If a top secret file on Phil Coulson and Clint Barton's relationship existed, it would look something like this.
The Inciting Incident
Fury calls Coulson into his office and slides a dossier across the desk.
“Got a new one for you, Agent.”
Coulson flips through the file and raises an eyebrow at Fury. “So now we’re literally bringing in circus performers. Don’t we already have our hands full with Stark?”
Fury ignores him. “This guy is the best marksman in the world. He’s been in Special Ops for a while now, but gets kicked out of every agency he’s in.”
“Insubordination with regard to authority figures,” Coulson reads, unimpressed.
“We’re bringing him in.”
“Of course we are,” Coulson sighs.
Fury crosses his arms over his chest as Coulson puts down the file. “I want you to personally make it your responsibility to keep him in check.”
“If no one else ever could, what makes you believe I can?”
Fury’s lips curve into an oh-so-rare smile. “I’m not saying you can. But you’re damned well going to try.”
“So now I’m a babysitter,” Coulson turns to leave.
“Your reading material,” Fury helpfully reminds him.
Coulson begrudgingly picks up the dossier, knowing its contents won’t reveal anything on the man he hasn’t already concluded from a quick glance over.
It’s one of the first and only times he’s wrong.
Clint’s been stalking around the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters with his nose turned up in the air for about five minutes now. No one saw him come in and that’s his first problem with this place. He finds Natasha in the gym and is pleased to see a familiar face as they’ve worked on a few missions together with different teams. He’d heard S.H.I.E.L.D. snatched her up before the Russians could have a crack at her.
“Heard you’ve got a handler,” she says by way of greeting, not bothering to look up from her spot at the punching bag.
“Hello to you too,” Clint deadpans as he watches her fists fly.
She pauses and raises one eyebrow as if to say ‘Oh please, since when do I do pleasantries.’ ’ Except she’d never vocalize it. It’s one of the reasons Clint likes her.
Clint’s lips twitch. “Who’s the guy, then?” He’s not surprised Fury wrangled up some lackey to deal with him. He’d be insulted if he hadn’t.
“Agent Coulson. Hard as nails. They call him the Ice Man.”
Clint rolls his eyes. Honestly, special agents were more infantile than anything the circus had to offer. Including the fucking clowns.
“And what is your assessment, Agent Romanov?”
She throws a kick to the bag, then a quick left punch. “Smart, highly capable, the one you’d want watching your back in case things go to shit.”
Clint hums. After a pause she adds, “And he smiles even less than I do.”
“Well, now I’m impressed.”
She kicks the bag into his stomach.
“Agent Barton,” comes a calm voice behind him. “We weren’t expecting you for another hour yet.”
Clint turns on his heel and faces who he assumes is Agent Coulson (he is rarely wrong in his assumption) except for the fact that he was anticipating some green, wet behind the ears hack. This guy looks like a seasoned vet in his pristine suit, polished shoes, and perfectly straight tie. It seems as though the other agents weren’t exaggerating. He glances at Natasha, who’s now standing beside him. She gives him a sidelong look that says, ‘told you so.’
Whatever, this was just a minor setback. Clint could still break this guy, he was sure of it. “Perhaps you should have anticipated such an event. I mean, will criminal masterminds from other galaxies announce their arrival?”
The man levels Clint a flat but deadly stare. “Are you comparing yourself to alien overlords, Agent?”
Clint shrugs. “I like to think I have a bit more style. And grace.” The man remains unmoved. Clint gives up with an internal sigh and raises his chin. “You my babysitter, then?”
“Agent Coulson,” he says and offers his hands. Clint has a feeling he only does so because it’s standard procedure. “And I’m not your babysitter. Excuse us, Agent Romanov.”
“Sir,” she says and Clint can hear the amusement in her tone.
Coulson starts walking out of the gym and Clint follows him with long strides to catch up.
“So, you got a first name?” he asks, falling into step with Coulson.
“Not where you’re concerned.”
Clint grabs his chest in mock pain. “Agent Coulson, I’m wounded. What if your life depended on it? What if that same alien overlord whose arrival you failed to anticipate was holding you with hostage with a ray-gun, and he told me the only way to save your life was if I told him your Christian name?”
Coulson, the bastard, doesn’t even break his stride. “I’d say this is the most absurd circumstance we’d ever encountered and I would hope you’d deliver a kill shot with the talents you supposedly possess.”
“Supposedly?” Clint huffs as they come to a stop in front of a door. Coulson unlocks it and waves at the open doorway.
“These are your living quarters. Curfew is 2200 hours.”
“Are you shit--”
Coulson continues on. “You’ll be training with the rest of the agents. All drills are mandatory.”
“I don’t need training, Coulson.”
Coulson takes a step forward, so they’re only a breath apart. He’s got an inch or two on Clint, much to Clint’s dismay. “I don’t care how good you think you are. There’s always room for improvement.”
He’s not sure if it’s the words and the context his mind has automatically imagined them in, or the proximity, but he’s decided riling this guy up is not only going to be fun, it’s going to be fantastic.
