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Everyone knows that Phil Coulson is very good at his job.
Everyone knows that Phil Coulson is very good at his job to the exclusion of being any good at anything else. Everyone knows he doesn't have a personal life. Everyone knows it's perfectly normal for him to still be in his office at one in the morning. Everyone knows it's probably best not to ask what he's doing in there, and everyone definitely knows better than to come in and find out.
Phil Coulson knows what everyone knows because he is very good at his job. But the plain truth of the matter is that his office is not that interesting, he'd rather be home at one in the morning any day, and it's been kind of a banner month in terms of his personal life so he'd appreciate a chance to fully enjoy it.
This has not, however, come to pass.
Instead, he's in his office, it's ten past one in the morning, he's been reduced to cleaning his desk out of boredom, and he's locked in an internal debate about whether it'd be unprofessional to check in with transport, or rather, how much he cares about his professionalism at this point. He hasn't quite come to a decision yet, but he's leaning toward not that much, actually, and without some sort of distraction he's actually going to do it.
And the only thing he can think of, beyond the obvious, is coffee. Which is definitely what he needs: that will calm him right down for sure. But the coffee maker's empty and at least getting it running gives him something to do.
It doesn't take nearly as long as he wants it to, or maybe his grasp on time is…not what it would be on an average day. But the machine’s gurgling, the coffee’s done, and he's pouring himself a welcome cup when the hairs at the back of his neck go up before he even registers the barely there, very familiar tread. He turns around. The door opens.
"Agent Barton," he says, striving for pleasantness, welcome, but not expectation. He puts his coffee mug down anyway.
Clint's still fully dressed in his tactical gear and looks momentarily confused, but it passes. He kicks the door shut behind him, and Phil's mind starts cataloging (scratches on his left arm, favoring his left side, split bottom lip, beginning of a black eye). By the time Clint crashes into him, he knows what to be careful of, and just barely rests a hand on the side of Clint's neck.
Clint pulls him up by the front of his shirt and looks at him for a moment, that thousand yard stare, and only blinks when Phil tries to take a step back. Clint follows, eyes narrowing, tracking him carefully. Maintains his hold on Phil's shirt, stays pressed tight. Phil opens his mouth, and is promptly shoved down into his desk chair. He doesn't see it coming and that's probably a sign he should put a stop to things.
But just as suddenly he's got Clint in his lap. Straddling him, breathing against his mouth, and it's as though the tensed string he's felt like all day has been cut. It throws him for a second, how soothing it is just to have him that close, and that second is just long enough for Clint to lean in.
Clint’s lips are still cool and light and his hand is still wrapped around the back of Clint’s neck. He resists the urge to deepen the kiss. He tilts his head back instead, just enough that he can speak.
"Barton," he starts, and Clint's arm is pressed against his throat within a second. Phil saw it coming, had time to block it, but he stays still and lets himself be pinned against the back of his chair.
"No." Clint's voice sounds unused, exhausted by even that small effort, and Phil sighs.
"Clint," he says, rubbing his thumb along Clint's jawline, and that's as far as he gets before Clint kisses him again. Doesn't let his arm drop, but the pressure lessens. Phil runs a hand up his thigh and feels him shift, searching for a better angle. His mouth is still closed and his breaths are warm and unsteady against Phil's cheek. There's nothing Phil can do in the face of that except carefully wind his arm around Clint's waist and ease him closer.
Clint reacts immediately, opening his mouth and bringing both hands up to cradle Phil's face. His tongue just barely flickers against Phil's lips and Phil parts them in order to meet it. He tastes slightly of blood, and Phil runs a surreptitious hand up Clint's left side. He can't feel much; Clint's still wearing his vest, which is at the very least good at protecting him from inquisitive hands trying to survey the damage underneath.
He eases his other hand up Clint's neck and into his hair. Cards through, dust and sweat-covered strands giving way as Clint leans into his touch and eventually breaks the kiss. He presses his cheek to Phil's wrist. His eyes are shut and while he doesn't look peaceful, he looks content in a way Phil doesn't think he's ever seen. His lips brush against Phil's pulse and Phil wonders if he can feel it quicken.
"Clint."
"Yeah?" he mumbles, voice muffled against Phil's skin, and Phil is struck by the highly irrational, significantly unhelpful urge to kiss him again. He resists it.
"You could have at least locked the door."
Clint laughs, wet and low and pre-occupied. His eyes are still shut. "People should knock."
"You didn't." Clint smiles at that, just barely, then nips at the base of his palm before leaning in, opening his eyes enough to fix a lazy leer on him.
"Sorry," he says, not sounding it. "Make it up to you." That, of course, drips with sincerity.
Phil sighs; it's too late, he's too tired. He tips his head up and guides Clint's down. Clint smiles at the contact, curls his fingers over Phil's ears, and opens his mouth again.
It's warm and quiet and still, at first. Slight press of lips, swipe of tongues, slide of their noses against each other as Phil tries to turn his head. Clint hums, his fingers tracing through Phil's hair, and obliges, lets Phil's tongue flicker along his own. Wraps his arms around the back of Phil's neck. Phil runs his hands up and down along Clint's sides, fingers tripping against the pockets and zippers of his vest.
He pulls his mouth back, breathless, feeling like he's lost the only source of oxygen in the room. "Let me?" he says, and Clint's forehead nudges his, because he's too close for a nod to mean anything.
