“So, that happened,” Barton says, the end of the sentence disappearing into a disbelieving laugh.
Phil turns his head on the pillow, taking in the messy, sweaty bangs stuck to Barton’s face and the three red bruises just below his jaw. “Yes,” he agrees, “it certainly did.”
Barton’s lips are puffy from kissing, but that only makes his grin seem smugger. “I cannot fucking believe that happened.” He flops an arm out vaguely, patting Phil in the centre of his chest. “Nice moves, sir.”
Phil rolls his eyes. “Thank you,” he says, as monotone and unimpressed as he can make it. It’s probably not his best effort, but his skin is still sensitive, prickling where Barton’s touching it.
It would be so easy to lean into Barton’s hand, maybe grab it and slide it up to one of Phil’s nipples, which never feel like they’ve gotten enough attention, when he’s turned on. But that’s not how situations like this work; Phil’s had a reasonable amount of sex with a reasonable amount of colleagues and there’s never been a round two.
He sits up, swallowing down a catch in his breath when Barton’s hand falls from his chest and lands in his lap before Barton takes it back. A quick scan of the room shows that Phil’s shirt landed on the dresser and he knows his shoes are by the door. Underwear he can do without but, “Barton, where are my pants?”
Barton frowns for a second, then his expression clears. “Bathroom,” he says, clicking the fingers of his left hand at Phil.
“Ah, yes. Of course.” Phil refuses to blush at the reminder, but it’s a good memory. Barton didn’t seem to mind being manhandled against the sink, and they both enjoyed having a mirror right there.
Barton rolls over onto his side, looking up at Phil. “You going?” There’s nothing about his tone to tell Phil whether or not he’s happy about that.
“I should,” Phil says easily. He leans back against the headboard so that he can talk to Barton without leaning over him. If he leans over Barton, while Barton’s still lying down, Phil’s going to want to kiss him again.
“Yeah.” Barton’s smile is smaller than it was, but it’s still… Phil wants to say fond. It’s probably teasing. Barton likes teasing him. “Because you’re busy and important, right?”
“Just busy,” Phil corrects gently. There’s an eyelash resting on the swell of Barton’s cheekbone. Phil looks away from it.
Barton snorts. “Yeah, okay,” he says. He pauses, forehead crinkling in the way it does, when he’s thinking through a play or deciding whether to make a suggestion. Over the last few months of working together, Phil has learned to wait for Barton when he looks like that.
“Or you could stay,” is all Barton eventually says. He waggles his eyebrows at Phil.
Phil hesitates – which means he goes very still and refuses to let anyone see the hesitation – trying to see if Barton means it. “Can you offer something more appealing than progress reports on the search for Captain America?” he asks, stalling for time.
“Oh yeah,” Barton says, reaching over and tiptoeing his fingers up Phil’s thigh. “I mean, unless you want to bone Captain America.”
In any other circumstances, Phil would have brushed that off with a roll of his eyes and, possibly, some type of reprimand, but Barton’s naked and Phil’s naked and Barton’s touching him and talking about Captain America.
Phil swallows a choked noise.
Barton’s eyebrows shoot up. This is why he should never have gotten too friendly with someone as smart and good at reading people as Barton is. “Holy shit, Coulson, you want to bone Captain America.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Phil snaps, but it’s too late. Barton’s sitting up as well, leaning his shoulder into Phil’s.
“It’s okay, sir, no need to be embarrassed. Tell me all about it.” Barton presses his laugh into Phil’s shoulder, and Phil would hate him except that, well. He doesn’t hate him.
“And on that note, it’s time for me to leave,” Phil says, nudging Barton away pointedly.
“No, hey.” Barton catches Phil’s arm, palm brushing the inside of Phil’s elbow, which has apparently decided now is the moment to become sensitive. “Sorry. Stay.”
Phil shouldn’t. Phil should leave now. Fucking Barton is forgivable, but now he’s running the risk of letting Barton see him as a real person, and that’s much more dangerous.