He lets his eyes trail over Coulson, his jawline, the breadth of his shoulders, before looking back up. “Do you apply that philosophy to all circumstances?” He knows his voice is low, flirty, and he’s two seconds from being thrown out on his ass.
Coulson clenches his jaw but his face betrays nothing otherwise. “You’ll report tomorrow at 0600, Agent. And from here on out, you’ll address me as sir.”
Clint smirks briefly before stepping into the room and addressing Coulson in salute. “Yes, sir.”
Coulson rolls his eyes and walks away, muttering something about egomaniacs and children.
Clint closes the door, throws himself down on his too-hard twin bed and imagines just how much ‘My First Name is Agent’ Coulson has practiced in his private life to get things ‘just right.’
Clint Barton: Private Eye
Barton is lounging in the armchair in his office when Coulson enters. “Your full name is Phillip Matthew Coulson; you were born on February 14, 1969, which is all kinds of hilarious in my opinion. Your parents are Rita and William Coulson, both of whom are retired and living in beautiful, sunny, Malibu Beach. You grew up in New Hampshire and went to Hampton College of all places; Coulson -- you little hippie -- until you decided you’d rather make war instead of love. You joined the Marines, where you were impressive enough to make it onto S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar. It didn’t hurt that you were submitting papers about bio-weapon machinery and astrophysics to scholarly publications in your spare time. And now, here you are; Agent Philip ‘call me Phil but really call me Sir’ Coulson, glorified babysitter to an ex-circus performer.”
Coulson sheds his jacket and throws it over a chair before heading for the bottle of brandy he keeps in his credenza for occasions such as this.
“Am I supposed to be awed that you broke into Fury’s office and picked the lock on his file cabinet?”
Barton sits up, hands on his knees. He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt and both are far too tight on him. Barton makes him wish he hadn’t quit smoking ten years ago.
“How do you know I didn’t hack into the server’s mainframe? I’ve got skills you’ve never seen.”
Coulson doesn’t want to know about any of Barton’s skills. Doesn’t lie in bed at night imagining how those calloused fingers would feel tracing the length of his cock and stroking him to hardness; doesn’t picture the ways that sharp tongue could lash him into orgasm.
Frankly, he’s surprised it took Barton this long. It’s been a month since his placement with S.H.I.E.L.D. and Barton’s been playing the ‘Rumpelstiltskin’ game with him nearly every day. Some of Coulson’s personal favorite guesses were Gargamel, Ozzy, and Mandy.
“The files aren’t stored electronically, Agent. Fury assumes any Tom, Dick, and Harry would guess they were. No one looks for physical copies anymore. This isn’t Watergate.”
Barton laughs, and Coulson wishes it didn’t cause his pulse to quicken.
He stands up, stretching his arms over his head, a silver of skin making itself known. Coulson takes another pull of his drink.
“Might have been an easy breaking and enter job, but I still got what I went in for,” he says, walking in front of Coulson, before pausing, just off center. “Phil,” he says, the word deliberate, his voice a low, smooth rumble in Coulson’s ear.
Coulson’s grip tightens on his tumbler. “Sir,” he reminds him, knowing it’s redundant. He can feel the heat radiating off Barton’s body, can feel his breath on his neck. “It’s nearly curfew, Agent.”
If his voice sounds thick, he blames it on the burn of the liquor.
“Pity, that,” Barton murmurs, and then is gone in a flash.
Coulson pinches his brow and lets out the groan he was holding onto. The past month with Barton had been – challenging, to say the least. Coulson wasn’t used to an agent questioning his every move. Or flirting with him so blatantly. He was convinced it was part of Barton’s game with authority figures; throw them off-kilter, piss them off, make them give up on you before they even give you a chance. But Coulson wasn’t about to give up. He just hadn’t planned on wanting the man more than he wanted air.
Field Ops is Code for Flirt Ostensibly
They’re beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. Natasha’s got a HYDRA agent in a choke hold, while Viper climbs up the edge of the bridge toward the Hellicraft that’s hovering above.
“Not a kill shot, Barton,” comes the voice in Clint’s ear. It rolls over him, through him.
“With all due respect, sir, I can end this asswipe once and for all.”
“Negative. We need him alive.”
“It’s your call, sir,” he sighs and shoots Viper in the arm. He falls into the water where Sitwell and Cale are already standing by to fish him out.
“So, who's in charge of these missions officially?” Clint asks when they’re in the break room back at base, the rest of the team having already gone their separate ways after the debrief.
Coulson’s pouring a cup of coffee. “Fury approves them, but I'm in charge of ground-ops.”
“Hmmm,” Clint intones, rummaging through the fridge for his leftover pasta. He always craves carbs after a mission.
“What?” Coulson asks, hint of annoyance in his voice.
Clint looks up at him. “Just not used to taking orders from a suit,” he says, taking his food to the microwave.
Coulson’s leaning back against the counter in a way that could almost be considered casual. “Would you prefer to see my medals? My former uniform?”
Clint grins lasciviously and cocks his hip against the cabinets. “Is that an invitation to your bedroom?”
