and Phil laughed.

Waving his hand at the room, Phil had to ask. "Is it three times the size?"

Clint nodded, then suddenly looked sheepish. "The sofa set didn't all fit in the old place. I had the sofa in the living room and the other pieces all over the apartment. Sometimes my eyes are bigger than my living space." He looked around the room, which took the sofa set and still had room for a coffee table or two and smiled. "Well, they used to be, anyway."

"It's a nice place," Phil offered. "Even unfinished. You have good taste."

"Thanks," Clint said, pleased. "And hey, thanks for putting up with the grand tour and all. I never really got the chance to show off the old place. I'd hate this place to suffer the same fate, even if Tony has given me a leg up on getting it going."

"Never?" Phil's eyebrows went up. "I would have thought Natasha would have seen it."

Clint shook his head. "I asked her over a few times, but she never took me up on it." His mouth took on a wry tilt. "I think she thought I felt obligated or something, and she was sparing me an invasion of my private space or something. God knows Nat guards her space closely. I think her rooms here have better security than the Helicarrier."

"They do," Phil said dryly. He hesitated, and wished he hadn't finished his coffee. "And I'm sorry. You invited me over, too."

"If you didn't want to..." Clint shrugged. "No need apologize."

"I thought you were being polite," Phil explained. "It was pretty much always after a mission, and half the time I'd just brought you home from medical. What agent really wants to hang out with their handler off the clock, anyway?"

Clint watched him for long enough that Phil had to suppress the urge to look away or fidget. But when he spoke all he said was, "When we're off the clock, you aren't my handler. Though I guess these days it's 'Avengers liaison' instead."

Phil snorted. "These days there's not much off the clock."

"You working now?" Clint asked, tilting his head.

"Did I not just bring you background briefing documents to review?"

"Sure, but that was," Clint checked his watch, "almost an hour ago. Was letting me bend your ear about interior design work for you?"

"No." Phil frowned. It hadn't been work, but he still had that 'on-the-clock' feeling. "I'm not exactly on stand-down, either, though."

Clint drained the last of his coffee, sat forward, forearms braced on his knees, and gestured with the mug. "The problem with our job is that we could get called in any time, from anywhere. It's hard to know when we're working and when we aren't. You gotta do something to tell yourself you're off duty. For me," he tapped his ear, "if I've got my earpiece in, I'm on. I take it out, I'm off."

"But you could still get called in any time," Phil pointed out.

"Sure, but I'm not all keyed up, waiting for it." Clint shrugged. "Takes some practice to teach yourself to let go, but it's worth it. Getting time to recharge makes me sharper on the job, too."

Phil nodded automatically, but honestly, he couldn't remember the last time he hadn't felt vaguely tired.

"You want another coffee?" Clint asked, standing and plucking Phil's mug off the coffee table.

Phil stood, too. He'd really only meant to drop the files off. "No, I should be going."

"Right. Sorry to keep you." Clint looked away.

"No," Phil said quickly. "I really do like the place. But I don't want to impose."

Clint just nodded and walked him to the door.

There was no point in going back to the Helicarrier this late in the day, and the eternal stack of paperwork would still be there tomorrow, so Phil went home. He flicked on the hall light and sighed when the too-dim illumination reminded him that he still needed to buy light bulbs to replace the one that had burnt out. The kitchen and living room lights brightened things up, though.

He wandered into the living room and dropped onto the couch. Picking up the TiVo remote, he paused. He reached up and loosened his tie, then pulled it off. Setting it aside, he undid the top button on his dress shirt. There. Off the clock.

*

Two weeks later, Clint hung back after a debriefing and let the other Avengers disperse. Phil rose from his seat and tucked his tablet under his arm. "Something wrong, Hawkeye?"

"No," Clint said. "We're done, right?"

"Yes," Phil confirmed, glancing after the departing Avengers. That was clear, wasn't it?

"Okay, then." Clint reached up and removed his earpiece. Ah. Off the clock. "So," Clint went on, "I think I have the kitchen Tony built for me figured out. You want to play guinea pig to my cooking efforts?"

Phil automatically started to decline, then caught himself. Clint had a dream kitchen; he wasn't offering to be polite, he wanted to use it. Phil took a second look at Clint. Earpiece or no, there was an edge to him here that he hadn't had when he was at home. As much as Phil appreciated how ruthlessly on-point Clint was when he was on duty, he couldn't help but be curious about the relaxed, warm version of the man he'd met. So he said, "I'd like that," instead.

Clint beamed. "Great! Any allergies? Strong preferences?"

"Ah-- No," Phil said. Clint hadn't had a dish in mind? "I'm not particularly fond of avocado, though."

"Okay," Clint nodded. "I bet you've got stuff to tie up here, yeah? Is eight okay?"

"Eight is fine," Phil replied, mind still working out the timing as Clint said goodbye and left the conference room. Being at Clint's place at eight--just before, really, for courtesy--meant leaving the Helicarrier at seven, given the need to catch a ride down and clear the base that handled their transport. When was the last time he'd left that early? Good Lord, what time had he been eating? Working it out, Phil realized he probably hadn't been managing dinner until after ten, most days, if he didn't eat at his desk. No wonder the junior agents started avoiding him after seven; low blood sugar made him brusque.

Shaking his head, Phil returned to his office and opened his inbox, scanning through his messages and pending files and picking out those that had to be handled before he left. There weren't as many as he expected. He was always trying to clear his inbox, and it never happened; he wasn't used to focusing on what needed immediate attention.

Of course, going to Clint's place immediately after work meant he had to bring his briefcase with him. Ringing the bell with briefcase in hand felt all too much like work.

The door swung open to reveal Clint wearing jeans and a worn Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt. The city printed under the logo was 'Copenhagen'. "Hey," he said, "come on in." He stepped away from the door.

Phil removed his shoes, hesitated, then lay his briefcase on the shoe rack next to them. Off duty, he reminded himself as he followed Clint into the kitchen, and reached up to remove his tie. He rolled it up and stuck it in the pocket of his suit jacket.

There was music playing in the kitchen. Not loud, just background noise, but it was enough that Clint was bobbing his head to the beat as he picked up a whisk and a glass bowl with a puddle of liquid in the bottom. "You've got good timing," he said, turning and leaning against the counter. "I'm basically ready to go. The casserole's just staying hot in the oven." Clint's eyes lingered for a moment on the open collar of Phil's shirt, but he didn't comment.

"Timing is a specialty of mine," Phil said, smiling slightly.

Clint started working the liquid. Glancing around, Phil spotted a larger bowl filled with greens. Salad dressing, then. "Timing's important," Clint agreed. His lips took on a wicked tilt. "Essential to good food, good jokes, and good sex."

Phil returned only a non-committal hum. He wasn't known for any of the above, though admittedly it had been awhile since he tried. He nodded at the bowl Clint was holding instead. "You make your dressing from scratch?"

"I make everything from scratch," Clint said. "Here," he handed the bowl of dressing to Phil and crossed the kitchen to open a pair of cabinet doors that stretched from the floor almost to the ceiling. "You'll get a kick out of this." He opened the doors to reveal a fully stocked pantry and grabbed a Tupperware container. Closing the pantry, he traded Phil for the bowl of dressing.

Phil pried up the lid of the Tupperware and laughed when he realized it was full of dry noodles shaped like stars and Cap shields. "You made these?"

Clint nodded, grinning. "Pasta's not hard, just time consuming."

Phil admired the noodles for a moment longer before resealing them. "You know Campbell did a special edition soup on the 50th anniversary of his disappearance? They just added circles to the stars, though."

"You totally bought it anyway, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Phil admitted. He actually still had a can, unopened.

"What's it like?" Clint asked. "Meeting your childhood hero, I mean."

"Amazing," Phil said automatically. Then he paused, because it was amazing--he'd been so excited he'd been nauseous when they found Cap in the ice, and he'd had to discreetly wipe the nervous sweat off his palms before shaking hands when he'd introduced himself--but once the giddiness had faded... "And kind of like grieving."

Clint's eyebrows went up. "Grieving? I mean, he actually came back from the dead."

"I know, and I'm glad. I really do believe the world could use him. But," Phil shrugged, "Cap was my hero for most of life. I had this--" Phil hesitated to say it, but he couldn't think of a better word, "--this fantasy of him in my head." To his credit, Clint didn't laugh or smirk, just nodded. Phil went on. "My Captain America was everything I needed him to be. Steve Rogers is a real person. He's a good man, he makes a good icon, but he's not my Cap." Phil smiled wryly. "Not to mention that my room full of Captain America memorabilia has gone from being a proud collection to something that makes me feel vaguely creepy. Some of it I wonder if I ought to give back, like one of his helmets--he lost them all the time, so there are several available to collectors--except I know he'd ask where I got it, and I think he'd feel uncomfortable if he knew I paid several thousand dollars for it at auction."

Clint winced. "Yeah, I can see how that'd be awkward." He pushed off the counter and opened the fridge. "You want a beer?"

Phil hesitated. His hand came up to brush at his open collar; he wasn't on duty. "Sure." He took the bottle and sighed as he cracked it open. "The really sad part is, that was pretty much my only hobby. It's hard to keep up with..." He cast about for an example. "With playing a sport, or taking a class, or...I don't know, painting, when you have this job. I could browse for collectibles online, between meetings."

"I thought Stark said something about crappy TV?" Clint held up the salad dressing and raised his eyebrows. Phil nodded and found himself juggling beer bottle, dressing bowl, and salad bowl while Clint pulled on oven mitts and retrieved the casserole.

"TV isn't a hobby," Phil said as they carried the food to the table. "TV is for background noise, or for calming your brain down when you can't stop thinking."

They set the food down and Clint stared at the table for a second. "Right, plates," he said, turning and heading back to the kitchen. "So what, you just work now?"

"There's no shortage of work," Phil looked out the simulated window. It showed a city, far below, but he wasn't certain it was New York.

The plates clattered as Clint set them down on the table. "You know what that means, right?" Clint asked. Phil turned to find him frowning at the table again. "Shit, utensils," he muttered, then went back to the kitchen.

"What does it mean?" Phil prompted.

Clint returned to the table with a handful of forks and knives and spoons, including a serving spoon for the casserole. He grinned at Phil. "It means you just volunteered yourself to help out the next time I need an extra pair of hands with a home improvement project."

Phil smiled wryly. "Work isn't an acceptable excuse?"

"Nope," Clint said cheerfully, seating himself and waving for Phil to do the same. He dug the serving spoon into the casserole and dumped it onto his plate, then added some of the salad greens, but instead of handing Phil the spoon he handed him the plate and gestured for Phil to pass over the second, empty, plate. "I might not be on your level, but I'm high enough up the ladder to know when you really can't be spared. You're at my mercy."