If Barton were still smirking, Phil would be able to stick to his guns. But Barton’s eyes look nervous, uncertain, and it’s that that breaks Phil’s resolve and makes him sink back onto the bed.
“We’re not talking about Captain America,” he warns.
“Okay,” Barton agrees easily and drops his hand into Phil’s lap.
Phil grunts, leaning back into the wall and raises his eyebrows. “I’m an old man, Barton. I’m not sure what you’re hoping will happen there.” He ignores the fact that he can feel something stirring between his legs; there’s no need to feed Barton’s ego.
“Yeah, right,” Barton says, tracing the shape of Phil’s balls with his fingertip. “You’re what, forty?”
Phil’s forty-three. He’s too busy trying to decide if he wants more or less of Barton’s maddeningly light touch to point that out.
“I was thinking maybe I could put your cock in my mouth,” Barton tells him, sounding almost distracted, like watching his hand is more interesting than what he’s saying.
Phil sucked on Barton’s cock while he was fingering him earlier. The thought of Barton returning the favour is a good one.
“Were you?” Phil asks. “I was thinking that you talk too much, so that might solve that problem.”
“Fuck off,” Barton says then blows him a kiss. “Sir.”
“What am I even doing here?” Phil groans, but it’s a rhetorical question.
“I don’t know,” Barton says, almost too quiet for Phil to catch, then he grabs Phil’s face and kisses him hard.
Phil responds automatically. Barton seems happy to let Phil take control of the kiss, which Phil does, biting Barton’s bottom lip to see what Barton thinks about that.
Turns out that Barton likes, that he’ll moan into it, lean closer into Phil’s side and forgetting to tease Phil in favour of deepening the kiss.
They almost didn’t kiss when they stumbled into Barton’s quarters earlier tonight; Phil’s glad he overrode that instinct.
With an impatient sound, Barton swings a leg over Phil’s lap, his solid thigh sweaty against Phil’s, his knee pressing into Phil’s chest.
Phil’s been quietly obsessed with Barton’s thighs since he first saw him train with Hill and he has to take the opportunity to curl a hand around it, squeezing until Barton laughs into his mouth and flexes against his palm.
“Fuck, fuck, Coulson,” he says, panting, and it’s that more than anything, the desperation there, that finally gets Phil all the way hard again. Barton hums happily and wraps his fist around it, tearing his mouth away from Phil’s to kiss his way down Phil’s neck to his collarbone.
Phil tips his head back against the wall and stares blindly down at Barton’s hand, their tangled legs, the jut of Barton’s dick against Phil’s thigh. Phil shifts his leg to give Barton something to press against and is rewarded with a startled groan and the pressure of teeth around his collarbone.
“Barton,” Phil says warningly, not sure what he’s warning Barton against and finds Barton’s cock, squeezing.
“See, I knew this was a good idea,” Barton says, voice hitching on every other syllable. “What do you like?” He starts to move his hand, just experimenting. They went straight into fucking for round one; this tentativeness feels like they’re doing everything in reverse.
Phil doesn’t mean to answer, but his skin hurts and Barton is so close.
“My nipples,” he says, glad that Barton can’t see his face and the way his cheeks feel hot. “Your – ”
He doesn’t get as far as saying mouth because Barton moves too quickly, fitting his lips over one of Phil’s painfully hard nipples and rolling his tongue around it.
“Shit,” Phil chokes out. Then Barton bites down at the same time that he drags his thumb up to the head of Phil’s cock and Phil can’t even force out another curse.
Barton hums out a laugh against Phil’s chest and starts to jerk him off more purposefully. As tempting as it is to lie back and let Barton get him off, Phil isn’t very good at being passive. He squeezes his fingers around Barton’s cock instead and lowers his head to nibble on the top of Barton’s ear until Barton gets the hint and lifts his head for another kiss.
