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The prince is breathtakingly handsome, even after Clint’s brief fumble with his coffee mug. The brown stains on his jaw hints at a five o’clock shadow, giving him a roguish look. It doesn’t detract from the patrician nose and smooth skin in the least.
“Sorry,” Clint says, not quite sheepish. “My hand slipped.”
From the corner of his eyes, Phil catches Natasha rolling her eyes at him. “Why doesn’t your entire existence just slip, Barton.”
“Ouch, that’s harsh,” Clint pouts. “Why such animosity, Tasha? Aren’t we friends?”
“Sure we are.”
There’s a snick of metal on metal, and then she has one of her blades between her fingers, ready to be thrown.
“Guys. Please,” Phil says, amused, before turning back to Maria who’s watching them bicker with an impatient expression she doesn’t bother to hide. “And you say the prince has been asleep all this time?”
“Close to seventy years,” she confirms, expression stern. As one of the most decorated knights of the realm, Maria fears nothing. Phil admires her greatly. “The rumors that he had died in battle turned out to be false.”
“Too bad, every bard in the land will have to come up with new stories now,” Clint says right next to Phil’s ear, making him jump. “I quite enjoyed the one where he lost his sight in addition to his legs.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Natasha says. With a smirk, she deftly dodges the nudge aimed at her ribs, simultaneously aiming a kick at his shin. Her lips curve even more when she hears Clint’s pained gasp.
“Word is Stark has put out a huge reward for anyone who manages to wake him—no one has succeeded so far. In fact, he sent a messenger over to specifically tell us this.”
“Stark?” Phil asks. “What’s his interest in this?” The merchant is known for his great eccentricities and greater wealth, and while Phil likes the man fine, he doesn’t remember there ever being a connection between him and the prince.
“Doesn’t matter, Phil couldn’t care less about the reward. If he does this, it’d be for the glory,” Clint is saying confidently.
“And the honor,” Natasha agrees, the glint of her grin reminding Phil of bush fires, wild and untamable. “A deadly forest, an enchanted castle, and a cursed prince? Sounds like fun.”
“You forget the evil queen and her pet dragon,” he says wryly. “All necessary prerequisites for a story fit to be passed down through the centuries.”
Natasha’s blade flips quickly between her fingers. “Well, we could do with a little more excitement in our lives.”
“What about you, Clint, what do you think?” Phil turns to his other page.
Clint shrugs. “You know I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth, Coulson.”
The matter-of-fact proclamation, delivered with a soft smile, fills Phil’s chest with warmth. Maria clears her throat when their eyes meet and hold for more than a few long moments, and Phil has to hide the pleased grin that rises.
“Excellent. In that case, rest early. You leave at dawn.”
He nods at the order, watching as Maria rolls up the portrait and hands it to him. Briefly, Phil notes that the parchment is smooth despite its age. Quality stuff, he muses, tucking it in with the map to the castle. Befitting of a prince.
They hit the road exactly six minutes after sunrise, following a short kerfuffle with the horses. Clint had wanted to ride Phil’s stallion, Arrow, who was having none of it, throwing him off his back repeatedly despite bribes of apples and sugar cubes. He had to settle for the mare in the end, the only other horse left in the stables.
Phil thinks it’s a good thing. Clint may be excellent with a bow, but his riding skills leave much to be desired, and Donut, while strong, is naturally sweet in disposition just like her namesake. Even so, he wisely keeps the thought to himself, although Natasha doesn’t quite exercise that restraint.
“Oh Clint, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone ride a mare into battle before,” she laughs. “Don’t you two make a pretty picture.”
Neatly sidestepping Clint’s outstretched arm, she gracefully swings herself up onto her horse. Clint is left huffing as he eyes her chestnut-coated gelding with barely concealed jealousy.
“He who laughs last, Natasha. Just you wait,” Clint says, cooing at a patient Donut as he deftly saddles her up.