Phil gave the dressing a quick whisk before spooning some of it over his salad. "Fortunately, you have a history of being merciful." He handed the dressing over to Clint and picked up his fork, but waited for Clint to be ready.

"Odd thing to say to an assassin," Clint said, chuckling. He finished with the dressing and picked up his fork, gesturing with it to indicate Phil should go ahead and eat.

"You were always more than an assassin." Phil forked up some of the casserole and popped it into his mouth, not really paying attention. It hit his tongue and he made an involuntary noise. Holy shit. Phil swallowed and blinked at Clint. "This," he said, a little dazed, "is the best food I have ever tasted in my life."

It was spicy, just enough to make his lips burn, but there was also something more subtle in there, and the beef was in little strips or chunks that practically melted on his tongue, and he didn't know if that was rice or some other grain, but it was just the right balance between firm and soft. Phil looked down at the food on his plate. It didn't look like a five star meal, but fuck, it sure tasted like one. He went for another bite of casserole and Jesus, was the second taste better somehow? He looked back at Clint, who was beaming proudly.

"I admit I played it safe," Clint said. "I've been working on that recipe for years. I got the original off the Food Network, but I like my food spicier than they had it, and when I upped the spice it drowned out some of the other flavors and the tweaking just spiraled from there."

Phil forced himself to reply instead of just shoveling another bite into his mouth. "I didn't think you liked spicy food; I seem to remember a bad experience with peppers on a mission in Mexico."

"Oh God," Clint groaned, but he was still smiling. "You would remember that. Listen, I don't care what that guy said, hot peppers are not the be all and end all of spiciness, and spitting them out does not reflect on my manhood."

"I think he was retaliating against the implied critique of his cooking skill," Phil said, taking another bite. He had to resist the urge to close his eyes and just savor it.

Clint grinned. "That's still not reason enough to yell that I clearly wasn't ready to move on from sucking my mother's tit to the whole restaurant."

Phil choked. "Is that what he said? I was busy trying to stop our contact from bolting."

"Among other things. Still not the most creative insult slung my way," Clint said. He waggled his eyebrows. "Apparently I inspire people that way. This one time, in Italy..."

*

Phil leaned his forehead against his apartment door for a minute. The past couple of days had been long, and awful in the way that only the aftermath of a failed mission could be. Not one of Phil's ops--Avengers missions occupied most of his time now--but an op gone wrong sent ripples through the Directorate, and their impact only magnified the higher up the ladder you went.

Sighing, he managed to lift his keys and push his apartment key into the lock. His thumb stung as the mechanism in the key stabbed him with a tiny needle, took a DNA sample, and fired it through the key to be compared to the lock that most certainly wasn't a deadbolt. The key vibrated slightly in his hand and he turned it, fully disengaging the lock.

He stepped inside and hit the switch for the hall light, which flickered when it came on, reminding Phil, again, that he needed more light bulbs. He turned on the kitchen light and detoured into the living room to set his briefcase on the coffee table and get that light, too, before returning to the kitchen. He opened the fridge door and leaned over to look in. His tie swung into his field of view.

"Right," Phil muttered. He reached up and tugged the tie off, tossing it over the breakfast bar to land on the kitchen table.

The fridge smelled odd. Phil wrinkled his nose and searched for the source. Eggs wouldn't smell if they went off. Ketchup, mustard, salad dressing, half a dozen other condiments in bottles, four cans left of a six pack of ginger ale, no, no, no. Wait. He'd bought some produce recently, fully intending to improve his diet while he had the time. He opened the vegetable crisper. The contents were no longer recognizable, discolored and mostly liquid. He grimaced, then shut the fridge rather than throw them in the garbage. God knew when he'd next manage to take it out, and at least the fridge managed to contain the smell.

Sighing, he reached for one of the take out menus secured to his freezer with a magnet and went back to the living room to get his cell phone out of his briefcase. He passed the kitchen table on the way and reached out to retrieve his tie, blinking when he saw that there were actually two there, laying across a handful of manila folders stamped with the SHIELD logo. He gathered up both ties and continued into the living room, registering for the first time that he'd set his briefcase down between two empty but dirty plates.

Phil rubbed a hand over his face. "At least there's no mold," he said, and shook his head at himself. He got out his personal cell and tapped over to the recent calls. At the bottom, beneath the names of three different restaurants and one unknown number, just about to slide off the screen, was Clint Barton, a relic of Clint's second dinner invitation, a week before.

Phil hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen for a long moment. He looked up, spotted his TV, and quickly brushed across the number. It only rang twice before Clint picked up. "Hey, Coulson," he said easily. "What's up?"

It wasn't a professional sort of greeting, even for Clint, which meant that Clint's caller ID knew the different between Phil's personal and SHIELD numbers. Phil smiled. "Were you planning on watching the game tonight?" he asked. He had no idea if there was a game--any sort of game--playing, but hundreds of nights in crappy hotel rooms on assignment had taught him that Clint watched just about every sport in existence. The odds were in his favor.

"Game?" Clint paused and Phil winced. "I didn't know you watched soccer."

Phil's shoulders slumped in relief. Close call. "I don't, usually," wouldn't do to be caught not knowing the teams, "but it's that kind of night and it's what's on."

Clint chuckled. "I know what you mean. Sometimes you just want to have a beer and scream at someone who can't hear you. You want to come over? My TV's, like, six times the size of yours, God bless Tony Stark."

"I'll bring the beer," Phil said. "Any requests?"

"Something weird. I've got regular booze here, but trying out the really strange ones is fun."

"Strange it is." Phil mentally reviewed the route from his place to the Tower, factoring in a stop at the liquor store. "I'll be there in thirty."

When Clint opened his door, Phil could already hear the game playing inside. The scent of tomato sauce and garlic and bread wafted into the hall. "Did you order pizza?" Phil asked, stepping into the hall and toeing off his shoes. He'd left his tie at home.

"Nope." Clint leaned over and took the six-pack box of bottles from Phil's hand. He held it up, read the label, and laughed. "Chocolate donut beer? You win, Coulson, seriously."

"Phil," Phil said, following Clint into the living room. Clint glanced over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows. Phil shrugged. "We're off duty."

Clint's smile deepened. "All right, then."

It turned out that Clint had been splitting hairs when he said he hadn't ordered pizza--he'd made it from scratch, right down to the crust. The chocolate donut beer was drinkable but artificial in flavor, unsurprisingly. They moved onto the regular beer when the pizza came out of the oven, so hot that Coulson burnt the roof of his mouth on the cheese and so good that he hardly cared.

Phil didn't know soccer very well, but it was easy to pick up on with Clint's shouts and colorful commentary for cues. It was impossible not to get caught up when Clint was bouncing on the couch next to him, cheering and groaning and dropping little bits of trivia in between. By the end of the game--and the end of the beer--Phil cheered the winning goal along with Clint and slumped back into the couch after, a little breathless and grinning.

Clint used the remote to dial the volume down and let out a satisfied sigh. "Good game," he said. Phil hummed his agreement. "Hey," Clint poked him the shoulder. Phil rolled his head without lifting it from the back of the couch. Clint's eyes were sparkling. "Did I get you drunk, Phil?" he asked, laughter threading his voice.

"I'm not drunk," Phil protested. He wasn't. Just...really relaxed. His body felt warm and loose.

"Yeah, well, maybe not, but you're not safe to drive, either." Clint levered himself up off the couch. "You can crash here. Hang on, I'll get you some sweats or something to sleep in."

Phil hummed again and closed his eyes. Clint had a really nice couch...

*

The angle of the light on the other side of Phil's eyelids was wrong, but there was something soft under his head and a thick, plush blanket tucked up under his chin, so he was pretty sure he wasn't in trouble. He blinked his eyes open, bringing one hand up to rub the sleep out of the corners, and stared blankly at the white wall and the flat screen TV opposite him before it came back to him: the game. Clint's place. And too many beers, apparently.

Phil pushed the blanket down and sat up. He swung his legs off the couch and took a minute to stretch. He was still in his dress shirt and pants, tie at home and shoes by the door. Taking a deep breath, Phil smelled coffee and bacon, which answered where Clint was. He contemplated ducking into the bathroom to straighten up, but there was only so much straightening you could do when you'd slept in your clothes. Besides, Clint had clearly helped him lie down and covered him up with the blanket. What image was there left to preserve? So he padded into the kitchen as he was.

Clint was standing at the stove wearing a t-shirt and boxer briefs. Phil blinked slowly, taking in strong thighs, broad feet, and fabric stretched tight around perfect biceps. Phil dragged his eyes back up to Clint's expression, intent on the eggs he was stirring around in a pan, and his hair, which was flattened unevenly from sleep. "Morning," Phil said, leaning against the wall.

Clint looked up. When he caught sight of Phil, he grinned. "Oh my God. You're even more adorable just awake than you are asleep."

Phil rubbed a hand over his face. "Stark must never know."

"I'm sure it's above his security clearance," Clint said, snickering. "Breakfast is almost done; you ought to grab a shower. I'll drive you back to your place to get a change of clothes."

Phil glanced at the clock. It was already seven-thirty; at this rate he wouldn't be in until nine even without stopping at home. The rumor mill was going to go into overdrive. "I don't really have time to change."

"You can't mean to go into work in that," Clint pointed the wooden spoon at Phil's thoroughly wrinkled shirt and pants. His jacket, at least, was neatly hung over one of the kitchen chairs and crease-free.

"If you toss me a wet washcloth, I'll teach you a top secret trick," Phil said.

"Okay, I'll bite." While Clint turned away to take the eggs off the heat and wet a washcloth, Phil stripped out of his dress shirt and suit pants. He was wearing an undershirt, and his boxers were more modest than Clint's, but he still had to fight down a blush when Clint turned around and his eyebrows went up. Way up. Clint didn't say anything, though, just tossed him the washcloth.

Phil caught it and headed over to the laundry room--seen on the grand tour his first time here--and tossed shirt, pants, and washcloth into the dryer. "They'll be just about wrinkle free in a few minutes," he said. "But don't ever tell anyone I used that trick with a designer suit; I'd never be forgiven."

Clint grinned. "I didn't even know your suit was designer. Is that required, or are you just a clothes snob?"

Phil started to answer, then stopped and shook his head sheepishly. "I'm just a clothes snob," he said. "When it comes to suits, anyway. Jeans and t-shirts are for comfort, it doesn't matter where they're from. But when you're dressing to impress, you ought to do it well."

"Well, your secret's safe with me," Clint said. "If you jump in the shower, both suit and breakfast will be ready for you when you get out."

