When Phil slides his cock into Clint's ass, it hurts. They've rushed things as it is, and Clint's still not used to this again, and he can't hold back a tiny, little noise.
"You okay?" Phil asks.
Clint squeezes his eyes shut and nods, breathing a sigh of relief when Phil doesn't challenge it. Clint wants it to hurt a little.
"Here," Phil says, guiding both of Clint's hands to his thighs. "Hold your legs."
Doing as he's told, Clint pulls his legs back towards his chest and grunts when it gives Phil better access to his ass, sliding the rest of the way into his body. For a moment they stay like that, frozen together as they try to get their breathing under control. Clint clenches his ass experimentally as he adjusts, loving how it stings a little, and loving how it makes Phil's nostrils flare on a sharp inhale.
"Shut up," Clint says quickly, because they're not here to talk and he's not interested in anything Phil might have to say right now, anyway.
For a moment, he thinks Phil might protest, but then he clenches his ass muscles again and Phil's eyes slide shut in bliss, mouth falling open just a little.
"Yeah," Clint says, voice dropping as he forces his lips to curl into a smirk. "Come on."
Clint's jeans are still around his ankles, feet in the air and restrained by the material, and Phil opens his eyes again so he can reach up with one hand to grab the fabric between Clint's legs, holding him in place. He's got one foot braced on the floor, one knee on the couch, and Clint's ass is practically hanging off the edge, and Clint feels like he's in free fall.
"Come on," Clint urges again, and Phil starts moving.
His thrusts are shallow at first, tentative, mindful of Clint's comfort--but that's not what Clint wants. With his legs held in place, Clint can't do much, but he still tries, arching his back and trying to push his ass back onto Phil's cock.
"Come on, Phil, fuck me," Clint orders, well aware of the raspy quality of his voice and what it does to Phil--well, what it used to do, anyway.
Fortunately, it still seems to have the same effect on him, because Phil's hips falter a little in their gentle back and forth, and then Phil braces one hand against the back of the couch, fingers clutching around the edge of a pillow. The next thrust is hard, Phil's hips snapping forward and hitting Clint's ass with an audible slap. It makes discomfort spike underneath Clint's skin again, and Clint throws his head back, revels in it, and says, "That's it, that's it."
For a moment, Phil's face does a complicated thing, eyebrows drawing together and mouth moving like he's about to say something. He doesn't, though. Clint ignores the look, ignores how Phil visibly pushes it away, ignores everything but Phil's cock in his ass, heavy and hard and hot, and nods encouragingly as Phil starts fucking him in earnest.
Each thrust hums through Clint, his own dick jumping between his legs, but he doesn't touch himself. He throws his head back and loses himself in the rhythm Phil has set, the steady slide of Phil's cock in and out of his body, the slap of skin against skin. Each thrust presses him into the corner of the couch, and they're both making enough noise so that at some point, someone in the next room over bangs on the wall, but they both ignore it.
When Clint next looks up at Phil, Phil's eyes are blank. His knuckles are white where they're gripping Clint's jeans, and past that, Clint can see the scar on Phil's chest, big and raised and ugly. Clint grips his own thighs harder, hard enough to leave marks, doesn't reach out to touch Phil's chest, and instead turns his head in towards the back of the couch. Hiding his face in the pillow, Clint breathes deeply and loses himself in the sensations.
When Clint comes, it's more relief than pleasure. When Phil comes, he squeezes his eyes shut, clings to Clint's legs, and stutters out Clint's name, asking for forgiveness.
Clint pretends not to hear him.
Afterwards, Clint pulls up his jeans without cleaning up. He's sticky with lube and sweat, and sore enough that he'll feel a twinge in his ass for a day or two, he knows. He'd gone commando, so when the material of his jeans brush against his sensitive skin, he shudders slightly. It's not comfortable, but he didn't come here tonight looking for comfort.
He leans back on the couch, slouching in his jeans, barechested and barefoot, and wishes he had a cigarette.
Across the room, Phil's disposed of the condom. He's dressing quietly, neatly, buttoning his shirt one button at a time and carefully tucking it into his pants. Clint stares at a spot between Phil's shoulder blades. He wonders if he's left any marks on Phil. He forgot to check.
Phil's almost all the way dressed, fixing his tie, before he speaks again.
"We'll be in Madripoor this week," Phil says, looking into the mirror instead of looking at Clint.
Clint scoffs and looks away. "Technically, you won't be anywhere this week," Clint points out.
Out of the corner of his eye, Clint can see how Phil's face changes in the mirror, brow lowering and something dark entering Phil's eyes.
"Clint," Phil says.
"It'll be declassified soon, I promise," Phil says, trying for reassuring and failing. They both know Phil can make no such promises, because he doesn't have control over things any more than Clint does.
"Sure," Clint says. "And in the meantime I'll..."
He trails off. He can't bring himself to finish the sentence, to say, I'll continue fucking a dead man.
By the mirror, Phil sighs. "I'll contact you the next time I'm stateside?"
Clint lies down on the couch and rolls over. "Sure."
For a long moment, there's just silence behind him, and he thinks Phil might say something else. Maybe even come back to the couch, lean down, hug and kiss him, and say Clint in that tone he used to reserve just for Clint. But Phil does none of those things. Instead, the silence drags on, before Phil quietly walks out of the room.
Clint pushes down the feeling of disappointment that blossoms in his chest and tells himself it's what he wanted.
Neither of them came to talk, after all.