Waving at Nick and Maria, who had come out to see them off, Phil digs his heels into Arrow to spur him on. They set off at a brisk pace, trotting along the paved roads of the city, which grow dustier and distinctly less cobbled as they pass through the surrounding villages.
They stop for the night at an inn after riding for most of the day. Exhausted, all Phil wants to do is tumble into bed and not move until dawn breaks. When he comes back from his nightly toilette, he finds Clint in bed. In his bed.
“Clint,” he says. “What are you doing?”
“…Sleeping. Obviously.”
Phil frowns. The way he is sprawled out bonelessly on the bed, he’s doing a pretty good approximation of it. Except for the whole talking thing. “You have your own cot.”
“The bed is comfier,” comes the reply. Cracking an eye open, Clint holds up a corner of the covers and stares at Phil expectantly. “Coming?”
“We’re sharing?” Phil blinks. Clint and Natasha may be his pages only in name, having been through too much together to stand on formalities, but this still seems a little too absurd.
“Unless you want to sleep on the cot, we are. Hurry up, will you? I’m getting cold.”
It is getting chilly, so Phil sighs and starts toeing off his boots. He manages to sound a lot more put out than he feels. Climbing in under the covers, he makes sure to keep a respectable distance between their bodies.
“Just for tonight,” he says.
He falls asleep easily, waking up only once in the night, feeling suffocated and heated. He’s entirely ready to kick the offending blanket off of him until he realizes that it’s Clint.
Sometime during the night, he’d thrown a heavy thigh over Phil’s legs and an arm over his middle, bracketing him in with his solid weight. Still half asleep, Phil tries to figure out whether he should listen to the half of his body that wants to bolt, or the half that just wants to go back to sleep.
Then Clint sighs, nuzzling against his throat, hot puff of breath making Phil shiver. It doesn’t seem half bad, really, he thinks as he twists into the warm embrace before letting himself fall back asleep. In fact, he quite likes it.
And if he doesn’t put up much protest when Clint climbs into bed with him again the next time they stop, it’s only because he’s really, really tired, okay.
“I don’t like this,” the archer says a few days later.
They are currently deep in the forest, so deep the sunlight barely filters through the thick canopy. Upon entering, they were greeted by brambles and branches that reached out like gnarled fingers, spooking the horses and making them rear up in fright. They’d backed out in a hurry, and after leaving their rides at a farm nearby, cautiously ventured back in on foot.
The further in they go, the darker and nastier it gets. Magic pulses tangibly from every twig, leaf, and stone, making Phil shudder in his armor. It’s worse when they realize it’s deathly silent, too. There is no birdsong, no insects chirping. He can’t quite help imagining that every creature in the forest had fled untold horrors en masse.
“I don’t like this at all,” Clint repeats, staring forlornly at the broken arrow in his hands. “Are you sure we’re going the right way? That murderous bush looks vaguely familiar.”
Phil frowns and glances down at the map he’s holding. It’s crudely drawn and he has to squint, but he’s relatively sure they’re on the right track. Even though it’s taking a lot longer than he’d estimated to get there.
“Yes. We just have to keep going west—”
“That’s what you said two hours ago!”
“And an hour before that,” Natasha grumbles. She kicks at a branch in her path, then slices at the vine slithering sneakily up between her feet. There are leaves in her hair. Phil has never seen her so disheveled.
“We’re to go west until we hit a stream,” he continues, ignoring their complaints. “It will lead us to the castle.”
He hacks away at foliage as he leads the way, Clint and Natasha still muttering away under their breath as they follow. He refrains the urge to sigh. It’s rather like traveling with children.
The third time they pass by the same tree, now mostly bare of homicidal branches thanks to their indiscriminate slashing, Phil decides to call it a day.
“Let’s rest here for the night,” he says. Clint and Natasha cheer, vocal in their relief.
They lay down their packs. The ground is thankfully hard and dry, and once they’ve gotten a fire going, they each pick out a spot near it to roll out their pallets. Phil surreptitiously edges his closer to Clint’s, who is laying out their dinner and doesn’t notice.
