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Chapter Text

Phil is halfway through filing the requisite paperwork when Clint barges into his office, just as he had expected.

"Coulson-" he starts, eyes wide, furious, but stops only a moment later, as if unsure of what he wants to say, and Phil's heart lurches because Clint just looks... lost.

"Take a seat, Clint," he offers, because even though it's unprofessional to call agents by their first names, he and Clint had bypassed the "professional" stage of their relationship in their third operation-gone-wrong, sometime between blowing up the safehouse after a suspected leak and waking up to Clint happily drooling onto Phil's jacket on the plane back, snoring gently. Phil doesn't understand why Clint still insists on calling him Agent Coulson instead of just Phil, but it's an idiosyncrasy he readily indulges, contenting himself by making sure that Clint knows the offer of permanent first name basis is always on the table.

Clint collapses, slumping back into the sofa Phil had requested specifically for him, resting his head on his arms, strong cords of muscle a wall between him and the rest of the world. Phil lets him rest, because it's the least he can do, and waits, until Clint finds the words to say what he wants.

"I know why you didn't ask for me to go along with you," comes nearly ten minutes later, when Phil has moved on to requisitioning the needed equipment for the operation, and he glances up to find Clint studiously looking away, not meeting his eyes. "I know it's an undercover mission, and having a sniper would only be a potential security liability, but I don't, I don't-" Clint sighs, multi-faceted eyes flicking to Phil's before dropping to his feet.

"I don't like it." Clint finally says, low and raw, and Phil fights the urge to sigh.

"I know you don't like it." he says, trying to hide his disappointment, since he'd thought Clint was objecting because, because- well, not because he didn't approve of the mission objectives. "We need to tackle this drug-runner immediately, Clint. An outright killing isn't my first choice, but it's the only option..."

Clint shakes his head vehemently, and Phil trails off. "I just-" Clint starts again before cutting himself off with a frustrated exhale, and, after a moment, Phil makes an offer he'd been contemplating ever since the last time Clint ran out of words.

"Do you want," he starts, carefully phrasing his inquiry, "To try writing it down?"

Clint finally looks at him, then, letting his gaze linger, and Phil can feel his face heating up from the force of Clint's focus. Clint wets his lips with the briefest flash of tantalizingly pink tongue, and Phil fights to retain his composure instead of dropping his eyes to Clint's barely parted lips and losing himself in his imagination for a while. "I- yeah."

Phil quickly drops his gaze to his desk, scared of what he might do if he lets himself bask in Clint's attention for any longer, and rolls his eyes when he realizes that he has no spare sheets of paper. He can't simply leave and find some, knows that this - whatever this is - is delicate, tentative, fragile as crystal, and for one of the first times in his adult life, Phil Coulson lets himself make a snap decision.

"Use this," he instructs, handing Clint his half-finished requisition form, because he can put off filing forms but he cannot put off Clint. From the way Clint snorts, he knows his mental deliberation must have been obvious, though the tiny smile he catches out of the corner of his eye goes a long way to soothe the slight sting.

Clint draws out a pen (purple, Phil notes, with amused resignation) from somewhere about his person, and hesitates for a moment before writing, slow and slightly clumsy. The soft scratch of the pen is a counterpoint to the faint whirring of Phil's computer, to the hum of the air conditioning, and Phil lets himself concentrate on the faint sound instead of on the way Clint bites his lip.

He still finds his gaze drawn to the contrast of white teeth against Clint's mouth.

After a few more moments, Clint finishes, capping the pen and extending the paper back to Phil with a soft, "Here."

Phil fights to keep himself from blushing, feeling his heart racing, because though this isn't the first indicator Clint has given of something else, more than just friendliness, more than just camaraderie, this is the first time he's been so explicit, so blatant.

Clint is indulging in what for him passes as fidgeting, his fingers slowly curling up and relaxing, curling up and relaxing, nocking an imaginary arrow, and Phil decides, screw it, and graces him with an unguarded smile, letting Clint see exactly how much it means for Phil that Clint cares.

"I'll do my best," Phil says, and Clint nods, relaxing.