"Thanks," Phil nodded and made his way to the guest bathroom. It was stocked with unscented soap, still in the wrapper, and generic shampoo and conditioner, both new bottles. Had they been there since Clint moved in, waiting to be used? Or had he bought them new when Phil started coming around? It was only his third visit. "Over thinking," Phil muttered, and started the shower.

Putting a clean body into the previous day's underclothes wasn't ideal, but it hadn't been a strenuous day, so they weren't too bad. He retrieved his suit pants and shirt, warm from the dryer and now mostly wrinkle free, and dressed in the laundry room before returning to the kitchen.

Clint had two plates on the table, bearing scrambled eggs and bacon and pan fries. Phil's stomach growled loudly and Clint looked up. "I'm going to take that as approval for the menu," he said.

"You don't get approval until you produce coffee," Phil shot back.

Clint held up a finger and returned with a full carafe and two mugs. He set it down on--

"Is that a trivet?" Phil asked, blinking at the table.

"Like I'm going to risk scorching this table?" Clint said. "Come on, sit down, eat."

Phil sat and served himself coffee, but a trivet was really too much to let go. "How do you even know what a trivet is?"

Clint shrugged. "I googled, 'How do you stop pots from burning the table?'" He shot Phil an unreadable glance. "I know I don't seem like the domestic type. You know better than anyone else that the answer to questions like that is never gonna be, 'My grandma taught me.'"

"I'm sorry," Phil said quietly.

"It is what it is."

"No, I mean I'm sorry for asking." Phil shook his head. "You're right, I of all people should know better. And it's not like having a typical family gave me much in the way of household skills."

"Wrinkle trick aside?" Clint teased, and Phil relaxed a little.

"Wrinkle trick aside," he agreed. "My apartment is so plain it could double as a safe house." Especially since he'd moved most of his Captain America collectibles out of the living room; now that he knew Steve, having his face staring down from the walls felt strange.

Clint snorted. "Well, you're always welcome here."

*

Phil took some quick notes, shorthand, as Thor wound down his review of the Avengers' latest battle. Thor always went last; it was a lot easier to incorporate his sometimes florid descriptions when there was already a narrative to fit them into. At the same time, his penchant for retelling battles meant he paid attention to what was happening around him in a way the others often didn't; taking his debrief last meant less constant writing, because Phil had gotten some of the details from the others already but getting a much stronger final picture.

"...and with a great shout of triumph, Iron Man and I smote the creature with lightning, and it glowed bright as the sun and crumbled into dust!" Thor finished, thumping the table hard.

Phil looked up. "Glowed and crumbled? No flames?" The others had said it 'blew up', 'exploded', and 'dissolved'.

Thor frowned thoughtfully. "No," he said. "There was no fire. Just a great light and then it fell to pieces."

Phil nodded, making a final note. "Excellent. Thank you, Thor. Everyone." He looked around the table at the anxious Avengers and smiled. "Yes, we're done. On a Friday, even. You're on stand down for two days."

Tony whooped and was out of the room like a shot. Bruce and Steve shot Phil wry looks, but their steps were pretty brisk, too. Clint took his ear piece out as he stood, and Phil quickly started organizing his papers. His heart sank when Thor caught his eye, but he obligingly paused.

"May I request a flight from one of your pilots to visit my Jane?" Thor asked as he rose from the table.

Jane had been invited to establish a research lab in New York, but she had yet to surrender to the siren lure of reliable funding. Phil wasn't sure if it was the desire to have Thor to herself, when she had him, or the inability to publish that was propping up her resolve. Either way, it left Thor going to her whenever possible. "Of course," Phil said. "I'll let the deck supervisor know you're approved." Thor could fly himself, of course, and would if Phil declined his request, but SHIELD was trying to keep his visibility down, especially when it connected Dr. Foster to him. "Please remember to change into local clothes before you go."

"I shall," Thor assured him. He swept out of the room while Phil dialed the deck supervisor on his SHIELD phone and cleared the flight.

When he hung up and looked up, he was alone in the conference room. Shaking his head at himself, Phil sorted his notes into the appropriate folders, stacked them up, and tucked them under his arm. There was work to do, anyway,

The corridors on the way to his office were relatively quiet, at six on a Friday evening, though they never truly emptied out. Phil stepped into his office, leaving his door ajar, and filed the folders away. He paused, hand on the back of his chair. Between a couple of hours tonight and Saturday, he might actually be able to clear the Avengers R&D requests; Stark had been busy with missions and SI business the last week or so. Phil could take advantage of the lull, and it wasn't like anyone-- A familiar form passed his partially open door.

Phil scooped up his coat and briefcase, snapping the latter shut without checking the contents, and managed to shut his office door behind him just in time for the obvious click of the lock to be within Clint's hearing. He turned and smiled at Phil. "Hey, Coulson. Heading out after all?"

"Yes," Phil said, falling into step next to Clint. He didn't need to catch up. "Just tidying up a bit before I left. I thought you'd gone already."

"Had to drop my bow off with the armory," Clint explained. "I busted the electronics again."

Phil frowned. "You didn't mention that in debriefing."

"I was using pretty much all sonic heads," Clint said. He'd been on containment this time around. "Didn't notice the switching mechanism wasn't responding right until after."

"Maybe we should have Stark look at your bow."

"Hell, no," Clint shot back. "Knowing him, I'll end up with some compound bullshit. I'll take that if it's what we got, but my baby is fine, just needs a little tuning up."

"We could tell him to stick to the electronics," Phil suggested, but he couldn't keep a straight face when Clint tossed him a look of extreme skepticism.

"Yeah, I didn't think so," Clint said when Phil's expression cracked. They reached the flight deck and Clint followed Phil into the line to shuttle down. "He'd start out with good intentions, Tony always wants to do things right, but he'd get carried away." Ahead of them, a couple of agents caught Phil's eye and nodded at the next shuttle, offering a chance to jump the line. He waved them off; he could wait. "He always does," Clint went on. "On most stuff, that's good, but my bow's gotta feel right in my hands."

"You'd get used to it again," he offered.

"I'd get used to it," Clint said. "But that doesn't mean it'd feel right. A bow is all about flex and tension, knowing how the draw feels, feeling how it's going to spring when you release. Cams and pullies and laser sights and all that high tech shit that Tony loves so much just get between me and the bow. He can make me all the fancy arrows he wants, but I want the bow basic."

Clint's weapon was the product of ten years of SHIELD R&D brainstorming, field testing, and refining to his specifications. 'Basic' is about the last thing it was, but Phil got his meaning. "Is that why you don't like guns?" he asked as they filed onto the next shuttle. He'd never actually asked why before, even when they'd originally negotiated for him to use the bow.

"Yeah," Clint said. "Those things just feel dead in my hands. No life to 'em, except when they actually fire. It's a wonder I can hit anything with them."

Phil snorted. "You're top 2% at SHIELD with firearms." And SHIELD only took people who scored top 5% at other agencies.

Clint shot him a grin as they strapped themselves in. "Like I said: practically can't hit anything."

"Careful," Phil said. "You're talking to someone who doesn't quite make top 2%." Phil had never been a marksman.

"Hah." Clint paused during the muted roar of take off; the Helicarrier was close to New York at the moment, which meant the trip ought to be short. "You can be offended by that when the junior agents stop trading the legends of your missions in whispers around the water cooler."

"They do not."

"You're right, they don't." Clint paused for a beat. "It's the coffee pot."

Phil laughed.

It was easy, with the conversation flowing between them, to follow Clint out of the shield shuttle and onto the base's transport, and from there onto the subway, and when Phil's stop passed, Clint only glanced at him.

They ended up sitting kitty-corner at Clint's kitchen table, eating salad and leftover pasta because Clint hadn't felt like cooking and trading tall tales, trying to see if they could fool each other. It has gotten a lot easier to do now that aliens and super soldiers and portals through space time have started cropping up.

"Phil," Clint said eventually, and it came out like a sigh. "You know I like having you here. I meant it when I said you're always welcome. But it's not good for you to hate going home so much."

Phil dropped his gaze to the ginger ale he was nursing. But Clint just waited. Phil finally looked up. "It's not that I hate going home," he said finally. "It's just hard to see the point most of the time. There's..." he shrugged. "There's nothing there. Just me and the TV and a bunch of dirty dishes. At SHIELD there's always something that needs to be done, some work that's going to make someone's life better, somewhere."

Clint leaned back in his chair and just looked at Phil for awhile. Phil leaned on the table and sipped his ginger ale. "What about your life?" Clint finally asked. "You want to make that better?"

Phil shrugged. "My life is fine."

"Fine still leaves room for better," Clint said. "Come on, bear with me. Why do you like my place so much?"

Phil turned his drink in a circle and keeps his tone light. "It's warm and comfortable and lived in, even though you've only been here a couple of months. My place is...not."

"That can be fixed, you know," Clint said, gently teasing.

"I know, I know," Phil sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Which is probably my cue to go."

But Clint shook his head. "Nah, I'm not sending you back to that apartment in this mood. I got a bed for the guest room; you can sleep there tonight and tackle your place tomorrow, since it's Saturday."

Which was how Phil ended up at home on Saturday, instead on the Helicarrier, working, as he'd intended.

He stood just inside the apartment door for a long moment, tie balled up in his pocket, briefcase in hand. His suit wasn't rumpled, at least; he'd had enough presence of mind to strip down to his underclothes before crawling into the queen size guest bed that he was embarrassingly certain Clint had bought with him in mind.

The remaining hall light flickered, and Phil looked up at it and the burnt out bulb and sighed. "I guess that's my cue to get started," he told the fixture. It flickered again, as if in agreement.

Phil changed into a t-shirt and khakis and started by opening all the blinds--he was in the habit of leaving them down, to cut down glare on the TV--and turning on some music. The virtually empty briefcase came in handy; the work he'd left scattered about the place went into it, filling the case to capacity. He set it down by the door and armed himself with a garbage bag next, cleaning away take out boxes and discarded packaging and donut wrappers and bits of paper.

After that it was time for lists. Lists of what needed maintenance, lists of household tasks overdue, lists of what he needed to take care of those two things, and several other lists besides. By the time Phil had scrubbed the place clean, from master bedroom to front hall, and fixed up the light and the wobbly kitchen table and everything else that needed it, he'd had to head out to the stores (hardware store, bed and bath store, supermarket, and a few others) twice and was ready to curse Clint for starting this when Clint had had all of Tony Stark's conveniences to help. But he didn't, because he knew Clint had done it the hard way first, and was personally carrying on from where he'd left off, too.