Nights in the forest can be unbearably chilly, after all. He’s just looking out for him.
The crackling of the fire and the sounds of Natasha and Clint sparring nearby cuts through the unnatural stillness of the forest at dusk, putting Phil more at ease than he’s been all day. With a hunk of bread in one hand, Phil pulls out the portrait and unrolls it, admiring the fine hand of the artist. Whoever it was, they undoubtedly loved the prince very much, and the prince them. It’s impossible to fake the adoration shining in the prince’s eyes.
Phil’s always dreamed of being looked at that way.
He wonders if they knew about the misfortune that had befallen the prince, if they were, at this very moment, on their way to rescue him. Nick had sent him on this mission in the hopes of forming an alliance between the two kingdoms, to increase their firepower in their decades-long war. The prince is a great soldier by all accounts—Phil has followed his exploits closely as a child, collecting every piece of parchment even for just a mention of him—they’d do well to have him on their side.
So lost in thought, he doesn’t register that the sounds of clashing metal have stopped until Clint plunks himself onto the ground next to him, panting heavily.
“Handsome fellow, the prince,” he comments. Phil hums in the affirmative.
“Very handsome,” Natasha says from across the fire as she takes a long sip of water. “He will suit Coulson quite well.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s how fairy tales go, isn’t it? The knight saves the princess, they fall in love, they live happily ever after.”
“He’s a prince, he can take care of himself.”
“Everybody needs a little rescuing sometimes, Clint,” she says, nodding sagely. “Even handsome princes.”
She should know, Phil smirks secretly. She's done her fair share of rescuing, especially of a certain seemingly mild-mannered doctor in their town. He's a handsome fellow, without a doubt, even if he's prone to bouts of sudden rage when his medical experiments go wrong.
“He’s not just a handsome face, he’s also a soldier. A legendary one,” Phil reminds them. “He single-handedly defeated an entire battalion, all in the attempt to save his brother-in-arms.” Eyes sweeping over the prince’s dancing eyes and quirked lips, he sighs in admiration. “He’s a hero.”
“Oh, Phil, you fanboy, you,” Natasha says fondly.
Phil can’t help but grin at that, and turns to Clint, who has had to sit through many an afternoon listening to Phil talk about the varied and exciting adventures of the prince. “Can you believe it? We’re actually going to meet him in the flesh!”
He expected enthusiasm, but Clint’s answering smile is late in coming, and when it does, it’s a small, forced thing that blunts Phil’s excitement.
“Yeah, can’t wait,” he says.
If it makes Phil feel a pang of wistfulness for what the prince has, he doesn’t let on.
To their relief, they eventually stumble onto the elusive stream. Not just because it means the castle is near, but more that they’re finally able to have their fill of fresh drinking water and wash up. They’re all beginning to smell pretty ripe.
It bubbles away cheerily at their feet, the rippling water crisp and clear—harmless—it didn’t seem to want to drown them when Phil stuck his hand into it as a test. It’s a nice reprieve from the past few days of battling vicious vegetation.
“Pity there’s no fish,” Clint is saying as he helps Phil shed his armor. Nimble fingers work on the buckles, making electricity dance across his skin, and Phil has to suppress the urge to back away. “Our food supply is running a little low.”
“It’s not that bad, we’re not too far away from the castle now,” Phil says. It takes effort to keep his voice steady, especially when Clint’s eyes flick up to meet his teasingly.
“Your sense of direction is pretty shit, Coulson. I’d be grateful if we got there within the week.”
Clint’s chuckle is warm and low, making him flush. “We did find the stream,” he protests, but it’s weak. They’d found it by chance; Phil had no idea they had been that close.
Armor off, he wades into the water and watches as Clint strips off his shirt, then his trousers in one smooth motion, only turning away when the tanned hands hover over the waist of his undergarment. Phil is equally glad for the cold water and that Natasha’s behind the bend upstream, hiding them from view.