Coulson chokes on his coffee. He’s as graceful as he can be when he dabs at his mouth and lapel of his suit with a napkin. “Keep this up, Barton, and I’ll file a sexual harassment suit,” he says dryly and then he strides out of the room, leaving Clint to gape at not only his ass in those impeccable suits but also the way his lips curved around each syllable just then, his tone downright flirtatious.
Well, fuck. Clint is instantly hard and was already dreading the walk to the showers.
Clint Barton is a Horrible Singer and Phil Coulson Has No Willpower
The first time Coulson realized that Barton took over the headquarters lounge like it was his own dorm room was also the last time Coulson should have ventured in there. No one said he listened to the orders he gave himself.
He stood in the doorway and watched as Barton chewed a handful of popcorn and looked down at his tablet, which had headphones connected to it.
“We’ll move to Paris, shoot some heroin and fuck with the stars,” Barton sings loudly, badly. Coulson winces as he walks into the room. Barton is nodding his head seemingly in time with his music, not looking up. For an expert, he sure is letting someone sneak up on him. And then Coulson notices the slight shift of his demeanor, the way a muscle jumps in his cheek. He totally knows Coulson is there.
“Get jobs in offices and wake up for the morning commute,” Barton sings as Coulson finally moves into his line of vision and drops down on the other side of the couch. Barton’s wearing a white t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Coulson’s mouth immediately runs dry, and he fumbles with the remote.
Barton pulls one of the earphones out and Coulson can hear the persistent beat from here.
“Sir,” he nods. He always makes the word sound charged.
“Agent,” he replies back.
“Lovely weather we’re having.”
Coulson can’t help; he lets out a laugh. “Read your US Weekly, Barton.”
Barton scoffs and holds up his iPad. “Hunger Games. I leave the trashy stuff to you, you reality-TV-loving freak.”
Coulson shrugs. “I enjoy watching lives that are weirder than my own.”
Barton laughs and goes back to his book. Coulson flips through his DVR and finds the Nadal/Federer final he hasn’t had a chance to watch yet to official S.H.I.E.L.D. business regarding the artifact they’d been instructed to find.
Barton looks up, still one headphone out of his ear.
“Oh! The final, right? I saw the updates from ESPN on my twitter feed. Nadal kicked his ass!”
Coulson feels the tension flood into his shoulders and sighed like the weight of the world was crushing him, pressing stop on his recording.
“I hadn’t watched it yet, Barton.” He says as he erases it. No point now.
Barton tosses his iPad down beside him. “Oh fuck, man, I’m sorry. I thought you’d flipped to a replay. But hey, this can’t be considered a spoiler, right? How many times has Federer beat him, really?”
Coulson stares at him, waiting for Barton to catch himself. When nothing is forthcoming he prompts, “Man?”
Barton’s prior chagrin leaves his face immediately, replaced by incredulity. “Seriously? We are so off the clock right now, sir. Does it really matter?”
Coulson grits his teeth, clicking absently at the remote to find something, anything to put on. “Yes, it matters. There are boundaries. When you forget them, things happen.”
He knows he shouldn’t look over, knows he’ll end up regretting it but Barton’s been silent for at least 15 seconds now.
He gives in and immediately regrets it.
“Oh yeah?” Barton asks, voice low and breathy as his eyebrows waggle. “What kind of things?”
“You’re being inappropriate," he bites out, eyes glued to the parted ‘v’ of Barton’s thighs which slowly fall open as he eyes Coulson like he was a dime store hooker. "And close your legs.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before,” Barton says, sadly obeying, humor evident in his voice.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“Yeah. There is,” Barton sighs as his body slumps a little further down on the couch and he rolls his head back against the cushions, gazing at Coulson with bedroom eyes. “Like first kisses with someone new. Wet and slow, where you forget to breathe and all you can think about is getting their tongue in your mouth and how soon you can feel their body against your own.”
Just then, the alarm bell goes off, singling it’s time for curfew. Coulson’s eyes are locked on Barton’s and he’s sure his face is flushed, sure Barton can hear the blood rushing in his ears and can see the swell of his cock as he’s jolted into hardness just from his words.
Barton doesn’t move, just eyes Coulson steadily, the heat there palpable, his breathing sharp and uneven. He’s never heard Barton breathe hard before and he has numerous past missions to go on, well documented at that, as evidence.
“It’s curfew, Agent,” he says, wincing at the sandpaper-rough sound of his voice.
“Come with me,” Barton says. It’s as close to a plea as he’s ever heard.
“We shouldn’t do this,” Coulson says, biting his lip as his cock pulses against his briefs.
Barton reaches out, ever-so-slowly, and drags his finger over Coulson’s knee. “With all due respect, sir, we’ve already been ‘doing this’ for months.”
Coulson can’t exactly argue with that. “You go first. I’ll meet you there in 10.”
Barton lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a moan. “Yes, sir.”
Coulson shakes his head, grinning to himself as Barton gets up and out of the room in record time. “Bastard.”