And really, it did feel good to look around his place and see everything shining neatly in the sun streaming in the windows. It even looked larger, though the walls were a little bare since he'd moved his Captain America posters into the tiny second bedroom with the rest of his collection. Maybe when he had a few other decorations he'd bring them back out, but it felt odd to have nothing but Cap out in a public space.

It was almost dinner time, so Phil headed to the bathroom and showered and changed clothes, throwing the dirty ones into the hamper to take down to the laundry room later. When he got out, he found his personal cell and dialed Clint.

"Yeah?"

"I have a plant," Phil informed him. "When it dies, I am blaming you."

Clint laughed. "Why? I didn't make you get a plant, and I'm sure not planning on executing it."

"It's your fault I bought it," Phil said, wandering into his kitchen and opening his fridge to regard the groceries he'd purchased. The plant had been on sale at the grocery store. "You shouldn't hate going home, you said. Your apartment can be fixed, you said. Tackle your place tomorrow, you said. So I did, and after I finished cleaning I realized that everything in this apartment, including the walls, was in shades of taupe and gray. So I bought a plant."

"I hope your plant likes indirect sunlight and irregular watering," Clint said. "Or it'll match the decor before long."

"Fuck."

Clint laughed again. "I'm kidding, Phil. Mostly. I'm sure your plant will do fine."

Phil turned and glared at the plant, currently sitting on the coffee table in a patch of light. It's leaves were broad and glossy and green, and the splash of color did look nice. "No. I'm sure I'm going to kill it. You'd better come over and see the thing while it lives." Phil closed his eyes and grimaced briefly; he'd just been at Clint's that morning, inviting him over now was ridiculous.

"Is that an invite for tonight or an invite for later?" Clint said easily.

Phil let out a breath. "Tonight? I actually have groceries, though I warn you my cooking skills are not up to your level."

Clint handed Phil a little glass bulb when he arrived, something that would apparently dispense a steady flow of water to his plant for him if he just remembered to refill it every week or so. Phil made spaghetti and (frozen) meatballs with tomato sauce (from a jar) and Caesar salad (from a kit), but Clint seemed happy enough with the food, and when he left he knocked his knuckles against the wall just inside the door and said, "It's a good start," which warmed Phil probably more than it ought to.

*

"I hate this guy," Clint said.

"You may have mentioned that once or twice," Natasha shot back.

Phil concentrated on breathing normally despite the scuba mask he wore and hanging onto the tow line that Tony was using to draw him and Clint deeper into the cold, dark Atlantic waters.

"Yeah, well, it deserves the repetition," Clint said. Phil suspected he wouldn't be complaining so much if he'd had something to do other than hang on and be towed, but when Iron Man could haul them deeper so easily it made no sense to expend their strength on the swim. "Fucking submarine. This guy bit off more than he could chew when he made me leave my bow behind."

"I thought he bit off more than he could chew when he declared himself the protector of the kingdom of the sea," Tony said. "Does this guy realize how much real estate he's committing to covering? Or maybe he's just geographically challenged and he really wanted a sea, not the whole Atlantic Ocean."

"Granted our target isn't mentally stable," Coulson said, "but the extent of his claim isn't actually the factor that brought us to that conclusion."

"It does seem unreasonably grandiose a claim for a single man," Steve said. "I mean, as far as the eye can see is taking on new meaning for me here." He, Thor, and Natasha remained on the surface, watching over a pair of container ships that SHIELD had engaged to act as bait. "How could anyone believe they could watch over the entire ocean?"

"No single mortal could," Thor agreed. "But Ægir claims the sea as his domain." He frowned. "Though we have not heard much from him, of late."

Phil made a mental note to check in with the analyst they had working reviewing reports with an eye towards the Norse mythology element. "No single mortal," he said aloud, "but an organization could."

"Something you're not telling us, sir?" Clint asked, curious.

"Just some whispers SHIELD has been tracking," Phil said. "Unusual events, things we might have dismissed a year ago." Submarine navigation confused, the boats turned around without ever knowing it. Drilling rigs, exploring for potential deposits, suffering mechanical failures in defiance of their specifications, leading to entire projects scrapped. "Nothing confirmed." But enough for SHIELD to stick their nose in even though the current target had only disabled a couple of cruise liners and cargo ships. "Iron Man, what's our ETA?"

"Maybe two minutes. Why'd this guy bother with a submarine? He isn't even running silent." Disdain dripped from Tony's words.

Phil couldn't blame him; they'd barely moved into international waters before the equipment on their bait ships had detected their target moving in. But-- "Don't focus too much on the submarine. It's his...reinforcements we need to watch out for. Dr. Banner?"

They'd left Bruce back on the shore; after the Helicarrier he wasn't too keen on heading into an attack based on a ship. But this was what comms--and a feed from Tony's suit sensors--were for. "Nothing yet,” Banner said. “It's a lot harder to read heat signatures in the deep ocean. I probably won't see anything until a certain level of mass is achieved."

"Just keep us informed," Steve said. "Nothing on the surface so far."

"We're almost--" Tony broke off with a grunt. Ahead of Phil, the light of his repulsor boots shook. Phil opened his mouth to ask, and then gasped as a shockwave slammed into him, compressed him and shook him out again and left him panting on the other side of it.

"What the fuck was that?" Clint's voice was breathless.

"Some sort of shockwave," Tony and Bruce said in unison.

"Everyone okay?" Steve said sharply. "We're all fine up here."

"I'm fine," Phil managed. "Clint?"

"All good, sir," Clint said.

"I'm getting some odd readings," Tony said. "JARVIS, what is that?"

"Movement, sir," JARVIS said. "A great deal of movement."

"Parsing them on this end," Bruce said. "A lot of movement, of a lot of small individuals."

Out of the corner of his eye, Phil could see Clint let go of the tow line with one hand and unsling the harpoon gun from his back with the other. "Sounds like we need to prepare for reinforcements."

"Watch out!" Bruce shouted into the comm. "There's a cluster--"

Something impacted Phil's shoulder. He gasped into his mask, instinctively clutching at the tow line. Dozens of scaled bodies flashed by him, knocking him back and forth as they swam by.

"Shit!" Clint shouted, the comm squealing briefly at the overload.

Phil swung around, the lights on his mask catching the waving, empty end of Clint's tow line and a glimpse of tumbling body. His heart leapt into his throat. "Iron Man, stop!" Phil barked. He reached out instinctively, almost let go of his own line, but stopped himself just in time. They wouldn't be any better off if Tony track of lost both of them. "The fish knocked Hawkeye off his line."

"Coming around," Tony said.

Ahead of Phil the lights of Tony’s repulsors whirled and started to grow larger. He forced himself to breathe. They were still in the middle of an op, and Clint had plenty of air, even if he'd lost his line. "Status up top?"

Steve's voice was reassuringly calm. "Stable, so far. There's a lot of fish, but it's all just fish so far, nothing big."

"They don't have to be large to be a problem," Tony said, shooting by Phil in a wash of turbulence. The line between them hung in a rapidly narrowing loop in the water. "Buoyancy is a fine line. It's not just about sinking; too light and the ships could go over."

"How are fish supposed to make this thing lighter?" Natasha asked. "I could see them leaping on board and making us heavier, but they aren't trying that."

"What are they doing?" Bruce asked.

"Looks like they're just gathering around us," Steve said.

"And beneath us," Thor added. "I can see their shadow under your craft, Captain."

"Shit," Bruce said. "They don't need to make you lighter, Natasha, just more buoyant. If they gather beneath the ships and push up, they could topple them."

"I've got Clint," Tony broke in.

They hadn't left him far behind; Phil's tow line hadn't even gone entirely taut again. Nevertheless, Phil's next breath stuttered on the way out. In the dark privacy of the deep water, he closed his eyes for a long moment in thanks. "Hawkeye, report."

There was the sound of a cough before Clint's voice came over the line. "They caught me off guard, sir. I only had one hand on the line and one of those fish smoked me right in the gut. Managed not to puke into my mask, though, so it's all good."

"Glad to hear it," Phil said. "We better get moving."

"The fish are definitely massing up here," Steve said. Phil could hear gunfire and splashing in the background. "We're trying to thin them out, but the water is conducting Thor's lightning straight over the surface."

"Try explosives," Tony suggested. He shot past Phil again, faster this time. Phil braced himself. He barely had time to register Clint coming up beside him before the tow line jerked taut and Iron Man was hauling them towards the sub, at speed now. "We're far enough from the shockwave."

"I really hate this guy," Clint said. "Because now I'm missing bombing for fish. It's every little boy's dream, and I'm getting dragged like a piece of bait."

Phil smiled and switched over to a private channel. "Clint, for the love of God, please do not tempt fate. This guy has called sharks to his aid before."

Clint laughed. "Didn't take you for the superstitious type, sir."

"The world seems to have developed a taste for dramatic timing since Tony Stark put on the suit," Phil says dryly. "I'm just covering my bases."

"Sounds like you were trying to cover my bases, sir," Clint teased.

"That makes no sense."

"Sure--"

Clint was interrupted when the public channel cut into their private one. "One deep ocean submarine, courtesy of Iron Man express. You still alive there, Hawkeye? You're awfully quiet."

"Just passing notes with Coulson," Clint said cheerfully.

"What've we got?" Phil asked. The sub didn't look like any model he was familiar with. The deck was huge and surrounded by high railing, there were at least a dozen windows dotting the body, and while it was painted black, a series of bright white scratches suggested that that hadn't always been the case.

"Well, at least now we know why he wasn't running silent," Tony said. "He couldn't. That's a commercial tourist sub."

"That's not good," Natasha said.

Tony started circling the sub. Phil silently prayed that no one was looking out the many windows. "Aren't we glad that this guy doesn't have military connections?" Clint said.

"Sure," Tony said absently. "But if it's not a military sub then it won't have a floodable airlock or pressure sections, which means we can't get inside without depressurizing the whole thing."

"I guess we're glad that this thing is heavily modified, then," Clint said.

"How can you tell?" Bruce asked.

"I can see in the portholes. There's a shitload of equipment packed into the body of this thing, and I can see at least one set of door controls with a lit pressure indicator."

Phil squinted through the dark water and could barely make out a smear of green light through one window. Christ, but Clint's eyes were amazing.

"Jackpot!" Tony picked up speed, jerking Clint and Phil after him. "It's not just pressure doors, readings say he's installed a floodable airlock, too."

"In case he wants to invite his fishy friends for tea?" Clint speculated. Phil swallowed a laugh.

"You're running out of time," Bruce broke in. "I'm reading a large mass of sea life incoming, and we're not just talking schools of fish this time. We've got some big guys on their way."

