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They don’t spar often, mostly because it’s disastrous for Phil’s self-control. But the junior agents are no match for him, Maria is out of the country, and Natasha is deep in mission prep. So when he comes into the gym and sees Clint practicing tumbling rolls on the mats — and showing off a little for the baby agents grouped in an admiring gaggle — he decides to take advantage of the man’s presence.
Clint bounces lithely to his feet and gives Phil a cocky little salute. “Sir.”
"Barton. Want some sparring practice?"
Surprise and fear flash quickly in Clint’s eyes, and Phil clamps down on the scowl that wants to escape. Everyone is walking on eggshells around him, especially Clint. It’s extremely frustrating. If he doesn’t get some decent sparring practice in, he’s never going to requalify for full field status.
He stands tall and strong — fine, he’s fine — and looks Barton straight in the eye. A direct challenge. After a moment, Clint nods, eyes flicking down to Phil’s chest like he expects to see a gaping wound there, or at least a large bloodstain.
Sparring with Clint is definitely a challenge. They are pretty evenly matched. Clint is stronger, younger, but Phil compensates for that with experience. They feint and circle one another, ignoring the baby agents watching wide-eyed at the edge of the mat. They are completely focused on each other, searching for weaknesses, any openings, no matter how small.
Clint rushes him, and he evades, and then they are on the mat, grappling and slipping in and out of each other’s hold, grunting with the effort. Clint is like a freaking eel, slippery and strong and all muscle. He is solid, heavy on Phil’s body as he tries to pin Phil, his breath hot against Phil’s neck. His thigh is firm between Phil’s legs, and the feeling shakes Phil’s concentration to pieces. Only for a moment, but it’s enough.
His forearm slams against Phil’s jaw, knocking Phil’s head back against the mat with a pained gasp.
Clint immediately scrambles off him. “Shit, sir! You okay?”
Phil licks the corner of his lip, tasting blood, and laughs. “Uncle,” he says breathlessly.
Clint’s beautiful eyes narrow. “It’s not funny,” he says angrily.
He is leaning over Phil, eyes filled with worry, and Phil watches a bead of sweat slowly trickle down his temple. He must have had his bell rung, his sense knocked clean out of him, because he hears himself say, “You could always kiss it better, then.”
Clint’s eyes widen and he falls back in shock, butt hitting the mat with a thump, and Phil grins.
He should take it back, claim head trauma, a concussion, tell Clint to ignore him, but they’ve been dancing around this thing between them for years. He is so tired of being alone, being lonely, and he almost died without giving this a shot, and he is not going to let that happen again.
"Sir?" Clint asks in confused shock, and damn if he’s not adorable when he’s befuddled.
Phil hooks a finger in the neck of Clint’s workout shirt and pulls, and Clint flails a little and then leans until he’s kneeling over Phil again where Phil is flat out on the mat.
His jaw is throbbing — Clint did smack him pretty good — and Phil gently taps it with his finger. “Right there,” he murmurs.
Clint’s gaze shoots sideways, finding the crowd of junior agents, who are in a tight gaggle now, staring and whispering among themselves.
"I don’t care who sees," Phil tells him, and Clint’s eyes widen even more.
"You sure about this?" he whispers. “Phil? You gotta be sure, okay?"
"Never been surer of anything in my life," Phil tells him, tugging him forward a little more until their lips finally, finally meet.
END