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Grateful for the distraction, Phil looked up from the Latverian call logs at the soft knock on his office door frame. Clint's head popped around the door jamb as he waved a silver greeting card envelope in the air.
"Hey," he said with a grin. "Nat just gave me my definitely-not-a-Christmas-gift-because-we-don't-exchange-gifts-Barton, and it's a gift card to Badmaash, that Indian place Sitwell's always talking about. Wanna go?"
"That's interesting. Jasper and Woo got me the same thing," Phil replied, leaning back in his desk chair slightly to extract the small envelope from the center desk drawer. "If we pool them, we can probably have a pretty good meal."
Clint's grin widened. "Cool. Friday?"
"I'll see if they have a table," Phil replied, thumbing at his phone to get to the Open Table app.
Clint's phone rang, and he glanced down at it with a grimace. "Hill," he muttered. "Gotta take this, text me the time!"
Phil nodded absently, scrolling through reservation times, but Clint was already walking away.
-----
Clint slurped up the last few drops of his mango Lassi and sat back with a pleased sigh, disregarding the looks from the couple seated at the very close table next to them in the crowded, busy restaurant.
Ignoring the tiny clench in his gut at the idea of Clint's happy, satisfied sigh in other contexts, Phil concentrated on mopping up the last bits of ghost chili lamb vindaloo with his garlic naan.
"That was so good," Clint said happily. "I should get another one."
"That was a quart of mango Lassi," Phil pointed out. "You're going to slosh when we leave as it is."
"I could take it home," Clint countered with a small frown. His frown disappeared as his face brightened. "I could take it home!"
He waved at the server, and Phil laughed softly at his sunny, wheedling face.
Resisting the urge to tell the young couple next to them on the other side that the financial decisions they were considering would inevitably be disastrous, Phil focused instead on Clint's happy face and the delicious, relaxing meal they'd just shared.
He and Clint had shared too many meals together for it to be anything but a pleasant evening out. They'd put work away and discussed everything from the latest season of Dog Cops to their favorite mission locations at Christmas (carefully sanitized for civilian ears), and the latest research requests by a new biographer attempting to write The Definitive Steve Rogers Biography.
The food was delicious, the company better, and Phil was determined to put the deteriorating situation in Latveria out of his mind and just enjoy his evening out.
They were just looking at the bill and determining how much they had left the pay and the proper tip without the gift cards when both of their phones rang at once. Resigned, Phil glanced up to see the same grim determination on Clint's face.
Their pleasant evening together was definitely over.
-----
The following Wednesday, Phil was again in his office, nursing a headache and the remains of a sore shoulder from the battle that had pulled him and Clint away from their dinner.
He rolled his shoulder, uncomfortable, as Clint slouched into his office and dropped onto the couch, popping a honey roasted peanut into his mouth from the little bag in his hand. He tossed one at Phil, raising an eyebrow at Phil when Phil caught it with his left hand.
"Shoulder still bothering you?" he asked, crunching down on another peanut.
Phil shrugged his good shoulder, doing a thorough once-over of his own. Clint's shiner was fading, but the white butterfly bandage at his temple stood out starkly against his golden skin. Phil pushed down the urge to smooth Clint's rumpled hair away from the wound.
Instead, he glanced down at the card on his desk. "Happy hour at the Morrison on Saturday?" he asked.
Clint looked up from his peanuts, face bright with happy surprise. "Yeah?"
Phil flipped the card between his fingers. "Nick gave me a gift card. Think he assumes I'm gonna take him, but he dropped this Latveria mess in my lap. He can buy his own damn Macallan flight."
Clint's sympathetic smile was more like a grimace, but before he could answer, Phil's desk phone rang with the reminder for his two o'clock conference call.
"Meet at 4:30 on Saturday, then?" Clint asked, and Phil nodded, picking up his phone. He went through the expected introductions by rote, watching fondly as Clint finished his snack, crumpled the bag and tossed it across the room into Phil's garbage can without looking, and then curled up on the couch with his back to the office, good ear pressed into the couch arm.
He couldn't deny that he worked through his afternoon routine much more easily knowing that Clint was there, safe within reach.
-----
Phil sipped at his glass of Macallan 18 as he watched Clint make his way through the festively decorated bar, seemingly oblivious of the admiring looks in his wake. The bandage was gone, nothing left but a healing scab just under his hairline. His hair was messily spiked, and silver rings graced the fingers of both hands. His soft leather jacket hugged the curves of his arms and his broad shoulders, and his dark jeans seemed painted on the muscular thighs Phil knew he worked very hard for. Phil's mouth watered, suddenly hungry for much more than appetizers.
"Guess what," Clint said as he slid easily into the booth. He settled onto the leather, close to Phil so they both had good views of all the entrances and exits. His shoulder and thigh brushed Phil's, but Phil had no desire to move away to give himself more room.
Phil hummed curiously and passed the happy hour menu over to Clint, though it wasn't really necessary.
"I must have been babbling about the bread pudding again, because Katie-Kate tossed me a Morrison gift card as she left this morning."
Phil raised an eyebrow. Curiouser and curiouser. "You don't say," he said blandly.
Clint grinned. "Yep. I asked her if she wanted to join us, but she said she had plans with America, so…" he trailed off with a shrug.
"Her loss," Phil said, passing over the regular menu. "I've already ordered us the chicken nachos and the wings. Pick your poison."
Clint turned happily to the beer menu. He didn't drink often, but beer flights at the Morrison were one of his few indulgences. It was part of the reason Phil loved coming here with him, watching him try new things and slowly erase old negative associations with alcohol, relaxed and happy, his eyes bright and cheeks a little flushed.
They picked over appetizers and people watched, the booth giving them an excellent vantage point over the entire floor. They made up backstories and professions for the wait and bar staff and the other patrons, Phil's sly remarks quiet and wry, Clint's laughter ringing through the bar.
Finally, the much anticipated butterscotch bread pudding arrived, sizzling in an oven-hot ramekin, a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream melting rapidly into the sweet stickiness.
Clint served himself a large chunk, drizzling the house-made whiskey caramel sauce over his plate. They were practiced enough at this now that Phil had ordered an extra shot of caramel for himself, avoiding a fight over the coveted sauce.
"Do you think all our friends are in on it together?" Clint asked suddenly, licking a stray drop of caramel off his thumb.
Phil took a moment to clear his throat, tearing his eyes away from Clint's glistening thumb. "Natasha, Jasper, Jimmy, Nick, and Kate? What do you think?"
Clint tilted his head in consideration, forking up another bite of pudding. "Definitely a conspiracy," he concluded with a grin, and Phil huffed a laugh and nodded.
"Definitely," he agreed. He grinned and tossed back the last drops of his scotch, humming with pleasure. He glanced up to see Clint watching him, eyes dark and hungry, completely ignoring the decadence on his plate.
"What do you say to coffee at your place?" Clint suggested, voice low but filled with promise.
Heat bloomed in Phil that had nothing to do with the fine single malt he'd just finished. He caught the server's eye and signaled for their check.
"That sounds like the best idea I've heard all day." Phil said as he watched the server near their table. "Do you think we should tell them all we've been together for eight months now?"
Clint stared at him in alarm. "Hell, no! I want to see how many free meals we can get out of them! And who else they manage to rope into it!"
"And they call themselves spies," Phil said with derision, leaning happily into the curve of Clint's arm to wait for the check.
END