Reason #6578 Why Fraternization Should Not Occur On Base
Coulson moans deep in his throat as Clint’s lips travel in a hot blaze across the skin of his throat, licking and sucking at the thick cords of his neck, tense beneath his tongue. He wants to unknot that fucking tie and rip the buttons off his perfectly crisp white shirt.
Coulson’s hands are tight on his hips, not moving.
“We need to stop,” Coulson gasps, sounding like he doesn’t even believe his own words.
“Give me one good reason,” Clint breathes against his neck, delighting in the spike of Coulson’s heart rate.
“I can’t tell you how many codes of protocol we are breaching right now,” Coulson grits out, his fingers flexing against Clint’s ass.
“Oh yeah, talk dirty to me,” Clint moans with exaggeration. “Sir,” he adds, for effect.
He nips at Coulson’s jaw, his chin, his bottom lip, and feels a small victory as Coulson sighs against him, hot breath fanning against his ear. It’s been three days since the first and only time he’s had this. He’s been climbing the walls with frustration.
“I swear to god, I’ll choke you until you can’t breathe.”
Clint presses his body firmly against Coulson’s, dragging his erection against his thigh and licking at the shell of his ear.
“Mmm, wouldn’t have pegged you for autoerotic asphyxiation. Want to put your hands around my throat until I come?”
Coulson’s hips jerk with a slight twitch. “Who said anything about you coming?”
Clint laughs like it was punched out of him. “A sadist, then?”
Coulson growls and finally gives in, biting sharply behind Clint’s ear. “I cannot believe this conversation has gone on this long.”
Clint pulls back to look at him, hands irm on the back of Coulson’s neck. “I can’t believe this conversation is happening at all,” he says darkly, before claiming his lips in a fierce kiss. Their lips slide together, all tongue and wet heat. Coulson’s hands have a death grip on the curve of his ass; Clint pushes backward into the touch before thrusting forward.
“You’re impossible,” Coulson pants against his mouth, running his tongue over Clint’s bottom lip.
“You love it, sir,” Clint smirks flicking his tongue into Coulson’s mouth.
Just as Coulson is finally feeling Clint up with purpose, just as they’re thrusting wildly and Coulson’s hand is fisting his hair while the other rubs furiously at Clint’s cock, the alarms start blaring.
They pull back and look at one another. Naturally, Coulson’s walkie-talkie goes off in the pocket of his jacket.
“And this, Agent Barton, is why we don’t do this in the middle of the afternoon when an imminent threat warning has been issued.”
“You were totally into it,” he grins. Coulson rolls his eyes and answers the call.
“Are you saying we can do this on afternoons when there isn’t a threat warning?!” he yells from the doorway of the supply closet, after Coulson has fixed his tie and is racing down the hall, the sprinkler system ruining a ‘perfectly good suit’ as Coulson would say.
“Ass in gear, Barton!”
Clint huffs, gathers up his bow from the shelf and follows.
Not because Coulson tells him to, no way. He just figures the cold water will be good for his persistent erection.
Quality Time and Field Agents Do Not Go Hand in Hand
Clint finds Coulson in the hanger, brushing at his suit furiously. It’s almost… cute.
“So,” he says, and hates that Coulson doesn’t so much as jump. “We’re in Nevada. Mission over. How bout we hightail it to Vegas?”
Coulson turns around, still trying to get the dirt off him. “We have a huge debrief to take care of, Barton. This was kind of a shit show, in case you hadn't realized.”
Clint shrugs. “True, but we found the God of Thunder. Isn't that cause enough for booze, gambling and copious amounts of sex?”
Coulson finally gives up on the ruin that is his suit. “And then we lost him again. Also, it's exhausting keeping up with you. That needs to be said, repeatedly.”
Clint takes a step closer and deliberately licks his lips. 'Oh, I'll repeatedly exhaust you, alright. Come on, boss man. You know you want to fuck me on a California king bed in a suite that would make even Stark jealous.”
Coulson snorts. “And is Stark the one paying for this impromptu sexcapade?”
Clint’s stride in Coulson’s direction falters. “Never say sexcapade again.”
Coulson sighs and not in an exasperated ‘why do I put up with you’ way, but in a deadly serious way that causes Clint’s spine to stiffen.
Coulson gaze is surprisingly soft, however. “Clint. If there was any possible way for me to swing this, you know I would.”
It’s perhaps the first time Coulson’s used his first name outside of the bedroom. It causes something inside him to light on fire.
Clint rubs a hand over the back of his neck and sighs. “I know. Hey, what’re the odds we can get a week off at the same time?”
Coulson looks at him like he has two heads. Clint should know; they encountered a two-headed troll-type thing two weeks ago in a cave in Cyprus.
Coulson raises an eyebrow.
Clint stalks forward and slips his hand under Coulson’s jacket, fingers skimming along his ribcage. “Alright, how’s this: what’re the odds Stark can occupy Fury with discussions of this whole ‘Avengers Initiative’ B.S. long enough so we can charter his super-powered private jet and sneak off to Vegas for…”
Coulson’s lips betray the faintest twitch.
“…a few hours?”