Tony pulled up next to a heavy metal door set into the side of the sub. Phil and Clint released their lines and swam up to anchor themselves on either side of the lock with magnetic clamps. Since they needed the lock operational, Tony opened a panel in the suit's forearm and extended a miniature drill and a wire with tiny lights glowing at its tip. He punched through the panel protecting the locking mechanism and fed the wire in.

"There is virtually no electronic security," JARVIS said. "Opening the lock...now."

The hatch slid open and water started spilling into lock. Phil had to hang onto his clamp to prevent being drawn in with it. Iron Man stayed on station in front of the door, repulsors extended, the water rushing around him. But there was no attack, and soon the three of them moved into the flooded lock and JARVIS closed the outer hatch behind them.

"Sir," JARVIS said, "I am reading two heat signatures moving into position outside the inner door." The lock was draining just about as fast as it had filled. Phil watched the indictors.

"You're up, Agents," Tony said, standing back as the last of the water drained away and the pressure indicator went green. His ordinance would puncture the hull, even carefully aimed.

Phil and Clint nodded and drew their sidearms from carefully sealed waterproof pockets and raised them. "Preparing to open inner hatch," JARVIS warned them.

"Go for it," Clint said coolly. The hatch hissed and had barely started to slide open before Clint's gun barked twice. By the time it had withdrawn completely, the bodies of two heavy set men were already crumpling to the floor. Clint grinned even as he stepped over the lip of the hatch, swinging his weapon around to check for additional thugs. "Well, that's taken care of."

Phil shook his head and stepped through the hatch after Clint. The cabin, once spacious, was now a warren of equipment and blinking lights. A flash of movement at the far end caught Phil's eye. He brought his weapon to bear. "Step into the open and identify yourself," he called out.

A thin man with black hair pulled into a ponytail popped briefly into view. "You'll never take me alive!" He shrieked, and dove through another hatch. It clanged shut behind him.

"We wouldn't mind taking you dead!" Tony shouted after him.

Phil cursed. "Hawkeye, see if you can get in there. Iron Man, I could use an evaluation of this gear."

"Gotcha, sir," Clint said, pacing easily toward the other hatch, gun lowered but ready as he examined the mechanism.

Tony wandered among the equipment. Phil watched, then activated the comms again. "How are we looking up top?"

A distant concussion came over the open line. "Most excellently," Thor boomed cheerfully.

"The explosives are...effective in reducing the mass of fish," Natasha confirmed.

"I think we're going to have some very unhappy environmentalists on our hands after this," Steve said. "We're having to kill a lot of sea life here, Agent Coulson."

"Understood." Phil swallowed a sigh.

"Bad news," Clint reported. "This guys is pretty well barricaded in here. I think Tony's going to have to cut him out."

"Fortunately, I have good news," Tony said. "I've found the main control panel for our guy's fish controlling machine. Lemme just dial this over... They ought to start dispersing now."

There was a long, silent moment. "Confirmed," Steve finally said. "Good job, Iron Man."

"Of course," Tony said smugly. "Now let me get this door open. Honestly, did you even need anyone else down here?"

Phil traded a glance with Clint, who snickered silently but didn't mention the two thugs he'd eliminated. Instead he swapped places with Tony, who popped a laser and started cutting into the control room door.

"Jeez, this is like something out of Star Trek," Clint said, peering at the control panel. "All touch screen--Sir, did your ears just pop?"

Phil started to say no...and then his ears equalized. "Yes. Dr. Banner?"

It was JARVIS who answered. "My apologies, sirs. I was monitoring the sub's internal environment, but we are indeed diving. Apparently the gentleman was sincere in his resolution; we have already exceeded the recommended depth for this craft."

Tony swore. "JARVIS, can we up the cutting speed?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. Any increase to the beam intensity risks damaging the equipment within the control room."

"Maybe we can use this-- Fuck!" There was a meaty thump and Clint disappeared below the banks of equipment. Heart rate surging, Phil hurried through the twists of machinery and spotted Clint rolling around on the group with a third thug.

"We have a third hostile in the sub," Phil reported. He raised his weapon, but Clint and the thug were tangled together, grunting as they grappled. "I can't a get a clear shot."

"You're on your own," Tony said grimly. "I've got to get into the control room before the water pressure flattens us."

"Cut faster, Tony," Bruce ordered. "You've only got a minute or two."

"Working on it," Tony shot back.

Phil looked at Tony, cutting through the door steadily but too slowly, and at the control panel just a step away from Clint's struggling form. "Hawkeye, keep him engaged," he said, holstering his weapon. "I have an idea."

He took Clint's grunt as assent and stepped over them, eyes quickly sweeping over the control panel. It really was like Star Trek, all touch sensitive blocks in primary colors. He found the activation button and tapped it. The board lit up with options. There was a space to write commands, but typing 'Gather' and 'Call fish' just produced an 'Invalid Command' response. Then he found a set of pre-set command options. Scrolling through them, he nodded. "Iron Man, I need our exact GPS co-ordinates."

Tony rattled them off without comment, focused on the control room hatch. Phil's fingers flew over the touchscreen, setting up and activating the commands. "Dr. Banner, are you seeing any movement?"

There was a long pause. "Yes," he said. "The fish are massing again. They're converging on your location, Agent, along with something big. What did you do?" There was a tense note in his voice.

Phil smiled slightly. "Used our friend's tactics against him, I hope." He turned, ready to aid Clint, just in time to see the archer wrap his arm around the thug's throat and twist. A sharp crack was followed only by the sound of Clint's panting. Phil offered him a hand up and Clint took it, casting Phil a grateful look. He'd just made it to his feet when the entire sub jolted and shuddered. They clutched at each other for balance.

"Okay, what was that?" Tony said. He glanced over at Phil. "JARVIS says we're rising now."

Phil glanced down at his wetsuit and wished he had a jacket to dust off. "That," he said serenely, "was a giant squid grabbing hold of this submarine and heading for the surface."

There was a long beat of silence before Clint's laughter broke it. "Now who's king of the sea?" he shouted at the still-sealed control room. "All hail Phil our fishy...pharaoh?" Clint shrugged.

"Points for effort," Phil said dryly.

*

They did, indeed, have a lot of very unhappy environmentalists on their hands. The EPA was, for the moment, accepting SHIELD's assurances that letting Mr. Harker, their fish controlling mastermind, operate freely would have been more damaging in the long run, but Phil had a lot of negotiating to do before they'd entirely back off.

Harker hadn't even been operating long enough to explain the marine mystery SHIELD had been tracking. Alas.

Phil paged up and down through the report he was editing for the EPA's benefit and wished, not for the first time, that security clearances weren't a necessity.

A familiar patterned rap on the door frame drew Phil's attention away from his screen. He smiled at Clint automatically, then paused. Clint was grinning just a little too much. "What have you done now?" Phil asked. "And was Stark involved?"

Clint's grin just broadened. He stepped into Phil's office, one hand tucked behind his back. "Sir, I'm wounded. Would I make your life harder after the week we've had?"

"Not intentionally," Phil said dryly. "But your impulse control leaves something to be desired."

Clint tried to pout, but his smile kept stretching it out. "Keep saying stuff like that and I might not give you your present."

"Present?" The word slipped out; Phil swallowed any others that might have followed. But...well, he didn't really get presents anymore. He'd stopped celebrating his birthday years ago and he almost always ended up working over Christmas; his family mostly sent gift cards these days, their more creative efforts being expended on his nieces and nephews. It made sense--more often than not their presents had ended up gathering dust, anyway, the victims of his long work hours--but there was still something just a bit magical about an actual gift.

Clint brought his hand out from behind his back, revealing a small plastic tub. He held it out and Phil realized there was a dark blue fish idling against the back curve of the container. Phil hesitantly reached out to take it. "A fish?"

"A fighting fish," Clint said, lips twitching.

Phil laughed and shook his head. "Of course it is." He leaned back in his chair and raised the container to eye level, examining the fish. It had long, silky fins. The dark navy blue of its body lightened into an almost electric color at the tips. As he watched, the fish roused from its spot at the back of the container and swam forward, almost like it was studying Phil in return. "Somehow I don't think I'll be winning any battles with this one, though."

"Knowing you, sir, I wouldn't bet against it," Clint said, leaning against the edge of Phil's desk.

"Nevertheless, I think I'd rather keep him out of the line of fire." The fish swayed back and forth, almost like it was tilting its head at Phil. Phil smiled. "He can keep the plant company." Phil set the plastic container down on his desk, carefully away from the edge but out of the way of his keyboard and the scattering of note pads. Looking up, Phil caught Clint smiling at him, softer, somehow, than his usual smirk.

Clint nodded at the computer. "What're you up to?"

Phil sighed and hit the page up button on the computer, skimming over the portions of the report he'd already reviewed. "Trying to censor a report enough to get it out from under security restrictions so that I can share it with the EPA and their partners without rendering it totally useless. For all his ranting about protecting the ocean, our fish-controlling friend disrupted the local marine ecosystem severely. Honestly, it's probably a wait-and-see situation at the moment, but forewarned is forearmed."

Leaning in, Clint hummed as he skimmed the portion of the report on screen. "It'd be easier if we knew how the control mechanism worked."

"The engineering department has it on their list," Phil said. "But the list's pretty long by now. Honestly, we probably need to expand the entire science division; we're running into more things that we don't fully understand than things that we do, these days."

Clint sat back and nodded. "It's a whole new world. A whole expanded universe." He sounded almost wistful.

"Regrets?" Phil couldn't help asking.

"Nah, not really," Clint said. "Just...with all that world out there, it makes me wonder if it's wrong to put down roots in one little corner of it." He shrugged awkwardly and looked away.

Phil reached out and touched his forearm lightly. "I think, with all that world out there, it's good to have a safe place to go, somewhere that doesn't ask anything of you."

Clint ducked his head. "Yeah, maybe." He pushed off of Phil's desk and bounced on the balls of his feet a couple of times. "You wanna come over for dinner?"

"I can't," Phil said regretfully. He waved at the fish. "Someone gave me a pet I need to take care of."

"Hmmm." Clint tilted his head speculatively. "I bet you could use someone to help carry shit from the store. I could come along and cook dinner at your place?"

Phil straightened up a little. "We'll need to stop for groceries, as well," he said. "I haven't got much more than pasta."

"It's a plan." Clint beamed at him. "I'll see you at six."

Six was early. Phil hesitated, saw Clint's face start to fall. "At six, then," he heard himself saying, and Clint lit up again.

"See you then," Clint affirmed, and drummed his fingers on the door frame on his way out of Phil's office.

Phil shook his head and started to go back to his report...but what would he need for this fish, anyway?