"I'll hold you to it," he says, and rises from the couch, stretching his limbs, golden muscle rippling with almost-inhuman grace, his movements precise and fluid. Phil's mouth goes dry, and he flicks his eyes away, because ignoring professionalism is one thing and openly lusting after one of his assets is a wholly different kettle of fish.

Unaware of Phil's inner turmoil, Clint snaps off a cheery salute before padding towards the door, swinging it open.

"I worry about you too," Phil admits, when he's halfway through the door, soft and low, and Clint freezes before ducking his head abashedly.

Phil goes back to his paperwork, humming contentedly, because he's had years to learn how to read Clint's emotional state, and Clint didn't even bother to try hide his sheepish smile.

Chapter Text

Phil wakes up to the beeping of a monitor in his ears, an IV going into his arm, and a blonde sniper snoring onto his chest.

Clint is open and unguarded when he sleeps, and Phil's heart swells knowing Clint didn't leave his side, had waited for him to wake up for the past few days if the stubble on his face is anything to go by, and though he knows he should probably scold Clint for not taking care of himself, Phil just can't make himself wake Clint up.

Phil makes to raise his arm, then grimaces at the sudden sharp stab in his bicep before trying to sort through his most recent recollections. Something about a hostage situation, explosives... a roof? And then he remembers, huffing a soft laugh at the sheer incongruity of it all, because throwing himself off buildings is Clint's usual job, and Phil is always the one at his side. It's interesting to have their roles reversed for once.

Ascertaining the IV in his arm is only filled with fluids, Phil runs a cursory check of his physical and mental facilities, taking inventory of the dull ache all across his right side. His thoughts feel unclouded by heavy medication, more sluggish than usual but understandably so, and Phil resolves to send a letter of commendation to whoever treated him, since S.H.I.E.L.D medics have a detestable habit of ignoring the requests he's thoughtfully added to his own medical file.

After a few languid moments, Phil notices a streak of white, a scrap of paper crumpled tightly between Clint's fingers, and slowly, gently, he untangles Clint's hand and extricates the note before carefully unfurling it, wincing at the ache in his chest.

Phil stares at the paper, the words blurring in front of his eyes, trying to reconcile a Clint who feels angry and hurt and scared with the Clint who jokes around and acts like a smartass and wields his sex appeal like armor, and he's still holding it up when Clint slowly lifts his head, smacking his lips before yawning, blinking blearily.

"Mornin'," says Clint, smacking his lips softly, raising a hand to run through his disarrayed blonde spikes, rubbing at his eyes.

Phil tries a smile, but it feels foreign, sitting oddly on his face. "Sorry," he says, and it takes Clint a moment to turn to him, brow furrowed in confusion.

"I'm sorry," Phil repeats. "It was a stupid move, and it didn't go the way I planned, and I'm sorry I made you worry."

Clint blinks, and when his eyes dart to the torn page in Phil's hands, he makes a soft "oh" sound before a pink flush creeps up his neck, coloring his cheeks, flaring a lush crimson at the very tips of his ears. "No, I meant-" Clint starts, and Phil shakes his head.

"I promised you I'd stay safe," he entreats, asking Clint to understand. "I know how hard it is for you to trust. I know I'm replaceable, but that's no excuse for unnecessary risks. I should've-"

"Woah, woah, hold on," Clint interrupts, eyes wide, "Replaceable? Who said anything about replaceable?!"

Phil tries to sweep his hand out, but the gesture is curtailed prematurely by the spikes of pain the movement sends down his arm, and he drops it, grimacing. "I'm just an agent. There are younger, fitter, tougher men and women raring at the bit for a chance to take my post."

Clint shakes his head. "No," he practically growls, "You're not replaceable, Phil, not as an agent, and not for-"

Clint's jaw works, but he stays silent, clenching and unclenching his fists. His eyes are open, begging, miserable, and because all Phil wants to do is take some of the sadness away, make Clint feel better, it takes him another heartbeat to realize. "You called me Phil," he breathes, his voice coming out embarrassingly starstruck, and Clint smiles weakly before looking away, to the door.

"You're not replaceable for... for me, Phil," he adds, gentle and soft, and it takes Phil nearly too much time to process his words.