There’s no real rush now, just the two of them kissing and jerking each other off, Phil’s hips pushing up into Barton’s hand and Barton rolling his cock into Phil’s fist and against Phil’s thigh.
“I was going to suck you off,” Barton complains in between kisses.
“Feel free,” Phil offers, starting to uncurl his sticky fingers from Barton’s hard-on.
Barton whines then shakes his head. “Shit, no, fuck, don’t stop. Next time?”
Phil doesn’t say anything – he shouldn’t agree to a next time; he shouldn’t have agreed to this time – but he puts his hand back, speeding up his strokes and hoping Barton won’t notice his lack of answer.
“Sir,” Barton breathes and comes all over Phil’s hand.
Phil likes that – both of those things – more than he should.
Barton slumps into Phil’s shoulder while he shivers through his aftershocks. Phil keeps his hand on him, squeezing carefully, until Barton grunts and pushes him away.
Phil lifts his come-wet hand away, deliberates over what to do with it for a moment, then wraps it around his own cock, over Barton’s lax fingers.
“Holy fuck, you’re trying to kill me,” Barton groans. He presses the side of his head to Phil’s shoulder and watches Phil’s hand work his cock.
“You could help,” Phil groans, but doesn’t stop long enough for Barton to try. He’s close, the pre-come leaking from the head of his cock and mixing with Barton’s come where it’s drying on his hand. It’s filthy and Phil’s getting desperate.
“Yeah, there, come on,” Barton murmurs, finding one of Phil’s nipples and pinching it. “Come on, I know you like that now, remember.”
“You don’t – ” Phil starts to protest but accidentally tips himself over the edge at that point, letting out a heartfelt groan as his orgasm rolls through him.
“What do I?” Barton’s asking when Phil’s ears stop buzzing.
“Never mind,” Phil tells him and lets his head drop back against the wall, blinking black spots out from the corners of his eyes.
Barton hums easily and catches Phil’s hand, dragging it up between them. Phil watches lazily as Barton’s wide, pink tongue darts out to lick away the mingled mess of their come.
Phil’s too wrung out to get turned on again, but it still feels like someone punched him in the stomach then twisted his intestines around their fist.
Which shouldn’t sound like a good feeling, but somehow, this time, is.
“You shouldn’t,” he says, but it’s half-hearted. They’d both know if they weren’t clean; SHIELD does regular tests for everything imaginable – and a few things that aren’t.
“Whatever,” Barton mumbles around Phil’s fingers, kissing his way up one then down the next.
Forget what Barton said about Phil trying to kill him, it’s undeniably the other way around.
“So,” he says, watching Barton, who’s run out of come to clean away and now seems to be sucking on Phil’s fingers for the fun of it.
“Oh god,” Barton groans, letting Phil’s fingers pop free of his mouth. Phil finds himself tracing Barton’s wet lips with his wet fingers even though that’s something you should do with a lover not a colleague. “We don’t need to talk about it. Sir. It was just sex; I know you’ll still respect me in the morning.”
Phil snorts and rolls his eyes, even though he undermines himself somewhat by rubbing his fingertips over the bite marks he left on Barton’s jaw earlier. “Shucks, Barton, and here I thought we had something special.”
Something flickers in Barton’s eyes for a second before he lifts Phil’s hand and flips him off with his own finger. It’s funny, so Phil lets him.
“I really do need to go soon,” Phil says. He lets some of his reluctance bleed through into his voice; Barton deserves to hear it.
“Yeah, I know.” Barton pulls his leg back from across Phil’s lap and rolls up onto his knees, one hand braced on Phil’s thigh. “Thanks for the company, sir. You need to let me give you that blowjob, sometime.” He raises his eyebrows before Phil can answer. “Don’t think I missed you dodging answering that earlier.”
Phil should say sorry but no, he should shut this down now. He opens his mouth to do just that. “Next Thursday,” he says. “My place.”