*

Clint showed up in his office at six on the dot and hovered while Phil packed up, retrieved his jacket, and gathered up the fish. "Have you named him yet?" Clint asked, nodding at the pet.

"Not yet," Phil said. "I don't want to name him after a person, and inspiration has yet to strike."

"As long as it's not Sapphire or something."

Phil snorted, and the name debate kept them busy all the way to the closest PetSmart. Phil soon had an employee thoroughly engaged and Clint trailed along after them, looking increasingly bemused as they discussed water pH and tank size and silk plants versus plastic. "When did you become a fish expert?" he asked when Phil sent the employee to check if they had a particular silk plant in a size that would fit the aquarium Phil had selected.

"I did a little research after you dropped him off," Phil said. Where by 'a little' he meant three hours, his report sadly neglected. The blue fellow was a betta fish, it turned out, and as Phil had expected the tiny plastic tub he came in wasn't really very good for him. He hadn't known that water pH could be an issue, either, though in retrospect it wasn't surprising. He didn't know the pH of his tap water, but it only made sense to be prepared to adjust it in either direction, given the likelihood that the betta's presence, the food Phil used, and the ambient environment in his apartment would have an effect on water quality.

Clint chuckled. "I know you'll take good care of the little guy."

Phil smiled at Clint as the store employee returned, sadly empty handed.

An alternate plant was acquired, along with a tank and water filter and water treatment chemicals and tank decorations and lights and food and an automatic feeder for when he was on missions and yes, Phil definitely needed help carrying it all from store to car and car to apartment. They did stop for groceries. In the elevator, grocery bags hooked over their wrists and hands full of fish supplies, Phil couldn't seem to stop himself from smiling. Every time he tried, he looked over at Clint, and the empty aquarium in his arms and, sitting inside it because neither of them had a spare hand, the plastic tub with its blue betta fish, and he'd find his lips curving up again.

The piled up the aquarium supplies on the coffee table and dropped the groceries off in the kitchen, and Clint got started cooking while Phil started setting up the aquarium.

"So, names," Clint said when the noisy work of dragging the coffee table over to the wall--Phil would have to get something taller for the tank to live on in the future--and filling it with water was done. "He's got those nice big fins, and he's a fighting fish, so you could name him after one of the types of fighting fan."

"Hmmm." Phil paused, one hand in the tank, burying the base of a silk plant in the rounded stones covering the bottom, and looked over his shoulder at the fish in its tiny plastic tub. It was facing him, almost like it was watching. "I think I'd like there to be more of a story to it than that."

"Well, SHIELD sure isn't short of stories," Clint said.

Phil finished situating the plant and withdrew his hand, only to realize he hadn't brought a towel. He headed back toward the kitchen. "Toss me a tea towel?" he asked when he got close. Clint looked up, took in his wet arm, snagged one of the towels off the oven handle, and held it out over the breakfast bar. "Thanks," Phil said as he dried off. "How's dinner coming?"

"Not bad." Clint nodded at a pair of steaks submerged in a bowl full of marinade. "They're only going to have about an hour in there, but I poked them a few times so it'll be okay. Not gourmet, but..." He shrugged and started jabbing a fork into a potato.

"But my palate won't know the difference," Phil said, smiling. "Everything you make tastes unnaturally good." He leaned against the breakfast bar for a few minutes, watching Clint work. He could feel the last dregs of the day's tension bleeding out of his shoulders. Clint hummed as he worked; it took the silent edge out of the place in a way that TV never quite managed to do.

After a few minutes, Clint looked up from washing beans for god knew what and chided Phil. "You've got a fish homeless and nameless, Phil. Back to work!"

Shaking his head, Phil pushed off the counter and went back to the aquarium. He'd tested and treated the water before adding it to the tank and the decorations were in, which just left the water filter and digital thermometer. Prying them out of their plastic packaging was more difficult than actually installing them and Phil was soon taking a couple of steps back to check over his handiwork.

"Looks good," Clint called from the kitchen.

Phil nodded. "Time to introduce the little guy to his new home."

The betta swayed serenely upright in his little tub, hardly moving at all as Phil carefully tilted and partially submerged the tub in the tank, letting the water mingle so the betta could swim out of the tub on his own. He almost seemed to take a look around before approving his new home and swimming regally around the tank.

Regally...Phil grinned. "I've got a name," he announced, watching the fish a moment longer before turned to smirk at Clint. "Pharaoh."

It took a second for Clint to get the reference, but when he did he groaned. "You're seriously going to immortalize that joke?" he said, emerging from the kitchen and handing Phil a drink.

"It's your own fault for underlining it with a fish," Phil said, quirking an eyebrow.

Clint stuck his tongue out at him and Phil laughed and turned back to the tank. After a moment, Clint bumped their shoulders together. "He seems happy."

Phil glanced over at Clint, who was still watching the fish. "I think he is."

*

No matter when Phil scheduled his work outs, he always ended up with a small crowd of junior agents as spectators. He didn't know if it was because they didn't expect him to be able to fight or if the grapevine promised them a good show, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He just got used to the fact that the gym population invariably went up between him going into the locker room to change and him emerging dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants.

Today he'd managed to pin down Artie Jacobs, SHIELD's hand-to-hand combat instructor, for some sparring, though he'd had to schedule their workout at eight at night to get a hold of him. Working out with field agents was good for his reaction time and improvisation skills, but nothing beat Jacobs for brushing up on his technique and power.

Phil blocked out the quiet murmur of watching agents with the ease of long practice and fell into the rhythm of strike and block, duck and jab. By the time he stepped back and waved Jacobs off he'd worked up a good sweat and a couple of bruises, but he'd dealt his fair share, too.

As he waved his thanks, someone let out a piercing wolf whistle. Phil's head snapped around, a sharp rebuke rising to his lips, but there amidst a gaggle of junior agents--their faces stunned and, perhaps, a bit fearful--was Clint Barton. "Looking good, Coulson," Clint called, sauntering over. He gave Phil a lingering look up and down and grinned.

Phil laughed and scooped his towel up off the floor where he'd dropped it before they got started. "Come to remind yourself what an actual fight looks like, Barton?" he said, wiping the sweat from his face and throat.

Clint put a hand over his heart. "Sir! I'd be wounded, except that you just implied that going against me and my bow is too hopeless to be a real fight."

"If that's what you heard, now I know why your field reports are so...creative," Phil said dryly. He turned and walked away from the junior agents--to spare them their heads swiveling back and forth between Clint and Phil like spectators at a tennis match--and jerked his head for Clint to follow him. "What can I do for you?"

"The team's going for karaoke," Clint said. "You wanna come?"

Phil started to demure--the team had offered before, out of courtesy he'd been sure--but Clint looked so hopeful. Phil had been sure Clint's past invitations had been courtesy, too. He'd been wrong, and he'd done himself out of some fantastic evenings as a result. "Alright," he said.

Clint's expression relaxed into brilliant grin. "Great! You just need to shower and change, right? I'll wait."

Phil blinked, caught off guard, but it was past nine. Of course they'd be heading right out. "Right," he said aloud. "Twenty minutes."

A quick shower and shuttle to land later and Phil and Clint stepped out of the gates of the base that handled their transport to find Tony Stark and two convertibles--one bright red, the other royal blue--waiting for them. The red car held Banner, Steve, and Pepper. Natasha was behind the wheel of the blue car, with Thor in the passenger seat and the back empty.

"Agent!" Tony exclaimed, straightening up from where he was leaning against the red car. "You came! Clint, I can't believe you got him to come! I am so buying you a round."

"You'd have ended up buying a round anyway, Tony," Clint shot back. He touched a hand to the small of Phil's back briefly, turning him towards the blue car. Phil fought down a sudden, inexplicable rush of heat before he actually blushed.

Tony waved Clint off. "Another round, just for you, then. And Agent?" Tony pinned him with a look and then smirked. "You are not getting out of singing."

Phil paused while Clint put a hand on the frame of the blue car and vaulted into the backseat without touching the door. Phil caught his eye and tilted his head. Clint grinned and slid over, leaving just enough room for Phil to repeat his feat. Phil did, just as smoothly as Clint, and leaned back in the seat, smiling over at Tony, who was gaping. "I think I can handle a little karaoke, Stark."

To his credit, Tony threw his head back and laughed. "Point to Phil," he said cheerfully. "Come on, folks, the night's a-wasting."

The club was surprisingly tasteful. There was a disco ball, but no animal print, and the art on the walls was of famous vocalists. Bruce and Steve ("One day Bruce and I will find something that can get you drunk," Tony swore) were their designated drivers and somehow when the team slid into a giant U-shaped booth Phil ended up with Pepper on one side and Clint on the other.

Thor didn't even sit down. Instead he clapped his hands together, beaming down at them. "I am going to choose a great ballad!" he announced. "Tony, if you would acquire a rich, dark ale for me should I not return before our gracious waitress."

"I got you covered," Tony assured him from his place between Pepper and Bruce.

Thor thanked him, clapped Bruce on the shoulder, and strode off towards the DJ at the corner of the stage. Phil leaned over to Clint. "Is he actually going to sing a ballad?" Thor didn't seem like the slow love song type. Not for karaoke, anyway.

Clint shook his head. "He means ballad in the older sense, a song with a really clear story. He likes reciting 'tales of past battles'."

"Reciting?" Phil raised an eyebrow.

"He's got rhythm," Clint said, lips quirking. "It's like really fast spoken word."

"Oh, God." Phil looked around the table at the rest of the Avengers and Pepper. "Please tell me someone here can sing."

Pepper laughed and handed Phil the book of cocktails she'd been browsing. "Tony's music of choice is metal; half the artists aren't singing."

"Hey!" Tony protested. "Metal is a valid musical art form."

"I never said it wasn't. But you can't argue it has melody and harmony."

Of course, telling Tony he couldn't argue something was just asking for trouble and they were immediately embroiled in bickering.

"Bruce has a pretty good voice, if he remembers to sing loud enough," Natasha said, from the end of the U opposite Thor’s seat.

Steve, sandwiched between Natasha and Clint, leaned around Clint. "And Clint is fantastic."

"You sing?" Phil asked, looking at Clint, who blushed and reached up to scratch the back of his neck.

"I'm okay," he said. "Here, lemme see what they've got on tap." He plucked the drink menu out of Phil's hand.

"He cooks, he cleans, he sings," Phil teased, bumping Clint's shoulder with his own. "Should I be checking for power cords or pods under the bed? Seems a little too perfect."

Bruce leaned across the table, past Tony and Pepper who were still somehow arguing about music, although they seemed to have moved on to attempting to define 'melody' and 'harmony'. "Clint cooks?" he asked.