Coulson does laugh then, and it’s a gorgeous sound. Clint tries to make it happen as often as he can.
“Agent,” he says, nipping sharply at Clint’s neck while Clint’s fingers skid along the ridges of Coulson’s spine, “If this is your way of saying you’re bored with our sex life and want to spice things up a bit, we can just go to a cheap motel.”
Clint groans when Coulson brings their hips together.
“Not fucking bored, jesus. Just want you to my fucking self for more than 30 goddamn minutes at a time.”
Coulson stills and Clint doesn’t blame him; he’s just as surprised by the confession.
Coulson rests his forehead against Clint’s, fingers trailing down his arm. “What would you say to Atlantic City? Closer to headquarters.”
Clint smiles at him, all teeth, and feels his chest loosen and then expand with an emotion he’d rather not analyze too deeply. “I say sir, yes sir.”
Predictably, Coulson’s radio goes off, inquiring about their location, before their lips can meet.
By Odin, Clint will make this damn AC thing happen.
You Can’t Spell Oblivious without Clint Barton
They don’t stand a chance of making it to the bed as Barton tackles him the second he opens the door, pushing him against it and dropping to his knees in an instant. Coulson is hard from the first touch of Barton’s tongue and the feel of his hair beneath his fingertips.
He’s been away for weeks, the Arctic air brutal and unforgiving, still lingering on his skin. He’s forgetting all about that now, though, heat blooming inside him at the feel of Barton’s hot mouth engulfing him.
Barton sucks him down, hard and fast, without preamble while Coulson breathes raggedly through his nose and tries not to reveal the trembling of his thighs and calves. He needs this, badly. Hasn’t stopped thinking about it.
“Clint,” he sighs, letting the word wash over him, fill the room. Barton moans around him in encouragement and pulls him closer. Coulson doesn’t need to be told twice and starts thrusting into Barton’s mouth, fucking his face while Barton just laps it up and takes him even deeper.
“Yeah, baby,” he moans, looking down at him, fingers pressed firm against Barton’s jaw. “Take me in, take all of me, god,you love it, don’t you?”
Barton moans around him, the feel of the vibration causing his balls to tighten even more. He drags his thumb across the corner of Barton’s mouth. “Fuck, you’re so damn good,” he groans, and starts thrusting harder, faster, feeling Barton choke a little around him, slurping obscenely until all he can hear is the roaring in his ears and the rush of his orgasm as it ebs through him. He collapses down the door while Barton licks slowly over his cock, drops of come dribbling from his mouth. Coulson holds his face in his hands and kisses him, hard and rough while Barton pulls at his own jeans.
“Phil,” he pants as their lips slide together. “Fuck, Phil, touch me.” This is the only place he lets Barton get away with using his first name. Well, that isn’t true. The rare times they have together that aren’t work related, the handful of movies they went to, or, even rarer vacations they went on it was obviously allowed. But most of their time is spent in Barton’s room, or the rec room or, on rare occasions, his apartment, and soon that was all going to change.
He shoves his hand in Barton’s jeans and strokes him roughly, thumbing the head slick with pre-come. It makes his dick twitch painfully. “Come for me, baby,” he sayes, biting at Barton’s neck and jerking his cock with quick, short flicks of his wrist that are sure to do the trick. Barton comes with a cry just as he strokes the head for a final time, squeezing roughly.
Barton lifts Coulson’s shirt over his head and pulls him down onto the unforgiving carpet, burrowing his face against his chest. Coulson allows it, too far gone to consider moving to the bed right now.
“So we found Captain America. In one piece and all.”
Barton’s hand draws circles on his chest, his lips rubbing over Coulson’s nipple.
“The Iceman Commeth?” Clint asks rhetorically, laughing at his own joke.
Coulson allows himself to card his fingers through his hair, still marveling in how right this feels, how he wouldn’t be able to give it up now if his life depended on it.
“You know,” Barton starts, propping his chin on Coulson’s chest. “They used to call you The Iceman.”
Coulson raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” He isn’t surprised, but Barton looks adorably confused right now.
“Yeah. They stopped shortly after I arrived, though. According to Natasha.”
Coulson hums. Barton’s still looking at him, as if trying to put the pieces together in his brain.
“Am I a melter of hearts or something?”
After over a year of this, Coulson would’ve thought Barton could read him like a book.
He pulls him down to his chest and kisses his hair. “Something like that.”
Domestic Bliss Isn’t All That Domestic
Coulson finds Barton in an abandoned R&D workshop with Tony Stark. If he hadn’t seen Stark already, the blaring music and sounds of boisterous laughter would’ve been a dead giveaway.
“What are you doing here, Agent?” he asks after lowering the volume on the sound system, knowing neither of them would. He resists the urge to cross his arms. He’s been feeling far too much like a parent lately when it comes to the Avengers, and it’s only going to get worse, after Fury just gave him his latest babysitting detail. If asked a year ago, he would have laughed at anyone daring to suggest Barton would get on his nerves less than anyone else in his charge.
