There’s humming coming from Phil’s kitchen. It’s a tiny thing, what his grandma called a “one-butt kitchen”, and it is currently being occupied by a very fine specimen. Clint is making something, he can tell from the tone of the humming and the fact that his tiny apartment (kept because he hasn’t quite given in to his Stockholm Syndrome and moved in to the Avengers mansion yet) smells amazing.
Phil drops his briefcase on the ancient sofa and drops his suit jacket over the back of one of the two chairs sitting at the tiny round table that serves as desk and dining table. He unwinds his tie and drops it over the jacket, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling his sleeves up to his elbows before rolling his shoulders, letting the weight of the day slide off of him. Then he wanders over to rest a hip against the kitchen doorjamb, watching his lover cook.
It’s something that seems to involve a lot of different berries currently. Phil can spot blackberries, blueberries, strawberries and raspberries at the very least. He thinks there might be more. There’s also a jar of honey and Clint is in the middle of whipping cream. With a whisk. Phil shakes his head. Sometimes his lover makes him very confused. Phil has a hand-mixer, somewhere. The light catches the ring on Clint’s finger just right in a pass of the whisk and Phil’s wedding band (the one that he managed to snag the notorious Hawk with) glints in the sunlight slanting through the window.
Clint looks comfortable, not like he’s actually on medical leave for two more days due to a very bad concussion and going a bit stir-crazy. He’s wearing a pair of worn-out jeans, a rather plain black apron and socks. Apparently it’s too warm for shirts again, not that Phil’s complaining. He starts singing the words to the song he’s humming suddenly and Phil closes his eyes, letting the man’s low Midwestern drawl wash over him, washing away the remnants of tension in Phil’s shoulders. The song has a mildly Cajun air, low and sweet.
“Aspettami, wait for me. I've been lost, adrift at sea. In your dreams, dream my way. Someday I'll find my heart and come back to stay.” Phil opens his eyes and Clint is right in front of him, quick and cat-quiet in stocking feet. A warm, welcoming kiss is planted on his lips and Phil smiles lazily back.
“I’ve got a hand-mixer with a whisk attachment, you know.” He points out, but Clint waves him off.
“This is training, Phil.” He says very seriously. Phil snorts.
“For what, taking a stint on Iron Chef?” He questions dryly. Clint smirks back, full of curious mischief. “I’m nixing that right here and now, Agent Barton.” Phil says, even more dryly. Clint’s smirk fades into an affectionate smile.
“No, but seriously. Doing this by hand is really hard work. Good exercise. Housewives in the twenties must have had muscles like iron.” Phil chuckles at that, palming the small of Clint’s back as the other man returns to whipping the cream. “Dinner should be nearly ready,” Clint remarks, offhand. “I just need to finish this up – nearly done.” Phil peers over Clint’s shoulder – cleaned berries set in a bowl of what looked like watered or warmed (or both) honey, leftovers in their individual boxes, stacked neatly to go back into the fridge.
“Doesn’t look much like dinner,” he ribs Clint good-naturedly. Clint swats him with one hand, deeming the cream done and banging the whisk on the side of the bowl to get the excess off.
“Dessert, idiot,” is the fond reply as Clint tucks the cream and extra berries into the fridge, leaving the bowl of fruit on the counter. He opens the oven, bringing out a baking dish of fish in some sort of lemony-basil sauce, and Phil gets plates down so they can serve. The fish looks excellent, the brown rice is the sort of fluffy that both of them enjoy and Clint pours steamed broccoli into a bowl, which Phil tosses with lemon juice. The meal is delicious and the company better, even if Clint has a habit of propping his feet up on Phil’s lotus-crossed legs at the dinner table.
It’s a warm summer night, so they sit on the floor of Phil’s tiny balcony off the bedroom to indulge in the sweet tang of fresh berries with cream and honey. Phil is meticulous with his fruit, bringing a fork and carefully not getting his hands sticky. Clint laughs, snagging honeyed berries with his fingers, dipping them in cream and getting gloriously messy.
“Live a little, Phil. Won’t kill you to get a little sticky.” Clint advises. Phil looks skeptical. There’s suddenly a devious glint in Clint’s eyes and Phil tries to get away from him, but Clint pounces. Sticky fingers slide up his face, and he gives in and licks one of them clean. Clint’s grey-green eyes have gone smoky and Clint replaces his fingers with his mouth, giving Phil a downright filthy open-mouthed kiss. Clever archer fingers start unbuttoning Phil’s shirt, before he gives a noise of protest against fruit stains and bats Clint’s hands away, finishing that task himself. He then pushes Clint off of him to properly divest himself of his shirt and undershirt, before tugging him back for a kiss.
Soon enough they’re both naked in the mild breeze. Phil makes a lazy, not terribly serious suggestion that they move, the bed being mere feet away from them. Clint chuckles low in his throat and kisses Phil again.
“But then we’d be missing out on the joys of semi-public sex on your sixth-floor balcony.” He objects playfully. “Think of what your neighbors across the street will be missing out on.” Phil slants a glance across the narrow street, seeing two figures silhouetted in the casement window across from them.
“I think they’ll live. You have a tendency to get dressed with the curtains wide open, so it’s not as if they’re lacking for a show.” He tries to remember who lives in that particular apartment, coming up with the vague image in his head of a pair of young women, with a possible small dog or large cat. He then rolls to his feet, tugging Clint with him. “This will be better on the bed, though.” He says, pushing Clint back onto said bed. Clint just chuckles, giving Phil that gorgeously bright, boyish smile that he has sometimes when it’s just the two of them.