"From scratch," Phil confirmed. "Some of the best food I've had."

Bruce's expression warmed. "I did a lot of cooking for myself when I was...traveling," he said to Clint. "Would you be interested in trading tips?"

Clint lit up, and then next thing Phil knew they were embroiled in a discussion about spices and complementary meats.

Thor returned to the table and even got his beer before his turn at the mic came up. It was a lot like spoken word, and not necessarily in a bad way; he'd chosen a song that could handle the style, anyway. By the time they'd cycled through Bruce, Tony, and Natasha's turns Phil was three beers into the evening. Clint had slung his arm across the back of the booth, and with them all squeezed in like they were, Phil found himself tucked under it, Clint's fingers brushing his far shoulder occasionally.

Tony going up to the mic to choose his song and take his turn had broken him out of the music debate with Pepper, and she and Phil commiserated briefly about dealing with Tony in a stubborn mood before the conversation wandered through hopeless personal assistants and somehow ended up at books--they both had a weakness for historical fiction with a fantasy flair. Clint's arm slipped out from behind Phil and he paused his train of thought to turn and see where he was going.

"My turn," Clint said. He smiled, a little nervously.

"Cap wouldn't say you were fantastic if you weren't," Phil said.

Clint laughed. "I'm sure Steve appreciates your faith," he said, shaking his head and heading for the stage.

Phil turned back to Pepper, who tilted her head at Clint's departing back. "You two have gotten close," she said.

"I don't think I'm ever more relaxed than I am when I'm at his place," Phil said, sighing a little. "You should see it, Pepper. It's a home. It's wonderful."

Pepper's eyes twinkled. "More wonderful for some than for others, I imagine."

"No, it's just wonderful," Phil insisted. He paused and looked at his near empty glass. "How many of these have I had?"

Pepper laughed, and Phil might have insisted she answer, but just then the mic whined briefly. "Sorry about that," Clint said from the stage. "I'm Clint Barton--" a couple of cheers rang out of the crowd, "--hey, regulars!" Clint grinned. "Anyway, I'll be doing 'Bad Case of Loving You' by Robert Palmer."

Phil's eyebrows went up. He leaned around Steve and caught Natasha's eye. "Really?" He lifted his chin toward the stage as the music got going.

Natasha smirked. "Just you wait."

Clint gave a whoop with the music and a moment later his voice came in on 'A hot summer night fell like a net...'

Phil's head jerked around to stare at the stage. Clint's voice was powerful and smooth and wreathed in attitude. The song didn't exactly stretch his range, but he grinned and danced and worked the microphone until the energy was tangible. Phil sat with his eyes glued to the stage and hoped he wasn't gaping. When the song wrapped up, Phil actually slumped back into his seat as he joined the clapping.

As Clint jogged down the stage, Steve slid out of the booth to go up for his turn and Natasha leaned across the gap. "I take it you'll be coming along next time, too," she said, laughter lurking in her voice.

"If I ever forgive you for not telling me he could do that," Phil shot back.

Natasha laughed and stood to let Clint back into his seat. "So?" he asked, picking up one of the glasses of water littering the table and draining half of it in one go.

"That was amazing," Phil assured him.

Clint beamed. "I'm looking forward to your turn."

Phil covered his face with one hand. "I've been drinking, I can't sing!"

"It's all right," Pepper said, patting his shoulder. "You can go after me and sound miles better by contrast."

Everyone laughed, and Clint put his arm back across the back of the booth, and Phil thought maybe he could manage a song after all.

*

When Phil walked into the range, it was immediately obvious that Clint was practicing. He usually used the simulation range, which was large enough to give his distance accuracy a real work out and where he could set up custom weather conditions and other distractions, so when he came up to the regular lanes the other agents, senior and junior, inevitably drifted over to watch.

Phil couldn't blame them; he stepped up beind the crowd to see that Clint was setting up for a second round. He wore his field suit, technical fabric molded to every line of his body, electronic quiver slanted across his back. He finished refilling it with recovered arrows--armor piercing tips, nothing special--and attached a new paper to the target and sent it back down to the end of the lane.

Target set, Clint nodded. One of the junior agents said, "Go," and started a stopwatch. Clint's hand blurred as he nocked and shot, nocked and shot, the bowstring ringing loudly, the muscle of his shoulders bunching and jumping. Speed runs, then, which explained why Clint was on the basic range. Phil watched, a small smile curving his lips. It took him a moment to realize that Clint was firing two arrows at once on every shot, drawing them from the quiver between his index, middle, and ring fingers and setting them on either side of the sight. Phil swallowed a laugh; God, Clint still blew his mind sometimes.

"Stop!" the agent with the stopwatch shouted, and Clint froze. After a moment, he relaxed, letting the arrows he'd half drawn slide back into the quiver, and punched the button to return the target. When it slid into view, it was bristling with arrows, overflowing the head and chest targets and filling the rest of the paper in clearly intentional groups. Phil could hear the agents in front of him counting under their breath.

"Fifty arrows in ten seconds," Clint announced. "That ties the world record for rapid pistol fire, ladies and gentlemen."

"And that," Phil announced, "is why Agent Barton is an Avenger."

Several of the more junior agents jumped before scuttling away. The senior agents just nodded at him, waved at Clint, and headed back to their own lanes. "Coulson!" Clint greeted him. "Just the man I wanted to see."

"Oh?"

Clint started pulling arrows out of the target and sliding them back into the quiver. "You remember I said I was going to draft you for home improvement projects?"

"I take it my number's up," Phil said.

Clint flashed him a grin so bright Phil couldn't help but smile back. "Give the man a cigar. Or don't, because I'm not risking burns on brand new carpet. You and me have a date with a knee kicker and some smooth edge."

"Smooth edge?" Phil asked blankly.

"I guess you've never installed carpet before."

"Somehow," Phil said dryly, "this was neglected in my training."

Clint laughed. "I promise I'll be gentle," he said, eyes sparkling.

"You mentioned a 'knee kicker'," Phil said, lips twitching. "Somehow I don't think gentle is the idea."

A knee kicker was just what it sounded like--a tool with one flat end, a shaft, and a padded upright meant to be thumped with your knee, driving the flat end over the edge of the carpet, forcing it down onto the tack nails and up against the wall.

Of course, before they got to that they had to dismantle and remove the guest bed ("I wasn't thinking," Clint said sheepishly. "I found the bed I wanted before I found the carpet I wanted and it didn't occur to me to wait to put it together."), tear up the generic carpet Tony had had installed rather than leaving the floor bare concrete, scrape up excess adhesive, lay smooth edge, lay carpet padding, lay the carpet, and trim the excess off.

They stopped for a break after laying the carpet padding. Clint retrieved a pair of beers from the fridge and they sprawled across the living room set. Phil plucked at his long sleeved t-shirt. He'd pushed it up to the elbows, but they'd been working hard and it was spotted with sweat now, sticking unpleasantly to his skin. "Tell me again why you couldn't hire someone to do this for you? I know SHIELD pays you enough."

"It doesn't feel the same, after," Clint swore. "You just wait and see; you'll understand when we're done."

"If I end up installing new carpet in my place after this, you are drafted in return," Phil said, leaning his head back on the plush back of the couch.

"Of course," Clint said easily. "How's your place coming anyway? Plant still surviving?"

"Against all odds, yes." Phil lifted his head and took a long sip from his beer. On the other couch Clint looked half asleep, head resting on the arm, beer dangling from his fingers. His white sweat-damp shirt clung to his pecs. Phil swallowed. "Pharaoh is doing well; I had a bit of an algae problem for awhile there, but I seem to have gotten it under control. And, uh, he's acquired neighbors."

Clint roused at that and turned on his side to face Phil. "Neighbors?"

Phil nodded. "More fish." He paused, a little embarrassed that his second set of fish were so clichéd, but... "Just guppies, but you have to see them, Clint, they come in the most amazing colors. Metallic green and orange and silvery blue; I've got about ten, but I bought a twenty gallon tank so that I could expand, if I wanted."

He made himself stop and take a sip of beer, but Clint sat up and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Ten?" he asked. "Is it more work to take care of that many?"

Phil shook his head and swallowed. "Guppies are pretty tough, apparently. It's part of why I picked them; I was looking at cardinal tetras, but they're more sensitive to tank conditions. I figure I better stick to fish that can handle lapses in monitoring. And having a whole school means I get something to watch. I swear, I'm beginning to recognize personalities."

Clint smiled. "Got any trouble makers?"

Phil laughed. "Not yet. One of them's a bit of an acrobat, though, always swimming circles around the others." He quirked an eyebrow. "I'm thinking of naming him Clint."

"Careful," Clint warned, "you could end up with a whole second set of Avengers."

"God forbid," Phil said dryly, and they both laughed.

"Well, it sounds like the place might actually be turning into a home," Clint said.

Phil considered. The fish were great, and he'd moved one of his Captain America posters, one of the more artsy ones so that he didn't immediately think of Steve and awkwardness on seeing it, back into the living room. "I don't know," he said aloud. "It's definitely nicer, but I don't know that it really feels lived in, comfortable." It certainly didn't compare to the feeling he got walking into Clint's place, the warmth that seemed to pervade even the entry, the way his shoulders automatically unwound when he toed his shoes off, the way he seemed to smile more, here.

"Well, let's see," Clint said, flopping back on the couch and waving his beer. "You've got plants and pets, how else to make it comfy? Is there anything you particularly like about this place?"

There were a lot of elements of Clint's place that Phil missed when he was home, but when he closed his eyes and pictured them he couldn't see them filling the gap. He huffed a frustrated breath. "There's plenty, but none of it seems like enough."

"Ah, well, one piece at a time," Clint said philosophically. "Try cooking something really pungent, maybe. Onions or garlic are good for that, and you can jump into a stir-fry from there. They say smell is the strongest link to memory; maybe that'll help." Clint rolled off the couch and clapped Phil on the shoulder as he went by. "Come on, we've got a carpet to finish."

Phil groaned but drained his beer and followed Clint back to the guest room. Laying the carpet and trimming it went smoothly, but using the knee kicker was apparently beyond Phil's capabilities. For all his usual coordination, there was something about the little hop to move it along and the swing of the knee into the upright that he couldn't seem to get down, and Clint finally waved him off with a laugh. He followed after Clint with a hammer instead, making sure that the tacks were holding. That was its own kind of torture, because it meant Phil spent an hour crawling after Clint, who was down on his hands and knees, the swing of his leg as he used the knee kicker making his ass flex.