A splash next to him makes him turn back, regretting it the instant he does. Clint is slicking his wet hair back, droplets catching in his eyelashes, sliding down his face and his chest before disappearing into the water. Mouth suddenly dry, he swallows. It doesn’t help to shift his gaze away, the image having been seared into his mind’s eye.
“Anyway, I saw a couple of berry bushes earlier on,” Clint is still saying, blithely unaware of the frustration brewing inside Phil as he tilts his head back to face the sun with his eyes closed. “And I got enough for us to share. It’ll be a nice change from bread and cheese.”
“Sure,” Phil chokes out, and ducks under the water. Clint is going to be the death of him.
Clint spots it first. The blue ball of light dances in the distance, artfully weaving itself in and out of the swaying trees. He draws his bow, sending three arrows flying after it in quick succession. The light dodges all of them.
He curses. “I hate magic.”
Natasha goes next, blades whizzing soundlessly through greenery. Phil isn’t really surprised when she misses, too, instead making ribbons of bark curl gracefully onto the forest floor.
It continues to bob, mockingly now, and Phil narrows his eyes. “Let me.” He strides toward it, sword drawn, ready to swing in a moment’s notice. To his astonishment, it doesn't back away this time. Instead, it springs forward to twirl around his head, then bounces a little distance away before stopping. It feels a little expectant, a little like…
“I think it wants us to follow it.”
Eyeing the light with distrust, Clint says, “No way.”
“I don’t trust it either, but I vote we do. At least it’ll get us somewhere.”
The light bounces impatiently at Natasha’s words, then suddenly zips through the trees without any warning. Hurriedly, they set off after it, slashing and chopping at anything that’s green, brown, and moving. Or not moving—they’re not taking any chances after the seemingly benign apple tree that had nearly scratched Phil’s eye out before Natasha felled it with his sword.
It’s not long before the trees start thinning out and they find themselves in a clearing. A castle looms in the distance ahead of them, manicured gardens stretching as far as the eye can see. Flags wave from the turrets, tossed about by the wind. It looks rather normal, not at all like the enchanted castle filled with dark magic Phil was told it would be.
“Is that it?” Clint leans over and plants his palms on his knees, breathing heavily as he tries to catch his breath.
Phil looks around, but the strange light has long since vanished. He pulls out the map, now creased at the edges, and studies it with a frown. He holds it up to the structure in the distance, comparing it to the scribbled drawing. They do look similar.
“I think so,” he says finally. “Yeah, that’s it.”
Natasha sighs, Clint whoops, and Phil just grins in anticipation of finally meeting the prince.
The doors to the entrance of the castle creak loudly when Phil pushes it open, hinges protesting against years of disuse. It’s as silent inside as it was in the forest. They step through the entrance into the foyer, footsteps echoing loudly on the marble floor, weapons drawn and at the ready. Nothing seems to be attacking, but considering the time they spent in the forest, they can’t be too careful.
“It’s huge,” Clint says. “How are we supposed to find him?”
“If only there’s a map. Or directions,” Natasha adds.
Absently, Phil studies the tapestry hanging on the far wall. It’s a beautiful piece even though it has been slashed in places, the attacker doing a very methodical job of it. Each horizontal cut is evenly spaced and lined up perfectly, pointing toward a triangle just before the edge of the tapestry, a triangle missing a side and… wait a minute. Phil squints, thinking.
“Guys, I think I know how we can find the prince.”
Once they’ve figured out the pattern, they find the arrows easily. They’re on paintings, suits of armor, even carved into the stone wall at one point. Three flights of stairs, two lefts, and a torch-lit hallway later, they’re finally standing in front of a heavy wooden door.
It opens easily at Phil’s push.
The room beyond is large and airy, windows at one end letting in large swatches of natural light. For a place where the prince has slept for nearly seventy years, it smells surprisingly clean. Like freshly laundered sheets, Phil’s nose tells him. Hmm.
