The problem with observation missions, Clint decides, is that he’s all wound up and has no place to go. The mission is good: the target has been acquired and observed, daily schedules and routines have been noted and forwarded to the appropriate contacts; and after a week of skulking around on the edges so as to not be seen, Clint is left with… nothing. Or, well, a boring, beige hotel room and a partner who’s calmly taking advantage of the downtime to do something complicated with hot oil and henna and her hair, so yeah.
"If you don't stop pacing, I will be forced to stab you," Natasha says from under the layers of plastic wrap and towels she has wrapped around her head. "Repeatedly." And okay, fine, so she maybe isn’t as calm as she’s been letting on. Clint opens his mouth to say as much, but then Natasha slants him a really nasty look and he decides he isn’t in the mood to have it out with her. There isn’t anyplace to storm off to, though, so he just throws himself down on the far bed and runs through the shot lines from their last five missions.
Natasha sits and files her nails for a little while--Clint absolutely does not say anything about claws, but hoooooboy, does he think it--but then her timer beeps and she disappears into the bathroom to do whatever is next in the hair-color process. To his eternal horror, Clint already understands more about the process than he ever dreamed he might, but at least that means he knows he’s safe for another half-hour, give or take.
He’s still bored out of his mind, though.
“Make the check-in call,” Natasha says from the other side of the bathroom door. “It’s time.”
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” Clint answers, and he knows the bathroom door is hollow-core and pretty thin, but he doesn’t really think he should be able to hear Nat’s teeth grinding together through it. He grabs the burner phone and punches in the local number they’re using to start the routing process and fidgets while the line bounces around the world a couple of times before it connects. “I’m bored,” he announces when the monitoring team picks up.
“And this is my problem, how?” a familiar, but unexpected, voice answers and Clint’s grinning like a maniac. Phil on the other end of the line is always a good thing.
“I’m never not your problem,” Clint says. “Isn’t that what everybody says?”
“When exactly was the last time you knew me to listen to what ‘everybody’ says?”
“Well, they’re only saying it because it’s true, so I think I win this round,” Clint answers. Phil huffs a little, a tiny sound that no one but Clint will catch, but Phil knows he’ll hear it, so Clint really does win. He throws himself back down on the bed and yanks the pillows around to prop up his head. “I’m still bored, though.”
“I’m assuming there’s another reason for this call?” Phil sounds distant, like he’d turned his head away from the phone. Clint figures he’s probably doing five things at once, but since he isn’t even supposed to be taking check-in calls--Level 7 agents had swathes of baby agents to deal with the mundane shit--Clint isn’t going to complain about multi-tasking.
“Not really,” Clint says. “Nat’s doing her hair and she’s about ready to knife me--”
“Please do not antagonize your partner to the point of bloodshed,” Phil sighs. “The paperwork is a nightmare.”
“It’s not my fault,” Clint objects. “We all knew how much fun I wouldn’t be having before we left. And I gotta tell you, I’m having even less than that.”
There’s murmuring in the background--more multi-tasking--and Clint expects the call to end. It’s just a check-in, standard. He or Nat will call back every 2 hours until ex-fil. It was nice hearing Phil, but that’s it. Somebody must like him, though, because Phil comes back on the line and says, “Yes, we appreciate your sacrifice.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Clint says. “That’s what they say every time, but you know, talk is cheap and here I am, bored out of my mind again.”
Phil sighs, because of course he does: he’s Agent Coulson dealing with Hawkeye, what else is he supposed to do? Under it, though, Clint can hear Phil being amused and indulgent. Getting to sleep with Phil (it’s not only sex, but Clint does better if he doesn’t think too hard about that part; and he is trying like hell not to screw this up) is pretty awesome, even better than Clint had ever imagined, but the very best part is getting to hear Phil under Agent Coulson and know there are only a handful of people in the world who get that.
“Not all talk is worthless,” Phil says, and Clint thinks he’s about to get the very sincere job-well-done sound bite, which, don’t get him wrong, he values that speech more than he can even process, but he hadn’t been fishing for an ego-boost. He’s about to say that when Phil continues, “For example, if I ask you what you’re wearing, I could see the ensuing conversation moving in some fascinating directions.”
“I--” Clint could not have heard what he just heard. Could. Not. Have. Heard. “You--What?”
“Have I rendered you speechless?” This time, Clint hears the challenge under the bland inquiry, and it snaps him out of his disbelief.
“You wish,” Clint says. If Phil wants to play, Clint is not going to be the one who stops him. “Ask me again.”
“What are you wearing?” Phil asks, easy and calm, like he isn’t initiating phone sex while he’s sitting in the middle of a SHIELD control center with a couple dozen agents and analysts and techs all around him.
“You, sir, are my hero,” Clint breathes, because how can he not say that, but then, before Phil can give him grief about not answering the questions, says, “I know I’m supposed to say ‘nothing’, but I’m gonna go with the truth and say, ‘jeans and a t-shirt,’ because I’m betting we can have more fun with the build-up that way.”