Clint is already halfway to the door before he musters up the energy to call after him. 

"Wait."

Clint stops, his back to Phil, shoulders visibly tensing, and Phil bites his tongue before throwing caution to the wind and barging onward. "Can you stay with me, please?" he asks, instead, and Clint stays motionless for another terrifying, breathless moment, before cautiously turning towards Phil again, padding back to his chair.

When he's seated again, it takes Phil nearly a minute to trust himself to speak again. "I like it when you're with me," he admits, letting his gaze wander to the ceiling, to the window, anywhere but Clint, suddenly afraid of the emotions he might find reflected back in Clint's eyes, and a soft intake of breath is the only response he gets.

Phil steels himself for rejection, trying and failing to keep himself from tensing up, and suddenly, a tentative hand gently covers his own.

When Phil looks back at Clint, he's smiling hesitantly, small and private, and Phil can't help his grin, turning his hand and slowly intertwining his fingers with Clint's.

Chapter Text

It's been nearly a week since Phil woke up in Medical, and he's finally been cleared to return to his duties on the condition he leaves the office early for the next fortnight. S.H.I.E.L.D Medical personnel had somehow managed to shanghai Fury into phrasing it as a specific order (muttering, "It's about time Sitwell earned his paycheck," on his way out), and though Phil ensured the director would be notified of his displeasure at the command as soon as possible (having two covert operatives as friends is always useful), it still hadn't been rescinded.

Agent Hill left him a truly horrendous "Get well soon!" card which he took great delight in slowly and methodically shredding, and he was pleasantly surprised when Natasha had stopped by his room with a fresh cup of coffee and a summarized version of S.H.I.E.L.D office hearsay. S.H.I.E.L.D agents, much to Phil's amusement, chatter like magpies, and loitering around the coffee machine while nursing a cup of coffee is a great way to develop both a fluent knowledge of office politics and a burgeoning caffeine addiction.

Clint had dropped by every single day, at times vocal but mostly silent, and Phil had contented himself with lacing their fingers together and biding his time, knowing that when Clint has something on his mind, the worst thing to do is question him about it.

He's rewarded for his patience when Clint soundlessly drops into his office via the air vent, settling himself on the couch with a gentle sigh before starting to file (heavily overdue) paperwork.

"Are you feeling better, Phil?" Clint asks, after a few idle minutes, and Phil takes a moment to enjoy the warmth hearing his name fall from Clint's lips elicits.

He deliberates for a moment, before settling for a simple answer. "The pain is nearly almost gone, not that it was much to begin with. It only aches when I engage in particularly strenuous activity."

Clint flushes a violent pink. It takes Phil a moment to consider the implications of his words, and he promptly finds himself blushing as well.

"That's... good to know," Clint finally manages to get out, voice surprisingly husky, and Phil makes a mental note to test Clint's reactions to innuendo in further detail at a later date.

They fall into a comfortable silence, Clint's slow writing and Phil's gentle tapping on the keyboard the only sounds breaking the soothing quiet, and Phil can see the question already forming at the tip of Clint's tongue. He keeps his observation to himself, letting Clint muster up the nerve, and after a few more moments, Clint speaks again.

"Look, I've thought about- I mean, I really enjoyed what happened at Medical, and... That is, you don't need to feel pressured to- Fucking hell." Clint rubs his eyes. "I'm so good at this."

"You can take your time," Phil tells him. "I don't mind."

Clint stares at him for a moment before heaving an explosive sigh. "This is what I'm talking about," he murmurs angrily. "I'm all prepared for- for- asking, and then you have to go and be nice, and suddenly I can't even..." He groans in frustration, dropping his head back, the strong lines of his smooth, tanned neck arching in an almost-pornographic display, and Phil's mouth goes dry.

"You can always write instead of talk," he forces out, his voice coming out impressively steady, and Clint peers at him owlishly before breaking out into a shy grin.

"You don't mind?" he asks, cautious, and Phil shakes his head.

"I like it, to be perfectly honest."