Nerves and unfamiliarity with the context if not the act itself have him fumbling the zippers and straps, but Clint's arms stay around his neck and his mouth finds its way back to Phil's, and it's fine, really, he manages. He slides his hands over Clint's chest, takes in the warmth he can feel through the shirt he's wearing.
Clint flinches when the strokes drift down along his torso. Phil's expecting him not to, anticipated tension and a sneaky attempt to redirect, so he's not entirely sure what to do with the fact that he's not even the one to pull away. Clint sighs as he does, though, and gives him a long-suffering, utterly exhausted look.
"Yeah."
"Broken?"
"Bruised. Don't give me that look, I am telling you, it's fine."
"There's no look. Bruised?"
"Yeah. Got checked out and everything."
"Medical?"
"Sure," Clint says, too quickly, at a slightly higher pitch, and yes, at that point, Phil does employ a Look. Clint rolls his eyes. "Medic. On the plane. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Because—wait, okay?"
Phil slides his palms back up Clint's chest, then up his neck till he's cradling Clint's face in his hands. "I trust you to take care of yourself." He says it earnestly, with a hint of urgency, and it even has the benefit of being true.
Clint blinks; there's a flicker of real uncertainty before he covers it with a smirk. "Man, if I'd known it'd mellow you out so much, I woulda slept with you ages ago."
Phil lets go of him. It's not even calculated, it's just natural, and when he drops his head it's mostly because his neck's starting to ache from holding it in the same position.
"Shit, no." Clint's voice is still rough, lower than normal, and he ducks his own head to be able to catch Phil's eye. "Phil, that's not—"
"I know." He looks up. Clint's brow is furrowed and his mouth is in a straight, tight line. He's worried, trying not show just how much, and Phil feels like an asshole, an idiot, or both. "I know, just..."
"Don't?"
"Not right now."
"Okay," Clint says, careful. His eyes flicker down to Phil's mouth, then back up. Phil leans up again, too fast, and after a beat, Clint leans down to meet him.
It's softer this time: Clint's being gentle with him, when it should really be the other way around. Phil can feel how tense he still is, though. How can he not, when they're so close, pressed chest to chest again. Clint trembles occasionally but then seems to force himself to stop. Phil wants to be tender with him, wants to stroke his hair and kiss his neck, wants to be able to just hold onto him for a while, but he knows better. He bites his lower lip instead, careful to avoid where it's already split, and Clint lets out a choked whine and surges against him.
It's not as sweet after that.
It's dirtier and messy and Clint's tongue seems to want to make itself at home in his mouth and his hips start to shift, just barely, just enough for friction to become an issue. And it doesn't feel as wrong as it should, to consider the possibilities. But right now, Clint's obviously running on little more than residual adrenaline and hope, and he's not even tempted.
He presses a hand to the center of Clint's chest. He's not pushing him away, exactly, but Clint pulls back enough that he can speak again.
"Clint." That's all he has to say. Clint nods, inhales sharply, and by the exhale, he seems ready to collapse. Another breath, and he does. Drops his forehead against Phil's shoulder, and exhales again. Eventually, he turns his head.
"You mean that?" Clint says, roughly, into his collar. Phil slides a hand under Clint's shirt and up around his back. Strokes up and down along his spine. Warm skin and familiar scars are all that greet him and he lets out a sigh of relief.
"Mean what?"
Clint shivers, and Phil ducks his head, nuzzles Clint's temple and takes in the scent of his hair. Which is mostly of dust, at the moment, but Phil knows what it smells like underneath, knows all sorts of inconvenient things, about Clint and himself, and they're all especially obvious and raw right now.
"You trust me to…" Clint makes a complicated, painful sound they'll both deny hearing, like a laugh caught in a sob."Y'know?"
"I do." He speaks without thinking, which is on average rare, but less so when he's got Clint so close to him that thinking is a struggle. He should probably care more, about how hard it is to catch his breath, how easy it is for him to slip in the face of Clint's proximity. "If I didn't—" Clint's lips have been working their way around and at that moment they reclaim his. Phil's mouth is open and Clint's tongue finds its way inside immediately, stroking at Phil's. Cautiously at first, more steadily when he’s not rebuked. Clint breathes into him, and Phil finds himself reluctant to pull his hand away from its steady rediscovery of the skin at the small of Clint's back.
Clint pulls back eventually. Slowly, like there's something strung tight between them and if it's stretched too far, too fast, it'll snap.
"Were you waiting for me?"
"I had work to do." It's absolutely true, but Clint grins for the first time since he came through the door.
"Just 'cause, your desk is clear."
"I was on my way out."
"You were making coffee."
"For the road."
"Sure," Clint says, smile in his tone and in his eyes even as he forces a serious, concerned expression. "You get any sleep at all?"
He wouldn't be asking if he didn't know the answer, but Phil shakes his head anyway. "Some. You?"
"On the plane."
"It's a three hour flight."
Clint shrugs. "Yeah."
"You need at least eight hours."
"You need to take me home," Clint says, eyes closed, forehead pressed against Phil's. "Like, right now."
Phil doesn't bother holding back a smile; Clint can't see him, but even if he could, it wouldn't matter. "Well, if you insist."
"I really fucking do."
They stay where they are for a little longer, though. They're close enough to where they need to be.