There’s a huge bed in the middle of the room, leaning against the wall opposite the windows. From where he’s standing, Phil can just about make out the lump underneath the blankets. Cautiously, he moves forward until he’s standing right at the foot of the bed, then stops.
“How am I supposed to wake him?” He feels a little silly for whispering. If the prince is truly cursed to sleep for eternity, it’s not like their conversation will rouse him. “Do I shake him? Yell in his ear?”
Natasha tilts her head, considering. “A kiss from a pure-hearted man should do the trick. After all, that’s how the stories go. Right, Clint?”
“…Sure.”
The odd note in his voice make Phil glance at him quickly. His face looks like it could have been carved from granite as he avoids meeting Phil’s eyes. Unsettled, he turns back to the bed.
“A kiss, you said?”
“On the lips.”
Right. Slowly, Phil takes a hesitant step forward, then another, until he’s right next to it. He’s here on a mission, he reminds himself. He’s a knight of the realm, here to save the prince and persuade him to ally with them. All it’ll take is a kiss.
Abruptly, his mind conjures up the image of Clint in the stream, sun turning his hair into molten gold, the memory of him in his arms, breaths steady against his neck. The way his arms go taut when he draws his bow, the twinkle in his eyes when he teases Phil.
Not the first time, he imagines the way he would look lying under him, cheeks flushed and mouth wet and…
He shakes it all away. He’s never failed a mission before, and he’s not about to start now. He can do this. He has to.
Resolve tightened, he grabs the covers, quickly pulling them back. The prince is even better looking in person than in the portrait, if such a thing is possible. His breathing is deep and even, bared chest rising and falling with every measured inhale and exhale. Phil is positive he’s never met a person with a more perfect face or physique.
Yet he can’t find it in himself to be excited about what’s going to happen next.
Taking a deep breath, he leans forward slowly, conscious of the twin gazes boring into his back. The prince sleeps on, unaware, as Phil gets closer and closer to his face.
Just as there’s less than an inch left between their lips, Phil springs back and shakes his dagger from his sleeve. Then he points it at Prince Steve.
The prince’s eyes would probably rival the blue of clear skies on a normal day, Phil thinks, but right now, they’re stormy and narrow with suspicion. Phil is impressed, not many people can manage to look regal half undressed with a blade at their throat.
“You’ve got good reflexes,” he says, voice steely. “How did you figure it out?”
Phil considers this.
“Your portrait, for starters. The parchment hasn’t aged as much as it should have if it had been drawn seventy years ago. Of course, I figured it could be a reproduction, but unless your valet was clairvoyant, the style of dress is much too modern for your time.”
A conceding hum. “Go on.”
“Then there’s your castle, which is entirely too well-maintained to be cursed. But I wasn’t completely certain until just now, when I caught the whiff of mint, instead of parsley and wine. An excellent choice; not many people are inclined to the taste.”
“I find it's much more effective to freshen up with in the morning.”
“Certainly,” Phil agrees. “The forest maze was a nice touch, although I gather you got tired of waiting and sent the… floating ball of light. What is that, by the way?” he asks curiously.
“That’s a gift from my inventor friend—the maze was his idea.”
“An interesting friend.”
They stare at each other for a few long, tense moments. Then, Phil relaxes his stance and steps back, slipping his dagger back up his sleeve. He lifts up his arms, palms out.
“My name is Phillip Coulson, of Shield, and those are my associates, Clint Barton and Natasha Romanova. We come in peace,” he intones. “Could you let them go?”
Seconds tick by before Steve nods, once. “Stand down, Bucky.”
A quick glance tells him that while Clint and Natasha are both irate and resentful about having been caught off guard and disarmed, they are otherwise unharmed. Even so, Bucky is still watching them closely, his metal arm glinting in the light that fills the room.
There’s a rustle of sheets, and Phil steps back when the prince swings booted legs out from under the covers and stands. Pulling on a shirt, he indicates for them to follow him.
“Word is Bucky Barnes had died in the Last Battle,” Phil says, as they traipse out of the room and down the hallway.