Clint's grin widens, his eyes shining. Phil wastes a few moments trying to ascertain their color - is it a blue? A green? Blue-green? Hazel? - before Clint pulls out a small notepad, uncapping his pen with his teeth, and Phil has to stifle a moan, fists involuntarily clenching underneath his desk.

Clint quickly scrawls something down, ripping out the page carelessly and handing it over to Phil with a soft, sheepish smile.

Phil finds himself smiling stupidly at Clint, who's grinning just as idiotically back, before his brain processes the last part of the request. "As much as I want to go on a date with you, I don't think I could stand to stomach any more coffee today after my stint around the coffee machine today."

Clint nods his understanding, because of course Clint knows how much keeping up to date on scuttlebutt means to Phil. "Does a movie date sound good to you?"

"There's a drive in cinema close by that shows screenings of old spy flicks," Phil offers.

Clint gapes at him. "You've been to 'Pinewood' as well?"

Phil laughs, because it's finally sinking in that he's going on a date with Clint Barton, the man he's given up trying not to fantasize over, the man who introduced himself with a smug smirk, flipping the bird, and blinked in surprise when Phil had responded with a middle-finger salute of his own.

"Yeah, I've been there, but I have a feeling it's going to be much more enjoyable when it's with you."

Clint smiles softly. "I really hope so," he murmurs, and Phil rises from his chair, extending a hand, which Clint gratefully takes.

Chapter Text

Clint is still laughing giddily when they leave the theater, carelessly throwing the empty popcorn bucket straight into the nearby trash can without bothering to look at it.

(It doesn't even bounce off the rim. Phil makes a point of looking.)

"I'm guessing you liked the movie, then?" Phil asks, and Clint nods happily.

"I loved the part where the cars fell from the plane," he admits, wiping at his eyes with one final chuckle, letting out a sated exhale. "When they got stuck in the ground? Total classic."

Phil, as a senior agent of S.H.I.E.L.D, has had the ability to fidget brutally trained out of him, but right now he really feels the need to fiddle with his thumbs. "So, uh," he starts, hoping he doesn't sound as anxious as he feels, "Does that mean you'd want to do it again sometime?"

Clint's smile turns affectionate, his eyes warm. "Of course. As a matter of fact, I think I saw a retro themed diner a while back..."

Phil rolls his eyes fondly, because for Clint, that actually counts as subtlety. "Yes, Clint, I'd really like to go there with you."

Clint continues walking for a moment before. "Maybe... now?"

Taking in the not-so-carefully hidden tension in Clint's words, Phil can't help a soft smile as they adjust their course. "I've got nothing planned for tonight," he says, which is technically a lie since he did want to catch up on paperwork, but Clint takes precedence over... yes, over pretty much everything else. "Or for tomorrow, for that matter."

Clint flushes to the roots of his hair, and Phil thinks, he's adorable, hurriedly quashing the thought down before remembering that now he can actually allow himself to openly admire Clint. It's going to take a while to get used to, now, though he should probably still exercise a bit of restraint, especially when Clint is in denim, because some things were just made to be worshiped and Phil is not above using his tongue.

When he realizes where his eyes have wandered down to and hurriedly jerks his gaze upwards, Clint's smile has gotten a lot more pleased. "In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that I perv about your butt a lot too," Clint informs him, and Phil decides that today his body is apparently on strike, judging by the way his dick twitches in his pants. "And your eyes. And your forearms, god, your forearms..." Clint trails off, shuddering theatrically, and Phil bites back a whine, doing his best to convince his cock that no, tearing off Clint's pants is not a viable solution.

"If this is how dinner with you is going to be, I'm currently regretting my decision," Phil informs him, making sure his tone is light and teasing, because he wants to taunt Clint, not make him feel like Phil genuinely doesn't want to continue their date.

"You've had ten years to work out that I don't play fair," Clint retorts, and his hand smacks Phil's butt. Phil doesn't jump and let out an undignified yelp - he doesn't - before turning to glare at Clint, who opens the door with a flourish by way of apology.

Phil settles for a curt, "Thank you," before striding into the restaurant, Agent Coulson persona in place.... until Clint mutters, "Swine before pearls," behind him, and Phil turns to find him with the most obnoxious smirk plastered on his face. Kiss, says his brain, and that's all it manages before it's wiped blank by the taste of Clint's mouth on his.

