Clint sits at the piano bench, suit jacket laid to the side, shirt sleeves rolled up to expose strong forearms. A vaguely jazzy melody forms under his fingers as Phil leans against the doorframe, listening to the music fill the room. He eventually pushes himself away, knowing the music will continue regardless – nothing can interrupt Clint at this point - and goes to pour a bottle of red wine because this is their anniversary. A date they never thought they'd reach in this job, not with their lifestyle and its high demands, but a decade together is something to celebrate.
They'd gone out to dinner earlier, paying too much for a sparse amount of food but Phil had wanted to try the latest restaurant of the food critics so Clint went along. He tapped his toe on the floor for most of the night, mind clearly on what was awaiting back in the apartment. Phil didn't hold it against him and let his taste buds explode with the flavors of each course. They walked home on darkened streets, fingers tangled together and taking in the sight of a city that wasn't the background of a battle.
Clint stops playing long enough to accept the glass and a brief kiss, then he loses himself once again in the music. Phil sits on the couch and watches him play. It's usually a rare occurrence but Phil thinks it'll happen more often now. The baby grand somehow manages to fit in their apartment and Phil is more than certain that Clint won't stop playing anytime tonight. He doesn't mind, and relaxes against the couch behind the piano bench, letting the melody wash over him.