He's exhausted by the time he gets back, fumbling for the key that he knows is there, amongst the IMF issue phone and other various stuff - is that a condom wrapper, really? - that lurks inside the dark abyss of his pocket.
It's been a long day, hell, it's been a damn long week even by his standards, and the adrenaline has finally worn off. He's left aching in a few dozen places from nicks and bruises, a few minor burns from the oven he'd found himself in, and major jet lag from all the times he hadn't slept properly. Running on adrenaline is not something he's stranger to, but this is the first time he's had to do it for almost an entire week, and he's tired.
The key turns in the lock and door clicks open. A sigh of relief slips out as the man steps into the dark apartment, letting the bag hanging on his shoulder drop to the floor and kicking it aside.
He doesn't even bother to flick the light on, making his way towards the bedroom and stripping off the layers he has on. It feels as if he's stripping away the layers of himself he doesn't need, exposing the core of tanned, scarred skin. His shoes follow, left carelessly behind in the corridor because he just can't muster the energy to bother putting them away.
The jeans stay on as the man flops onto the double bed, curling up under comfortable sheets he hasn't had the luxury of sleeping in over the past few days. The shower seems tempting, but would also entail walking a bit further and staying upright a little longer than what he's got energy for, so the idea is tossed aside; tomorrow maybe, when he's feeling a little more alive.
William Brandt is asleep the minute his head hits the pillow, comforted by the familiar scent of home around him.
A few things give away the fact that he's no longer alone in the apartment: the bag kicked to a corner, clothes tossed on the couch and shoes lying in the middle of the corridor. Phil Coulson sighs at the mess, shucking off his coat and padding to the bedroom. He takes his time hanging up his coat and shirt; he's waited all week already, and a few more minutes wouldn't hurt.
There's a lump in the middle of the bed, blond-brown spiky hair peeking over the top and bare toes sticking out of the covers.
Coulson lets a tiny smile quirk at the edges of his lips, balancing on the edge of the bed and reaching over to gently card fingers through the man's hair. The figure in bed stirs but doesn't wake completely, mumbling something softly in his sleep as he shifts closer to the only other source of warmth in the room, blindly reaching out.
Coulson catches those questing fingers with his own, noting the raw skin of the knuckles and half-healed cuts on the fingers.
"How was Dubai?"
He gets a grunt in response from the pile of blankets that is his boyfriend.
"I heard you were in the Burj Khalifa."
This time he gets what sounds suspiciously like 'shut up', mostly muffled by the sheets and the pillow. The smile on his face widens just a fraction, and Coulson relents, settling into bed beside the sleeping man already curled up in his bed. The agent needs to be debriefed, and in any other case Coulson would have gone ahead and done it regardless of the situation, but this is a special circumstance.
He runs a finger over the archer's chest, even though there's no more response from Clint, and curls a possessive arm around his waist.
Clint Barton is a special man, and Coulson is (secretly) glad that he's finally home.