When Phil finally pulls back, Clint blinks dazedly, one hand moving up to gently touch his rapidly flushing lips, and Phil bites his lip - hard - in order to distract himself from the very immediate and pressing need to peel Clint out of his ridiculously tight shirt.

"Table for two, please," he tells the waitress manning the service counter, who appears to be struggling not to appear too openly appreciative, and leads Clint by the hand when it becomes obvious that, for the time being, he's still incapable of higher brain functions.

"Wow," breathes Clint, a few minutes after they're seated, a broad smile slowly quirking his mouth.

Phil can second that motion. "Wow, indeed," he admits as well, and any embarrassment he may have felt at how dreamy his voice sounds is blown away by the sheer wattage of Clint's bright beam. When Clint is momentarily distracted, acknowledging the waitress as she fills their glasses, Phil takes a moment to adjust himself, because his penis has apparently decided to be contrary today.

"So here's the plan," Clint starts, and Phil mentally braces himself, because Clint doesn't make plans often but when he does, they're a match for Phil's own machinations. "We order, you probably want a burger and I take breakfast for dinner because it is the superior of all menu options, and then we spend the meal pretending that we don't actually want to rip each other's clothes off. Then, we go back to my apartment, and I make a big show of inviting you up for coffee so the neighbors are appeased."

Phil waits until Clint is halfway through his glass of water when he intones, in his best deadpan, "And then we rip each other's clothes off."

Clint sprays water across half of the table, coughing, and Phil gently pats him on the shoulder before sitting back to bask in the glorious sight that is Clint Barton without a witty comeback.

"You," Clint says, when he's finally finished spluttering, "Are an asshole. You know that?"

"Yes," Phil admits, and Clint nods, as if he'd wanted nothing more than clear up any misconceptions Phil may or may not have had regarding his state of asshole-ery.

---

For the most part, they follow Clint's plan. Phil orders a burger, medium rare, with the home fries on the side, and Clint orders breakfast for dinner, ending up sharing Phil's meal. "You need to eat faster, Phil," Clint accuses, demonstrating by swallowing an entire fry without chewing. Phil doesn't choke on his food, but it's a near thing.

When they finish the home fries, and Phil still hasn't finished his burger, Clint gets creative. Flexing his biceps as he raises his glass to his mouth, bouncing his pecs as he leans back into his chair, "accidentally" spilling his water on himself ("Aww, water, no," says Clint, eyes twinkling), and spending an entirely too long period of time wiping himself off with paper napkin, the hem of his shirt lifting every so often to show a tantalizing strip of golden skin.

The end result is Phil's erection straining against his pants as Clint leans against the counter paying the bill, the sleek lines of his butt outlined in almost obscene detail through the denim, before Clint grabs his hand and tugs playfully.

"Come on, my apartment's like two blocks away," Clint says, and Phil does.

---

"Oh, fuck-" Clint moans, "Phil-!"

Phil continues to mercilessly lick into Clint's mouth, biting sharply at his bottom lip, and Clint actually quivers in his arms, fingers scrabbling against the mattress.

"Phil-" Clint starts again, but this time it's quieter, somber, and Phil stops in surprise, leaning back, rolling off of him.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asks, suddenly seized by an irrational fear that he's hurt Clint, somehow, pushed too hard, but Clint shakes his head no.

"It's just-" he starts, before breaking off with a muttered curse, turning around to rummage through his discarded clothing before drawing out a notebook with a soft "Aha!", and Phil nearly falls off the bed from the cute.

He roots around for another few moments before raising his hand, purple pen triumphantly held in his grasp, before turning to quickly scribble on the paper.

Phil waits, catching his breath, and tries not to feel so pleased at how quickly Clint is adapting to this new method of communication. Knowing he was the one who'd originally suggested it is a heady drug.

After another moment, Clint hands him the notebook, running his hand through his hair with a shaky laugh.

"Of course," Phil manages to rasp out, past the lump in his throat, and Clint grins mischievously.