“That’s entirely possible, yes,” Phil says, all business, and Clint knows someone must have just walked near him. “Feel free to add any additional information you might find pertinent.”
Clint takes a deep breath, because, yes, they apparently are going to do this, and says, “Black t-shirt, button-fly jeans, no socks. Commando.”
Phil’s quiet for a split-second, and then he says, very, very softly, “That is the best thing I’ve heard in days.”
“Always happy to make your life easier, sir,” Clint says, grinning as Phil snorts. “Want me to keep going?” He doesn’t wait for an answer because he figures the less Phil talks, the longer this thing will have to play out. “I can start taking things off--”
“No, hold,” Phil tells him, back to Coulson’s voice as though he’s telling Clint whether he needs to take the shot or not. “No need to rush.”
“Yeah, okay,” Clint says, a little closer to a groan than he’s entirely comfortable admitting. He hasn’t even touched himself yet and he’s already getting hard. He swallows hard and gets his voice back under control. “I just feel like I should tell you that I used to jerk off to how you’d sound on missions; hearing it now is flipping all kinds of switches.”
“Outstanding,” Phil says. “You know how much I value good intel.” What Clint knows is that the smug bastard is sitting there in his suit, smiling that smile that makes the baby agents nervous. Clint’s dick approves.
“Phil,” Clint wheedles. “Come on, let me do something.”
“What would you like to do?” Phil murmurs, and that, that is his bedroom voice, and it does completely unfair things to Clint.
“I’d like to get on my hands and knees and have you fuck me into next week, but since that’s not really happening for another couple days, I’d be good with jerking off while you listen,” Clint grits out.
“That... would be acceptable,” Phil says, with the smallest of hitches in his voice. Given that Clint has heard him be calm and unflustered even after being shot, it is a hell of a rush to know that Clint can get him off-balance enough to show it.
“Okay,” Clint says. “I’m just gonna... do that.” He tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder and stretches out on the bed. “I’m gonna push my shirt up, is that good?” Phil hums in his ear, which Clint takes as an okay. Pushing the t-shirt out of the way, rucking it up under his arms rather than pulling it off and being done with it makes Clint that much more aware of it. It’s an old shirt, nothing special, just cotton worn soft and faded from being washed a couple hundred times. It contrasts with the roughness of his hands, the calluses on his fingers catching on his skin as he strokes over it. He tells Phil that, not caring that his voice is already sounding uneven.
“Take your time,” Phil says, not quite an order, but Clint’s brain holds onto it like it is. He teases at his nipples until they’re hot and throbbing, and then uses his nails on them because Phil tells him to keep going. He’s rougher than he thinks Phil might like, but he can’t stop, can’t not see how far he can push himself.
“‘s good.” Clint can’t make his voice louder than a whisper, but he knows Phil hears him. Phil always hears him. “Wish it was you doin’ it to me, though.”
“Yes,” Phil says simply. Clint bites back all the things he knows he can’t say, not without totally fucking up this thing between them. He rubs one hand down his chest and belly, distracts his brain with the feel of his fingers sliding just under the waistband of his jeans.
“Can I--” Clint gasps to Phil. “Need to--my jeans. Need to get them off, can I, please?”
“Not yet,” Phil answers, and Clint could ignore him, they’re three thousand miles apart and this is only a game, not even one they’ve talked about, much less worked through. He doesn’t, though. He whimpers once when that sinks in, that he’s doing this however Phil wants, then just grits his teeth and keeps teasing himself.
“Are you--?” Phil says. “You’re not arguing with me? Really?”
“It’s--I’m--No.” Clint chokes out a laugh. “Go figure.”
“Should I make a note of this on my calendar?”
“Go ahead,” Phil says. “Slowly.”
Clint’s hands are shaking, that’s how bad he wants it; it takes him three tries to tug open the buttons. The air strikes cool on the skin he’s exposing; his hand where he rubs it down his belly is hot. Slowly, Phil had said, and for whatever reason, Clint’s doing what Phil says, so Clint doesn’t just grab for his dick, no matter how bad he wants it. He edges closer and closer, but makes himself back off every time. His dick is screaming to be touched and his lungs are sure there’s not enough air in the room, but he doesn’t give in.
“I--” Clint digs his hands into his thighs hard enough to leave marks. “If you don’t want me to--I know you can’t talk but if you want me to hold off any longer you have to tell me now--”
“Slowly,” Phil repeats, and Clint shudders at the word, at the permission. He sets his jaw and manages not to yell as he wraps his hand around his dick, but he can’t choke back all the helpless, greedy noises that are spilling out of his throat. He squeezes his dick--hard, so it hurts as much as it feels good--and then drags his thumb along the shaft and digs his nail in right under the crown.
