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Clint buys the clock as a joke. It's nothing serious because this thing between him and Phil is nothing serious. Clint hates labels even though he's now waking up next to Phil at least four days out of the week, if he isn't stuck in the middle of nowhere with just a pack and his bow. But this alarm clock is the most perfect thing ever to get the guy who rarely draws his firearm but never misses a shot when he does.

The alarm blares loudly on the test run and Clint grins. The only way to turn it off is if you shoot the target with the accompanying toy gun, a cute little white replica of what Clint sees every day hanging in the armory. He leaves it on Phil's side of the bed, refuses to think about what that even means, and strolls out to get some more time in at the range before the recruits come and ruin his concentration with inane questions. Hopefully they'll be stupid enough to make a bet with Clint though, so he can win some money.

“What is this?” Phil sounds suspicious when they reach Clint's room that evening, blue eyes narrowed at the white clock.

“An alarm clock. Just try it.” Clint coaxes. “See, it goes off and then you shoot the target with the ridiculously lightweight prop gun,” he hands the replica to Phil, who handles it like it's a live weapon. “and the alarm turns off when you hit the bullseye. Shouldn't be a problem for you.” Clint fiddles with the clock and the alarm goes off when the numbers tick over to the next minute. Phil aims quickly and his expression at the 'pop pop' sound the toy makes leaves Clint doubled over in laughter.

“You're really something else,” Phil murmurs only somewhat sarcastically and starts tugging on his tie to loosen it. Clint steps closer to draw the suit jacket off and kisses Phil's cheek while he's at it. One thing leads to another and Clint forgets about the alarm clock on the table.

- - - - -

They're both light sleepers, it comes with the job. A high pitched beeping jolts Clint awake and his eyes snap open, hand reaching for the throwing knife strapped to the top of the headboard. Phil is next to him, still half-asleep when Clint remembers.

He nudges his bedmate. “Your alarm clock, want the honors?”

Phil shoots him a sleep glare and reaches for the prop gun. “You are getting rid of this today.” Clint nods and watches Phil line up the shot. The 'pop pop' is even more annoying in the morning and Phil grunts. The clock keeps beeping insistently.

It takes a minute for that to sink into Clint's foggy brain. Phil, one of the best shots in the entire S.H.I.E.L.D. division, missed. Phil attempts again and Clint tries unsuccessfully to hide his laughter.

Phil doesn't waste a third try with the white prop gun. He calmly picks up his Glock 17 and aims over Clint's head. Clint's eyes widen and Phil squeezes the trigger. The shot is loud in the bedroom, the alarm clock is shattered and Clint buries his face in the pillows, grumbling about excessive force.

Phil leans over, brushing a dry kiss on Clint's head and gets up to start his day.