Phil got through the rest of the carpet laying and escaped to the bathroom while Clint reheated a dish he'd made earlier for dinner. Phil washed his hands, then splashed cool water over his face. "He has always been attractive," he muttered to himself, leaning on the counter. He looked his reflection in the eye. "You've done a damn good job of making sure your dick was never the one making decisions, Phil, so why are you back to spending so much time noticing?"

His reflection didn't have anything to say. Phil snorted. "One day a mirror is going to talk back to me," he told himself, "and then I'm going to have to call in the Avengers to fight it off and everyone will know I talk to myself."

"That's okay," Clint said, and Phil jumped and spun to face the door. It was, thankfully, still closed. Clint must have heard him through it. "Everyone talks to themselves. Come on out, let's eat."

Phil quickly ran a damp washcloth over his throat to cool himself down a bit and opened the door. "Anyone ever tell you listening at closed doors is rude?" he asked, leaning a hip against the doorframe.

Clint grinned. "Sure. But then I started getting paid for it, so the lesson never really took."

"Hopeless," Phil said, shaking his head.

"What, the cooking and cleaning don't make up for it?"

"Throw in the singing," Phil shot back, "and I'll consider it."

Clint chortled and stepped back. Phil followed him into the hallway. There was a certain glint in Clint's eye... He took another step back down the hallway, and then he flung out his arms and launched into Don't Stop Believing.

"You are ridiculous," Phil shouted over his singing, but his lips betrayed him, curling into a smile despite himself.

Clint swept a bow and kept going, eyes sparkling.

*

Phil was just wrapping up for the day, hoping to catch Clint on the range--it was only seven, so there was a chance--when Maria swept into his office and crossed her arms at him. She was definitely crossing them at him, and not just crossing them. "You, me, and Jasper, drinks. Now." She said, knocking her knuckles on his desk.

It was an awfully aggressive invitation, but he'd already been winding down, and he couldn't actually remember the last time he'd talked to Maria or Jasper about something other than an op or the Avengers. "Okay," he said, and started shutting down his computer.

After a moment he noticed an uncomfortable edge to the silence and looked up to find Maria staring at him. "Something wrong?"

She blinked and shook her head. "No, nothing."

Phil paused. Something was wrong, but not very wrong, and he figured he'd hear about it over drinks, so he just finished up, retrieved his briefcase, and followed Maria to Jasper's office.

She knocked quickly before opening the door. "Sitwell, look," she said, stepping aside so he could see Phil. "The rumors are true!"

"Rumors?" Phil asked, raising his eyebrows.

"That you be can pried away from work before eight or ten these days," Jasper said. He hit the off button on his monitor and snagged a jacket from a hook by the door on his way out. "We had our doubts."

"I'd protest," Phil said wryly, "but I really was that bad, wasn't I?"

"You really were," Maria said. "What changed?"

Phil started to speak, then changed his mind. "Over drinks," he said.

Jasper shot him a searching look, but he and Maria both nodded and switched to shop talk for the ride off base.

They took him to a bar he hadn't been to before. Not that that was saying much; he hadn't been out for drinks in years, before going for karaoke with the Avengers. He'd been out a couple of times since then, though, with various combinations of the team and their friends and partners. Clint was a constant, though.

It was a nice place. The music was a quieter than the places the team liked to go, and there was a pool table to one side. Maybe he'd ask Clint here another time. For now, he followed Maria and Jasper to a quiet corner. They let him order a drink, first, but he only got a glass of wine because he didn't want to drink too much. Wine promoted sipping.

"You two come here a lot?" Phil asked as they waited for the drinks.

Maria shrugged. "About once a week or so. Usually with a couple more agents, but we didn't want to overwhelm you tonight."

Phil smiled. "I've been out with the Avengers, Maria. A few agents aren't going to drive me back into hiding."

"Aren't they?" Jasper asked. He shrugged when Phil looked at him. "You've never come out with the agents. Makes it seem like you prefer the superhero set."

Phil grimaced. That wasn't what he'd intended at all. "That's not it," he said. "I just..." He pursed his lips thoughtfully, but there wasn't any getting around saying it. "I didn't think the invitations were genuine, at first," he admitted. "I thought people were just being polite, and I did enough holding my tongue and saying the right thing on the job, I didn't want to do it off duty, too. There was always so much to do at work, anyway, and staying late got to be a habit, and then the invitations stopped coming."

The drinks arrived at the table and they all paused for a moment to let the waiter get a few steps away. "So what changed?" Maria asked, poking at her rum and coke with the straw before setting it aside and drinking from the glass.

"Clint asked me to dinner," Phil said.

Maria's eyebrows went up. "Oh, it's like that, is it?"

"What? No," Phil said quickly. "I mean, he likes to cook and Stark built him this incredible kitchen, but he didn't have anyone to cook for, and when I realized that's what he wanted...well, it beats frozen dinners."

"I think you're protesting a bit too much there, Phil," Jasper said, smirking. "And it clearly didn't stop at one dinner."

Phil took a second to get a handle on himself, sipping his drink to cover. Not that that would fool these two, but it was better than babbling. "In my defense, his cooking is fantastic."

"How's his breakfast?" Maria teased, grinning.

Phil went deadpan. "Also fantastic."

Jasper burst out laughing hard enough that he pounded the table once, sending all of their drinks jumping, and Maria rolled her eyes and shook her head. "You don't get to turn the teasing around on me when you just said it wasn't like that," she said, stabbing a finger at him. "Killjoy."

Phil smiled. "I was serious, I have had his breakfast. I fell asleep on the couch after having one too many beers."

"Wait, really?" Jasper asked, swallowing his laughter.

"We were watching a soccer game," Phil said, shrugging. "I brought the beer, he made pizza. Why are you two looking at me like that?"

Maria tilted her head. "I think falling asleep after one too many beers might actually be more significant than sex here," she said. "That's--and please don't take this the wrong way, Phil--that's the most normal thing I've ever heard you talk about. Usually it's all Avengers Initiative and high priority operations and the philosophy of super heroes and security protocols."

Phil tried not to frown, because he knew she didn't mean it the way it sounded, but... "I eat and sleep," he thought of getting the wrinkles out of his suit that morning at Clint's place, "and do laundry like everyone else," he said. "I watch TV. I keep fish."

"Fish?" Jasper asked while Maria choked on her drink in surprise.

"The fish are new," Phil admitted. "Clint gave me one after a mission and it kind
of grew from there." He'd just acquired a small school of neon tetras to add to his guppy tank, but he didn't think they were interested in the details.

"'Clint' is new, too," Maria observed. Phil raised his eyebrows, because Clint had been with SHIELD for six years. "Calling him Clint," she clarified. "It was always 'Barton' before. And now you're calling him Clint and falling asleep on his couch."

And laying carpet in his apartment... Phil turned his wine glass in a circle. "Have either of you even been to his place?"

"That's your department, Phil," Jasper said. "You're pretty territorial about the Avengers, you know."

Phil could feel heat creeping up the back of his neck, but he'd invested a lot in the team and in some ways it was a delicate balance not to be toyed with by unfamiliar agents. "If you had, you'd understand. There's such a warmth to it, a sense of ease and...and of home. I've never felt anything like it. No matter how I clean and decorate and fuss with my place, it never comes close." He could hear the wistful note in his own voice, but he couldn't help it. Going back to his own apartment might not be something Phil avoided anymore, but he still found himself looking for excuses to follow Clint home to the relaxed, cheerful atmosphere of his place.

"Makes you wish you didn't have to leave?" Maria asked. Phil nodded.

Jasper leaned forward across the table. "Has Barton been to your place?"

"Yes. Why?"

"How did it feel?"

Like I never wanted it to end. Phil looked down at his drink. "Oh." He swallowed, feeling a blush touch his cheeks.

"Hey," Jasper said quietly. Phil made himself look up. "It's been my privilege to drive the Phil Coulson clue bus," Jasper said dryly, and Phil couldn't help but laugh and shake his head.

Maria was smiling, too, now. "In your defense, it sounds like falling for Clint was all tangled up with rediscovering the rest of your life."

Phil looked across the table at Maria and Jasper and shook his head. "It's an ongoing process."

"Falling for Clint, or rediscovering your life?" Jasper asked.

"Both." Phil smiled. "You two are good friends." He drained his wine glass. "And because you're such good friends, you're going to tolerate me sticking you with the bill."

"Oh, come on, we just got you out for drinks and you already running off?" Jasper protested.

Maria laughed. "He's had his Moment of Realization," she said. Phil could hear the capitals. "Now he has to run across the city and declare his love."

Phil smirked. "Actually, I thought I'd take a cab."

*

It would be dramatic if Phil turned up at Clint's door at four in the morning, preferably soaking wet after running across the city in the rain. But it was only just after nine, and it wasn't raining. When Clint opened his door dressed in a tight purple t-shirt and blue jeans, barefoot and smelling faintly of crushed herbs, Phil decided he liked this better.

"Phil!" Clint said warmly. "I wasn't expecting you. You want to come in? I've already had dinner, though."

Phil stepped inside and toed off his shoes and followed Clint into the kitchen, where he started the coffee pot. "That's okay," he said. "I didn't come for dinner. I just...I figured out what was missing from my apartment. Why it doesn't feel entirely right."

Clint turned away from the coffee pot and rubbed his hands on his jeans. "Yeah?" he asked, oddly hopeful.

Phil nodded. "Yeah." He swallowed and ran his tongue across his teeth; his mouth was suddenly dry. "It's you. You're missing. I just...I want to be with you. All the time." He stopped, the words suddenly feeling clogged up in his throat.

But Clint's expression just went soft, so soft, and he stepped up inside Phil's personal space and laid and hand on his shoulder, fingers splayed to trace the edge of his throat. "I'd like to kiss you now," Clint murmured.

Instead of speaking, Phil closed the gap himself. The kiss was long and sweet, not all that deep, really, but the play of Clint's lips under his, the hints of his breath, the flicker of his tongue, just little touches; it was all perfect. It was coming home. Clint's arms found their way around Phil's waist as they kissed and Phil leaned against him and let himself enjoy the solid warmth of Clint's body.

Clint leaned his forehead against Phil's when they finally parted. "Stay tonight," he said. "Stay with me."

"Yes," Phil breathed. Then he had to chuckle. Clint hummed inquiringly. "All that work on the guestroom," Phil said ruefully. "Wasted."

"You calling a couple of hours of staring at my ass a waste of your time?" Clint asked archly.

Phil pulled back far enough to narrow his eyes at Clint. "You did that on purpose?"

"I plead the fifth," Clint laughed, and kissed Phil before he could speak again.

Phil decided he'd let it go this time. He kind of liked knowing they'd been building more than one thing together.

~!~