"Carry on, then," he motions, with a regal wave of his hand, and if his voice sounds a bit more choked up than usual, well, Phil doesn't comment on it.

Chapter Text

Phil hisses at the cold of the tiles underneath his feet, slowly stepping from one to the other, wetting a washcloth under the tap.

He really doesn't know what to do next.

Phil doesn't have a lot of experience with relationships, even hookups. Being a S.H.I.E.L.D agent is a full time job, and Phil is legendary even within S.H.I.E.L.D ranks for his commitment to the job. He knows that Clint in the same situation as him, inexperienced at much more than an idle fuck and a walk of shame, and he contemplates his options.

Can Phil stay the night? More importantly, does Clint want him to stay the night? Is it proper to ask Clint to stay, or would that make Clint feel obligated, make Clint just take the path of least resistance, and let Phil stay in his bed against his will, just like...

He cuts himself off, realizing the washcloth is completely soaked through, turning off the flow of water before hurrying back to the bedroom.

Clint regards him through bleary eyes, with a sleepy smile that immediately warms Phil through, and he's powerless to stop the answering smile twitching at his own lips.

He carefully wipes down the mattress before helping Clint clean up, gently shuffling his pliant limbs around as Clint moans softly into the pillow. When he's finished, he throws the cloth back into the bathroom, feeling a flicker of smug satisfaction when it lands in the sink, because he's no Hawkeye but he's still got good aim, and he feels a telltale flush heating his ears when Clint chuckles quietly.

"That was a nice throw," he teases, voice ragged, before making grabby hands at Phil, unwittingly setting Phil's doubts at ease. "Now come here."

Phil obliges, pressing himself up to Clint's side, and Clint melts into him with a happy sigh, wrapping Phil up to him securely, resting his head on Phil's shoulder.

This, Phil decides, is bliss.

"Thank you," Clint slurs, after a moment. "For lookin' after me- always lookin' after me."

Phil hides his smile in Clint's hair, the musky scent of arousal still permeating the blonde strands. "No thanks needed."

Clint strokes his back gently. "You don' ge' fanked enough," he sighs, and Phil jerks his head to stare at him with wide eyes, only to find Clint fast asleep, cuddling on Phil's chest.

Aww, Phil thinks, before he slips off into dreamland as well.

---

Phil wakes to an empty bed and the smell of coffee. He lets himself bask in the warmth of the blankets for a moment, stretching out, belatedly noting that Clint's side is still warm, meaning he'd probably only gotten up a few minutes ago.

"Mornin'," Clint greets him from his perch on the table, nursing a mug of some herbal drink, when Phil finally pads out of the bedroom nearly ten minutes later. "I started up some coffee, but I've been waiting for you with the eggs and the bacon."

Phil pours himself a mug, black, no sugar, chugging it down, briefly appreciating the taste (for a tea drinker, Clint has some excellent coffee), since he needs caffeine to function appropriately. "Whatever you're having's good," he says. "I like your cooking."

A pink flush slowly creeps up Clint's bare shoulders, and Phil watches in rapt fascination as it slowly darkens in color, flaring a vibrant crimson at the tips of Clint's ears. "I, uhm," Clint laughs sheepishly, "Thanks."

Phil's heart breaks the tiniest bit at Clint's reaction to the compliment, but that's something he can change, so he vows to remember to praise Clint when he deserves it.

As Clint works the frying pan (still shirtless), Phil pours himself another mug, leisurely sipping at it as he lets himself admire the play of Clint's muscles, smooth skin rippling as he confidently moves around the small kitchen, humming distractedly under his breath.

He's loathe to disturb Clint's carefree calm, Clint as unguarded as can be, trusting Phil with this precious, lively moment, but he doesn't feel comfortable just sitting at the sidelines and being catered to. "Can I help?"

Clint turns to him, obviously surprised. "Cutlery's in the cupboards," he directs, indicating with a jerk of his head, "And so are the plates."

Phil nods wordlessly, moving as he's told, and after a moment, Clint begins humming again, singing softly under his breath, and Phil snorts, recognizing the tune. "Don'tcha wish your girlfriend was hot like me," Clint croons, masterfully flipping the eggs with a flick of his wrist, having already scooped the bacon out of the pan.