Phil has to kiss that smile, so he does. They spend a luxurious amount of time just kissing quietly, Clint drawing Phil down to lay with him.
Soon enough, Clint decides kissing isn’t quite enough right now. He quickly rolls Phil over so that he is flat on the bed and Clint is straddling his waist.
“Hey there,” Clint drawls, bending for one last kiss before he leans over to swipe a condom and the lube from the small drawer in the bedside table. “Fancy meeting you here.” he purrs into Phil’s ear as he rolls the condom onto Phil’s cock. He then sits back up and proceeds to lube up all four of his fingers, which Phil always knows means he’s in for as filthy a show as Clint can give him.
(With Phil, Clint is quite the exhibitionist. He claims that it makes up for his lack of time in the spotlight otherwise, as the camera crews never seem to quite know where he is in a fight. Phil knows it’s that he wants to be on display privately, not publicly. Clint’s not Stark, after all.)
Once his fingers are good and slick, Clint reaches between his own legs, rubbing a slow circle around his perineum, hooded eyes watching Phil, grey-green locked with blue. Finally a finger slips in, an easy glide until the muscles grip his finger tight. Phil can tell by the way Clint’s eyelids flutter just a bit – he’s watched his own fingers provoke these reactions from Clint long enough to know what’s going on without seeing it.
Clint fingers himself open at an agonizingly slow pace. If Phil had less discipline he’d have already flipped the other man and driven into him. As it stands, they can take their time, so they do so.
Phil can tell that Clint’s located his own prostate and is teasing himself with it. Every so often the other man’s cock jumps a little. Phil finally vocalizes his need – he’s been pretty quiet, but now he really needs the tight heat of Clint around his cock. He moans quietly, hands that had been fisting at the sheets finding their way to Clint’s hips as Phil finally grinds up into him. Clint moans too, wrecked, with pupils blown wide open.
“Want something, sweetheart?” He half-moans half-gasps. Phil growls nearly subvocally.
“Me. In you. Now.” Clint laughs breathlessly, groaning as he withdraws his fingers with a wet, dirty noise. He grasps Phil’s length (finally) and gets it wet with the remainder of the lube that’s on his fingers. Phil knows there’s not enough there, knows that as this point Clint is loose enough to take it and not care about anything but the exquisite burn and stretch.
Phil takes control, rolling them over in one swift move before pulling one of Clint’s legs over his shoulder and driving himself home in one stroke. Clint cries out at that, gasping with his mouth fallen open, like he’s had the wind knocked out of him, but Phil doesn’t leave him time to adjust. He sets up a nearly brutal rhythm, practice helping him find the exact angle and depth to make Clint loose his mind.
Clint’s soon reduced to gasping and writhing, pulling Phil closer with the leg around Phil’s hip. The heel of his other foot is pressing almost frantically into Phil’s shoulder blade.
“Phil,” It’s the first coherent thing Clint has said, vowels long and drawn out, almost a whine. Phil drops Clint’s leg from his shoulder and pulls the other man up so they’re sitting chest to chest. Clint’s head drops to Phil’s shoulder, resting as Phil wraps him up in a gentle embrace. Gravity drives Phil just that tiny bit deeper into Clint, but they have a language all their own, a rhythm that’s just theirs. They slow down now, Clint undulating gently with Phil’s gentle, shallow thrusts. Clint’s not gasping anymore, but his breathing in Phil’s ears is just as ragged as Phil’s is now.
This is intimate, the way they know each other’s bodies perfectly. This position is their favorite, reminding them that they can be slow and languid about themselves, that there is no competition here, nothing except the two of them.
Clint lifts his head and unwinds his arms from Phil’s neck in order to cradle his face and kiss him in the same way that Phil is fucking him, slow and dirty and perfect.
“I love you,” Clint whispers into Phil’s mouth. Phil smiles into the next of Clint’s kisses, and when he is release he returns the sentiment.
“I love you so much, Clint,” he murmurs. Clint’s smile is bright again, that smile making the years of stress fall away from his face.
An interminable time later their pace picks up again, Phil laying Clint out against the sheets again as he covers the younger man with his body and fucks him until he comes.
Clint coming is the most beautiful things Phil Coulson has seen. His back arches up off the bed in a spasm of ecstasy as his eyes close involuntarily and he cries out, long and low and broken, something that Phil could swear is his name. Phil fucks Clint through the aftershocks more gently, body bowing as he rests his forehead against Clint’s and bites the other man’s bottom lip.
When Phil comes he bites Clint’s neck just below his ear and muffles a moan of Clint’s name against his skin.
They lie there for a few long moments, neither willing to move until they can figure out where one man begins and the other ends. This is Clint’s favorite part, Phil knows. So Phil stays put, even though Clint’s come is drying tackily between them and the condom is beginning to get uncomfortable. Finally Phil stirs, sliding gently out of Clint to a minorly displeased and oversensitive noise from his lover and husband. Phil kisses Clint, mostly to get him to shut up, before moving away to rid himself of the condom and fetch a warm, damp washcloth. He cleans up Clint, who looks close to sleep. Phil knows that he himself won’t sleep for a while, so he sits with Clint until the younger man drops off.
Then he puts all the leftovers away and washes all the dishes.
Only then does he feel sleep stealing up on him, so he goes back to bed, Clint pliantly shuffling over and curling into Phil as he falls asleep.
They both sleep best when the other is near, so they sleep without night terrors of blue light and being stabbed and needing to live with the knowledge that your other half is dead or compromised. Everyone is alive and safe and taken good care of.