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"I know you're there," Melinda says, without turning around.

Phil doesn't move from his position, leaning against the bulkhead just inside the entrance to the cockpit. "Couldn't sneak up on you if I tried."

"If you actually thought you couldn't sneak up on me, you wouldn't tell me so," she says.

"Fair enough," he replies. "You know me. I only do innocuous so well."

"If we wanted innocuous, we'd get Sitwell," Melinda says.

"Oh, definitely," Phil says. "No one better. He can do downright incompetent."

"I've seen it," she says. "Very skillful."

They lapse into comfortable, accustomed silence. He looks her over. "You could be doing something better with your time than sitting with the autopilot on staring at the sky."

She snorts. "For one, the autopilot's not on. Two, somehow I know you don't mean brushing up on my biochem with Fitz and Simmons."

"They can be very interesting when you can understand what they're saying," Phil says.

She turns her head towards him, looking him up and down. "I'm surprised you'd trust the autopilot that much."

"Wasn't programmed by Tony Stark," Phil says. "No reason to suspect ulterior motives."

"You have this very specific hate for him," she observes.

"I hate because I love," Phil says.

Melinda flicks a few switches, and the speakers proudly announce that the autopilot is on. Melinda stands up and walks towards him, all the way into his space; just as she's about to touch, she reaches past him, hitting the lock on the wall, and the cockpit doors thump shut.

"Is that the pilot equivalent of putting a sock on the doorknob?" he asks, as she straightens, facing him.

"Federal regulations mandate that the cockpit be sealed during flight," she tells him, straight-faced. "Kiss me."

"With pleasure," he says, but she's the one who backs him up against the door, kissing him hard. It's been a long time, a very long time; if this is going anywhere, there will be time to readjust, time to relearn, but the first thing they ever learned about each other is how much they both love a good hard fuck up against a wall.

He turns them in one neat move, pushing her up against the door; if she didn't want to be turned, she wouldn't be, but when it's like this, when they both want it, it's a dance, not a fight. They're better together, better when they agree, when they can slot into each other, forming something completely impenetrable, unstoppable.

Phil spares a thought for the uniform she used to wear back when, skintight and slightly garish. Great view, but so very impractical. He much prefers this, dressed down and easy- or easier- access. Her pants get caught on her boots for a moment, but it beats the fuck out of awkward crotch zippers any day of the week.

It's all irrelevant very quickly, because then he's got her legs around his waist, his cock pushing inside of her. Her body is tight and hot and perfect and even better than he remembered, which is saying something. He pulls down the high collar of her jacket, sucking her skin just out of sight. It's an old trick, one they've done a thousand times or more; who says you can't have it all?

"Do it harder," she says, tilting her head back to bare her neck to him. He's not even sure what she means except for everything, harder, more, better. He bites down on her skin, and she gasps, her fingers digging into his back through the material of his suit. Both of them are too paranoid to be loud, and it sounds like a victory, like winning out; there's something triumphant about making noise and being able to, about being alive to do it, about the two of them here together again.

There's no point in slow, not like this, not when they can have this instead. He thrusts into her hard, quick, just right to make her dig her heels into his back and demand more.

God bless flexible women.

He's getting closer, having trouble holding out, and everything about her is making it worse. Everything about her always has; she's a singular thing, a person who might as well have been constructed right out of his id. She's deadly and smart and just as dry and sarcastic as he is in the same way that he is, which is really quite an accomplishment. She knows him, and the list of people who can say that is something that Phil guards jealously.

"Thank god you didn't fucking die," she says, and if it were anybody else he'd think it slipped out. But no, this is Melinda, and Melinda doesn't do a single thing on accident.

He pushes into her deeper, his grip on her thighs tightening. "Just couldn't stand the thought that you might not get to hit it again?"

"Don't say 'hit it'," Melinda says, her disapproval clear even when she's panting, her eyes shut tight. "You sound like someone's father."

He laughs, kissing her. He's so close now, and the way she's moving, she's right there too. He still knows her so well, knows her body, the way she reacts, the way she looks the moment she gives it up. She gasps, opening her eyes, looking straight at him. He can't describe the way she looks, like she's shocked and satisfied, so satisfied. He mostly can't describe it because he can't last under the weight of that look, and he buries his face in her shoulder, thrusting in erratically once or twice and then finishing deep inside of her, totally spent.

Getting untangled is a little awkward, but then they're straightening their clothing, putting themselves back together. Phil stretches, wincing, and Melinda looks at him in amusement. "Having trouble?"

"The last time we did that, I was younger," he says.

She kisses him. "Weren't we all?"

"What do you know?" he says. "You're aging in reverse."

"Family secret," she says.

"I'll make sure to be careful with any portraits I find lying around," he tells her. "Are you going to open the door for me, or are you planning to hold me hostage?"

"Don't tempt me," she says. "You have no idea what dark purposes I have."

"Your dark purposes have generally worked out for me in the past," Phil says.

She hits the lock, and the doors open again. "Here's to many more," she says, and he laughs.