“Oh, fuck, fuck,” he hears himself groaning, right as the bathroom door opens and Natasha steps back into the room. Clint can’t stop, he can’t--it’s not just that his dick is so hard he can barely think, it’s that Phil had told him to go and Clint’s too far into that space now to step back and stop and--
“Oh,” Natasha says, her eyes moving over him with a thoroughness that takes in everything, not just that Clint’s sprawled out on the bed, shirt pushed up and legs spread like a whore, but all the shit going on inside him, the stuff that’s really getting him off. She watches him for an endless few seconds; and then she smiles, a slow, possessive smile that sends another shudder rippling through Clint, and crosses over to stand next to him.
“‘s Phil,” Clint gasps as she reaches down to take the phone he’s still cradling against his ear.
“Of course,” she says with a ‘duh’ roll of her eyes that says she knows he’s fucked things up in the past but she has total confidence in him now, even if he doesn’t have it in himself. Clint is so gone on her it’d be funny if it wasn’t also a part of the best thing he’d ever had in his life.
“He’s gorgeous,” Natasha murmurs into the phone. “I wish you could see him falling apart for your voice.”
The words twist through Clint, circling, circling, burrowing into him like they’ll never leave. Natasha’s still smiling at him, and Clint’s still jerking himself, slowly, like Phil said, and it’s too much, Clint doesn’t know where to look, doesn’t know how he’s supposed to keep all that going--
“Please,” Clint chokes out. “Need to hear--need--”
“Shh.” Natasha puts the phone on speaker and lays it next to Clint immediately, like Clint isn’t some total fuck-up who can’t deal. “Shh, you’re fine, you’re fine.”
“Better than fine,” Phil says, low and intimate. Natasha perches on the edge of the bed, not touching Clint, but watching him, watching over him, and between the two, Clint can breathe again. His hand is still moving on his dick and he can feel the orgasm building, low and deep in his gut and balls and thighs, but then Phil--Coulson--says, “Hold there,” and starts snapping out orders to the people around him.
“Motherfuck,” Clint hisses as he makes himself stop, digs his hand into his thigh. It's not enough; he's still going to come, and that's--he can't. He won't. He curls on his side and wraps his hand hard around the base of his dick, forcing everything back. Natasha touches him then, rubs careful, soothing circles with her thumb around the point of his hip while he shakes against her. They listen as Coulson deals with whatever’s going on--Clint’s kind of out of it, admittedly, but it sounds more like people being stupid about process rather than an actual crisis--which is always crazy hot even without the whole having-(phone)-sex-in-public add-on they’ve got working.
Clint honestly doesn’t know how much longer he can hold on for when Phil comes back on the line, saying, “Carry on.” Before he’s even finished, Natasha, her smile pure evil now, runs one finger across the head of Clint’s dick--light, quick, electric. His hips jerk up helplessly and his brain nearly whites out as she teases him with more of those touches, catching the drop of pre-come at the tip and spreading it down the length of his dick.
“Nat,” Clint manages, but then she slips the same finger in his mouth and he can’t say anything, his own come bittersalt on his tongue
“Come for us,” Natasha says, her voice rough and wanting. Phil is listening, Natasha’s watching--it punches through Clint, all of it, all of them. He hears himself from a distance, low, animal noises that don’t sound like him, except for how they mesh perfectly with the driving need he has to strip his dick with too-tight, too-rough strokes, again and again, until he’s there, balls aching and tight, hands and body shaking and shaking, Natasha’s hand over his mouth so he can yell. His come spills hot and slick on his thighs and belly; he can’t think and he can’t breathe, but he can’t not give them what they want.
* * *
Natasha stays with him while he comes down from it all. When he stops shaking, she disappears into the bathroom for a wet cloth, she says, but he knows it’s more so he has a little private time with Phil.
“Clear your schedule,” Clint manages to say. “I’ll be collecting for this, big-time.”
Phil laughs and disconnects the call and Clint just flops back and stares at the ceiling.
“What the hell was that?” he calls to Natasha.
“You were bored.” Natasha throws a wet washcloth at him and settles on the other side of the bed while he cleans up and gets the hell out of his jeans. “I was irritated. Coulson... He doesn’t like it when we’re out without him. He feels disconnected.”
“And phone sex is the answer?”
“It worked, didn’t it?” Natasha shrugs. Clint shrugs back. “We all enjoyed ourselves.”
“Speaking of,” Clint says, reaching out to run his hand down her arm. His brain is only barely functioning; it’s not much of an excuse for taking so long to think of her, but it is the truth. He thinks she knows that. “You, uh, want anything?”
“I’m fine,” Natasha answers. “But I get first dibs on him when we get back.”
Clint thinks about watching Natasha take Phil apart and makes a happy, wordless sound. Natasha laughs. She’s right: Clint isn’t bored now and she isn’t threatening to stab him. Phil is never not on their minds, but now he knows it.
Everybody’s better. They’re good like that.