It wasn't that Phil was pinning him to the console, so much as Phil was bracing him against it. Leather was a lot more slippery, especially over a slanted surface, than people thought.
Not that Nick was currently giving a blind bit of notice to what people thought, what with Phil's weight against his stomach, and Phil's hands braced firmly under his shoulder holsters, and Phil's pulse steady and rapid under his thumb, and Phil's mouth ...
Right then, Nick wouldn't have given a good goddamn if the World Council was standing in the room glaring at them, he wasn't about to move for anything less than the goddamn end of the world.
"Sir! Sir ... Um. Oh. Sir?"
Phil's pulse had jumped, just the once, under his fingers, his mouth faltering just for a second as the open door registered with them both. Nick felt the quirk of the man's mouth against his, the tiny, rueful smile creeping over Phil's face, and sighed heavily as he pulled his head back and opened his eye to find out what the fuck was the problem.
"Yes?" he growled, his hands still cupped around Phil's neck, and most of his attention still caught on the faint, laughing smile on swollen lips, rather than the bridge officer who suddenly looked like he really, really wanted to be anywhere else but here.
"You've, ah ... There's a call ... Um. Stark is asking for landing permission, sir. In the armour."
Phil's laughter was completely, utterly silent. The only reason Nick knew he was laughing was because his chest was pressed quite nicely up against Nick's, and he could feel the tremors through it. Well. He was glad one of them thought this was amusing.
"You tell Stark I don't care if he lands on the moon, the next person to bother me had better be wearing a bullet-proof vest. Understood?"
"Um. Yes, sir?"
There was a long pause, while the bastard stood dithering in the door like he had his ass in a crack, and Nick quietly counted down the fuse to his patience. For the love of ...
"D-Dismissed, Matherson," Phil managed, staring up at Nick with eyes that were far too bright, and an only barely noticeable tremor in his voice. "Now, there's a good man."
Matherson snapped his heels -military recruit?- and bolted like the Devil himself was after him. Give Nick two minutes, and maybe he'd oblige.
"I'm gonna kill somebody," Nick growled, his hand brushing over Phil's shoulder and maybe biting a little. Phil just let his smile slip out into a full-blown grin in response. "You think this is funny, Coulson?"
Phil shook his head, doing a fantastic impression of a straight face for a second. "Not at all, sir," he said, at his completely impassive best. "Though, if I might make a suggestion?"
Nick raised an eyebrow, beginning to be vaguely aware of the ridiculousness of his position. Making an executive decision not to give a damn. "And what would that be, Agent Coulson?"
Phil smirked. "Instead of shooting him ... I suggest a remedial combat driving course for the entire bridge crew?" A slow, evil grin. "Taught, of course, by our expert, Agent Hill."
Nick's eyebrow crept back up, but this time purely in respect. "You want to throw them to Maria?" he asked, with a burgeoning grin of his own. About the only one who could make it through a full assault course with Hill at the wheel without losing their lunch was Romanov, and Nick was pretty sure that was because she'd been boosting military vehicles since she was ten. And that was with the safeties on. If Nick let slip this was a warning, Maria probably would oblige them by dialing things up a notch.
Phil's grin melted to something hot and dark for a second, and he leaned in to brush Nick's mouth again, taking it slow and lazy. This time, he was definitely pinning him.
"As I said, sir," he murmured. "I don't find this funny. Not at all."
... Right, Nick thought, let his eye drift closed. Things we do not give a good goddamn about: whatever the fuck happens to people who piss off Phil. Noted, Agent.