Right now Barton is… he looks like he’s in the middle of a fashion show. There are empty pizza boxes scattered around, and Stark looks mighty pleased with himself as he fiddles with a strap around Barton’s neck. “Hawkeye here was feeling left out, so I designed him a suit.”
Coulson prides himself on the fact that he lasted a full minute before his eyes traveled over Barton’s body.
“So I see,” he says dryly, ignoring the quickening of his own pulse. Barton’s pants are so tight they look pasted on. His arms are gloriously uncovered, muscles bulging. Everything is black and tight and skin and Coulson is hit with an aching want. Except he refuses to have an erection with Stark in the room.
“I think he likes it,” Stark mock-whispers. Barton’s been eye-fucking Coulson the entire time, cocking his hips a little before turning around and throwing a coy glance over his shoulder, like he’s a model on a runway. He shows off the gorgeous curve of his ass, that same ass Coulson was balls-deep in just last night as he squeezed it beneath his palms and drove in harder, faster, until Barton was clawing at his back and moaning the filthiest things imaginable in his ear.
“Is this really necessary?” he asks, voice hoarse to his own ears.
Barton’s eyes dance. “Well, Natasha shouldn’t be the only one to be objectified on the field. I’m very dedicated to equal opportunity ogling for the greater good.”
Coulson’s eyes narrow and he pointedly ignores Stark, knowing all too well the shit-eating grin he’d find there.
“I’m pretty sure Thor is objectified, Agent.”
“Touche. He’s not from this planet, though.”
“Really, Coulson,” Stark says, “It’s actually a highly technically sound suit. I’ve created some lightweight material that will allow your boy to glide from tree to tree with smooth agility. Or whatever the fuck he does. And that harness for his weaponry will never be a burden. Seriously, Barton, if you see one bruise, you tell me. I’m a fucking perfectionist.”
Barton naturally ignores this and instead replies with, “Fuck you, Stark, I don’t swing from trees.”
Stark holds up his hands. “I didn’t say swing. I said glide. Coulson, did I say swing?”
Coulson pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Play nice, gentleman.” He wishes he didn’t sound so amused.
He catches Barton’s eye and he’s back to staring, the rest of the world falling away. He feels a jolt of electric current surge through his body, all the way to his toes. It’s suddenly far too hot in the room and his tie feels like it’s choking him.
Stark coughs. “Yes, well, I’m gonna go check on everyone’s favorite war hero.”
“Don’t bait him!” Coulson calls after Stark.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Phil!”
“Agent Coulson to you!” He’d never get a ‘sir’ out of Stark so he’s never bothered to try. He shakes his head and turns back to Barton.
“He’s got a hard-on for the good captain,” Barton says, simply.
“Of course he does,” Coulson sighs. “I assume you’ve heard about the move to Stark’s mansion?”
Barton leans back against the desk and crosses his legs at the ankle. “Oh, you mean Operation 'Here We Are, Evil-Doers, Come and Get Us?’ Yes, Fury briefed us this afternoon. Aces.”
Coulson has to bite his lip to keep from grinning. “Let me guess: you and Stark were the only opposition?”
Barton snorts and reaches a hand out, almost absently, beckoning Coulson closer. It’s a small move that shouldn’t make his stomach flip. “You kidding me? He’s fucking thrilled. Easier for him to seduce Golden Boy.”
Coulson closes the distance between them and gives in to the temptation to run his hands all over Barton’s bare shoulders and forearms, feeling the muscles jerk beneath his touch. “That’s going to complicate things,” he says, mostly for his own ears.
Barton groans and leans into Coulson’s touch, presses his hand into the small of his back.
“S’working for us,” Barton murmurs, his teeth flicking over Coulson’s earlobe.
“That’s different,” Coulson replies firmly as he palms his way across Barton’s suit, down his back and over his perfectly shaped ass.
“Oh yeah?” Barton moans, voice low and already raspy, his own fingers playing over Coulson’s ass. “How so?”
“You’re not a virginal super soldier and I’m not a billionaire playboy,” he says flatly.
Barton laughs loudly and turns his head so their lips meet, slow, deep and unhurried. When they part, he’s still smiling. “Fury says you’re moving into the mansion.”
“Temporarily,” he cautions but Barton isn’t deterred.
“Can I decorate our room? I’ll make it nice and drab, don’t you worry. No bright colors of any kind. Except a lava lamp. Because you have a hippie soul, Coulson.”
Coulson bites at his lips, muffling the sound of his own shaking laughter. “I have my own room, Agent.”
“Hmmph. I’d better at least have a full-size bed since we’re now on Stark’s dime. I can’t fuck in a twin anymore, Phil, I’m serious. I have bruises in places I didn’t know existed and I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.
Coulson’s laughter forces its way loose, rumbling against Barton’s throat. “Believe me, it’s no picnic on these old bones, either.”
Barton presses their hips together and damn, that suit really leaves nothing to the imagination. He groans low in his throat at the thick, hot feel of Barton’s cock against him. Barton plants teasing kisses along his jaw.