After a moment, Clint falls silent, and Phil turns to find him prodding at the frying pan, an odd expression on his face.

"I never told you, you know, why I spend so much time at S.H.I.E.L.D," Clint says, a few heartbeats later, flipping the eggs onto a plate.

Phil stays silent, waiting for Clint to go on, and Clint doesn't disappoint. "I mean, I don't think I've ever invited anyone else here, and I've barely got more than breakfast foods in my fridge."

He places the plate on the table, before turning back to Phil, hands twisting at the waist of his pants. "It's- It's lonely. I mean- When it's you... When you left the bedroom to get the cloth, I- I-"

Clint closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, before smiling apologetically. "One sec."

He pads off towards the bedroom, and Phil lets himself want for a moment, lets himself complete Clint's half-finished sentences, and Clint pads out, already furiously writing, before carefully handing the pad over to Phil.

Whatever doubts Phil had about his welcome ease.

"For you, always," he says, and he means it, and Clint smiles abashedly back, blushing in full force, before seating himself down at the table, motioning for Phil to do the same.

"Food's ready," he says, and Phil accepts the momentary retreat for what it is, knowing that even admitting to feeling something of this magnitude is an incredible development for Clint.

He sits down, reaches for his cutlery, and doesn't quite manage to stifle his moan when the taste sparks over his tastebuds.

Clint's grin is so pleased Phil can't help but to kiss it off of him.

Chapter Text

The sound of Clint's pen scratching across paper hazily registers as Phil slowly wakes, still in the limbo between sleep and awareness, curled against Clint's side.

Clint is muttering as he goes, soft, murmured exclamations, and Phil catches some words and phrases here and there, content to stay in this warm, comfortable moment for a while.

With shaky hands, Clint finally finishes writing, before flipping back the pages, and Phil is surprised to see that he's almost reached the middle of the notepad. Clint doesn't use it much, after the first few days, but he leaves notes lying around for Phil at times, messages which never fail to bring a smile to his face, signed with a purple heart.

Clint exhales gustily, closing the notebook, before peering down at Phil, a single line creasing his brow. "Hey," he says, soft and just the slightest bit tense, and Phil is instantly in full command of his mental faculties, registering the emotions on display in Clint's eyes, his posture, the way his other hand is idly stroking across Phil's chest, and realizes that Clint isn't worried, he's nervous.

Phil raises his arms above his head, and arches his back off the mattress, stretching, before Clint places a quick kiss to his mouth, sending him collapsing back down from the unexpected gesture. As he laughs, a slow smile blooms across Clint's face, easing some of the harsher lines of worry, and Phil's heart lightens.

"So, um," Clint starts, before shaking his head, apparently at himself, clutching the notebook to his chest. "You... you tell me that you don't have to have words, that actions are enough, that you- that you believe in my, in my..." he sighs. "We've been together for a while, now, enough that Nat's started teasing me about it, and... I still haven't said- said it."

Phil slowly rises, telegraphing his intentions, and when Clint leans in closer, he hugs him tightly. "And I know you say it's not that important for you, but- it's still important, and the things that are important for you are important for me, Phil," Clint murmurs, his breath ghosting faintly across Phil's skin, a tender caress, before taking a deep breath. "I love you, Phil," he says, the words tumbling out in a rush, and Phil kisses them off his lips, because screw morning breath, this is Clint, Clint confessing.

"I love you too," Phil says, when he can finally speak again, and Clint's laugh softly tattoos against his lips, his air interlacing with Phil's with an intoxicating intensity that leaves Phil dizzy, gasping for breath.

Clint's eyes search Phil's for another moment. "You... I know," he exhales, before leaning backwards, tentatively proffering the notepad to Phil.

He takes it, and is rewarded with a soft, shy smile, and carefully flips through it, pages upon pages of words that send his heart racing, his breath hitching, until finally, he finds it.

He can't even speak right now, he just pulls Clint close and holds on for what he's worth, and Clint tenderly strokes his back, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear.

"So much," Phil manages to gasp, straining for air, "So much."

Clint nods."I love you too."