“That’s because you’re too much of a stick-in-the-mud to allow me off base after curfew so we can fuck in your bed. Honestly, sir,” he says, with fake exasperation.
“I let you stay a few times,” Coulson reminds him, squeezing Barton’s ass and starting a slow glide. “The Director had my ass, if you recall.”
Barton chuckles. “This isn’t what I meant by keeping an eye on him, Agent,” he says in his best Fury impression.
“Something like that, yeah,” Coulson sighs. “He advised me that I’m going to be sent on more aerial patrols soon.” The words sound fragile to his own ears, and he realizes he’s been thinking of saying them since he arrived. If he weren’t a trained Special Ops agent and ex-Marine,he wouldn’t have been able to detect the slight stiffening in Barton’s stance.
“So in other words, no lava lamp,” he says, flippantly, but there’s something lacing his tone. They don’t talk about this thing between them. It just is. They dove in that one evening in the rec room and never looked back. When Coulson told Fury for real, which was only recently, he’d replied, “You already had a bias for him, Agent. This doesn’t change much. Just don’t let your heart make the decisions your head should.” And that had been sort of that. He hadn’t really anticapted the slow slide of falling in love with a cocky, irritating-yet-devastatingly-perfect superior marksman -- but stranger things have happened; Coulson sees them almost every day of his life.
He tightens his hold on Barton and kisses his shoulder, pressing his lips to heated skin. “Won’t be for long,” he says, making promises he shouldn’t. On any other day, he would’ve had a witty comeback. But for some reason, today feels different. “And I’ll be on mansion babysitting duties first.”
Barton doesn’t really talk feelings, and neither does Coulson. It’s one of the reasons they fit so well together. He’s pretty sure, though, that they’re on the same page here. He knows it for a fact when Barton leans his forehead against Coulson’s and says, “Yeah well, I ain’t going nowhere,” no evidence of sarcasm or teasing in his voice.
Reason #1350 Clint Barton and Tony Stark Should Not Converse At All Ever
Clint flops gracelessly into the kitchen chair beside Tony and puts his head in his hands, groaning.
He looks up at Stark, his eyes feeling as dry as sandpaper. “How the fuck do you keep from jumping your guy in the field?”
Tony raises an eyebrow but otherwise doesn't look at Clint. “It’s a honed skill that one must perfect, Barton. And one you apparently haven’t mastered, despite being a sick shot.”
“Apparently not,” Clint agrees.
Tony looks at him now, eyes flaring. “If you’re about to confess a deep burning desire to nail Captain America, you’ll have to give me a moment while I decide if I need the armor to take you down or not, bro or no bro.”
Clint rolls his eyes. “Please, Stark, I’d have you on your back before you could say Star-Spangled Man.” He interrupts Tony’s ‘hey’ and continues on. “Besides, I was talking about my own desire to jump Coulson whenever, wherever.”
Tony scoffs and presses some keys on his tablet. “Please, you don’t even see Agent Love in the field. Try standing right beside solid muscle in a tight nothing-left-to-the-imagination suit.”
Clint raises an eyebrow. “Thought you said you perfected it, Stark?”
Tony’s lips twitch. “Even a finely tuned motherboard can have a glitch or two in the mainframe.”
Clint shakes his head and reaches for a muffin. “You’re such a nerd.”
Tony shrugs. “You brought it up, man.”
“I did,” Clint groans. “Hey, so, I’ve always meant to ask you; is super soldier serum sex really that super?”
Tony raises his head, eyes dancing mischievously. “There’s one two many S’s in that sentence. Let’s put it this way: there aren’t enough superlatives in the world to describe it. And you’ll never find out.”
Clint barely stops himself from chucking the muffin at him. “Christ, I don’t want Captain Perfect. I’m just – frustrated. And you might think your fucking walls are soundproof, but they’re not. How long do you two go anyway? Jesus Christ.”
Tony hums. “Four hours on a good night. That’s multiples, too.”
Barton slams his head onto the desk and lets out a loud grunt.
“Whoa, you Hulkin’ out on me, Barton?”
He glares at Tony. “That’s just. That’s just cosmically unfair, is what that is.”
“I’m so fucking confused here, Barton. Are you having trouble getting it up or something? Is he? I can probably make you something more powerful than Viagra.”
“We’d have to be in the same place in order to get it up. Fury has him back to night shifts and retcon and mission planning. Says now that everyone’s settled in and working as a happy functioning family with two gay dads--”
“Fury did not say –“
“--that Coulson’s back to mission scoping and all that shit. So honestly, all I ever do is hear his fucking voice in my ear out on the fucking field and then he’s gone by the time we’re in debrief because Fury wants him at headquarters while Cap debriefs us at the mansion’s conference room. Then he’s at S.H.I.E.L.D. till all fucking hours of the night and sleeps there and then he’s either out patrolling on the fucking Hellicraft or having my back in the field where I can barely see him. And rinse, lather, repeat.”
By the time Clint finishes, his frustration is through the roof and Tony is staring at him, mouth slightly open.
“Well, fuck, you’ve got it bad.”
“I hate you, Stark.”
Tony laughs. “Look, just. Talk dirty to him on a private com channel during the next mission or something. Or sneak onto base and blow him in his office. You’re good at things like that. Uh, sneaking onto bases, that is.”
Now Clint does throw his muffin. It’s caught mid-air by Cap, who’s sauntered into the room wearing nothing but a white t-shirt and red boxers. His hair is mussed and he looks like someone who’s been thoroughly fucked. Clint wishes the muffin had hit him in the face.
“Corn. My favorite. Thanks, Clint,” Cap smiles at him sleepily, completely sincere, without a trace of sarcasm in his voice. Clint really did want to dislike the guy from the start, for the mere fact that now he was going to have to take orders from someone else when he’d only just warmed up to taking orders from his boyfriend. On missions, anyway.
“Ain’t no thing,” he nods and watches with a stab of jealousy as Cap squeezes Tony’s shoulder and mutters a quiet, ‘morning’ to him. He wants Coulson’s hands on him and not even necessarily in a sexual way. Just, wants to touch his hand or his back or something. He really is losing it.
Tony covers Cap’s hand with his own and cranes his neck backward. “Hey,” His voice goes all soft around the edges in moments like this with Cap; Clint feels uncomfortable witnessing it even more than hearing the sounds of their fucking.
He can tell they desperately want to kiss; it’s radiating off both of them. This is a fairly recent thing, but fuck if it looks anything but casual. Clint still remembers the night two weeks after Cap had arrived, so to speak. He and Tony got drunk in the billiard room of the mansion while Coulson was out making the final arrangements for their first ‘test’ mission.
“He’s so… he’s just so good,” Tony had slurred.
“He’s like, a phoenix rising from the ashes. Except he’s like, cold and shit.”
“Yes! Yes, Barton! Good man!” Tony had shouted, and clinked their glasses together. “And that body. I’m telling you, my Cap paraphernalia as a kid never looked like that.”
“This is getting slightly disturbing,” Clint had intoned, while thinking of Coulson’s chest. That broad, perfect fucking chest. A little golden with light hair dusting down, all the way down...
“He’s hot, I’m just saying he’s hot. But, no but he’s cold, right? He was cold. He’s a Capsicle.”
Clint had snorted beer through his nose. “Are you saying that because you want to lick his dick like a---”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Barton,” Tony had said, waving his glass in his face.
Then they both had dissolved into laughter and two weeks later it was obvious to the entire team, and yes, even Fury, that something was going on between them. Something that left Cap blushing at breakfast when Tony came whistling down stairs, cheery in ways he hadn’t been before; no longer sniping at Cap for taking the last bagel or grumbling over a call he’d made on a mission the night before.
Now, Clint politely averts his eyes, even though he does kind of want to see – it’s a fucking hot visual and he’s hard-up at the moment. Nevertheless, he keeps his gaze trained on the table and listens to the soft smacking of lips and a sigh or two before Cap clears his throat. He watches as he moves to get coffee, throwing a grateful look in Clint’s direction. He knows what it’s like to be in the damn honeymoon stage. Hell, he still feels like he’s there and it’s been over a year now.
His phone buzzes on the table and he taps at it without picking it up.
Pack a bag and meet me on the roof in 45. Convinced Fury to let you scout with me. Said I needed someone with eyes like a hawk.
If Phil Coulson were a man inclined for emoticons, Clint is 100% sure one would have been included at the end of that sentence. He was never one for practicality, but he supposed working with a damn team was rubbing off on him.
what about the avengers?
The reply is immediate. Nothing pressing right now. If disaster strikes, Stark could always fly in and pick you up within minutes. Take your damn costume, your weapons, your headset.
Clint knows he’s grinning like an idiot. Especially when Tony clicks his tongue and says, “Someone’s cheering up.”
Yes, dear. he types back, still grinning like a fool.
“Aww, look, Steve. Our little boy is in love.”
Clint glares daggers at him while Tony sniffles dramatically, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “They grow up so fast,” he says, choking on the words.
Cap sits down beside him and shakes his head fondly. “Leave him alone, Tony.”
Clint’s phone buzzes again. I must miss your ass because I’m not even going to berate you for not calling me sir.
He feels his chest begin to swell, overwhelmed by how content he is in this moment. This ridiculous moment of being in the kitchen of a mansion, working with a team he genuinely liked, sitting across from two guys who couldn’t stop sneaking glances at each other even though they had no reason not to gaze full on and openly, and above all, texting his boyfriend like he was some teenager after a date.
It was probably the rush of it all – the year or more building up to this moment when he suddenly realized this is where he belonged, that he didn’t know how he’d lived anywhere else, done anything else. This was exactly where he was supposed to end up.
Tony, damn him, is right after all.
I love you he types, fingers as steady as they are when he shoots his bow.
He’s already in his room, packing his bag and leaving Steve and Tony to waste the day watching classic movies or work on round 5 or 6 or whatever they’re up to, when the reply comes.
You seriously did not just tell me you loved me for the first time via short message service.
Clint sends him back a smiley face with a tongue sticking out before closing his phone.