They’re led into a sitting room with huge windows. Leftovers from the previous meal are laid out on the side table, which is decorated with a bowl of fresh cut flowers. It’s a nice touch of whimsy that Phil files away under the label ‘Prince Steve’. For… archiving purposes.
“Word is I’d fallen into an eternal, magical sleep,” Steve replies. “Clearly not the case, as you can see.”
“Clearly,” Phil agrees. “And how is that?”
“Bucky found me.” Steve’s smile is small but it lights up his face nevertheless. “Well, technically Tony and he did—”
“Wait, Tony Stark, the merchant?” Clint cuts in.
“You know him?”
“We’ve crossed paths a couple of times. He’s the one who’s offering the reward for rescuing you.”
Bucky grins. “Ah, yes. The plan.”
Natasha, who has been watching the proceedings shrewdly so far, narrows her eyes as she addresses him. “What plan?” Her voice is deceptively light, and Phil discreetly shakes his head when he catches the twitch of her fingers.
“The plan to draw out Hydra,” Steve explains. “See, Tony’s father and I were friends back in he day, and he never believed that I had died. He never stopped looking for me, making it his life’s work. When he died, the search was passed on to Tony. He found Bucky first, fixed him up, then found me, here, asleep. They brought me back. That was a week ago.”
“How?”
“How they brought me back?”
“How are you not dead?” Natasha says, before Clint could cut in.
Steve shrugs. “I don’t have the slightest clue. The last thing I remember was fighting Zola and falling off a precipice together, and then next thing I knew, I was here.”
“Nearly seventy years later, and without aging a day,” Bucky says, shaking his head in wonder. “You either have a fairy godmother watching over you, or you’re—”
“A vampire,” Clint finishes for him.
“I was gonna go with 'a really lucky bastard', but that works too.”
Grinning, Bucky raises his palm to meet Clint’s in a resounding smack, not looking the slightest bit perturbed at the fondly exasperated look Steve sends his way.
“We've been over this, Buck.”
“So let me guess. You put out the rumor that you were in an enchanted sleep, and had Stark put out a reward as bait,” Phil deduces, and Steve nods.
“Yes. I knew Hydra was still around, and we thought that this was the simplest way to lure them in and take them out. We didn’t account for anyone else to come.”
“Maybe you didn’t, but Stark sure did. He sent your portrait directly to Shield. He wanted us to come here,” Clint tells him around a mouthful of fruit. The juice coats his lips with shine and Phil blinks before shifting his eyes away.
“Why would he do that?” Steve asks dubiously.
“Because Shield is currently at war with Hydra,” Phil answers him. “We have been for decades. And the second objective of our mission to rescue you, Prince Steven, was to persuade you to join us as an ally.”
The room falls silent. Steve’s eyes find his, his gaze frankly assessing as he considers the proposal. It seems to bore right through him and Phil meets it unflinchingly, back ramrod straight as he waits. The future of Shield, of the world, hinges on this.
Long minutes pass before the prince finally nods.
“I have heard of Shield and the great things your kingdom has done,” he says solemnly. “It would be an honor to join you in your fight.”
The hand Steve uses to clasp Phil’s is warm and strong, and now that formalities are out of the way, sends a belated tingle of excitement through his body at finally meeting—and touching!—his hero. As it is, he tries to keep a straight face instead of succumbing to the grin that threatens to split his face in two as he shakes the proffered hand enthusiastically.
“The honor is ours, Prince Steven.”
“Call me Steve,” he says. His smile is brighter than a sunny day.
Phil is organizing his pack for the journey back to Shield when he hears the soft knock on the door of his borrowed room.
He’s surprised to see Clint when he looks up, his heart skipping a beat in his chest. The archer tends to just barge right in, especially after the nights they’ve spent together recently. Smiling warmly, he gestures for him to come in, although he regrets it almost immediately.
He’s clearly dressed for sleep, in a loose linen shirt and tan trousers that look soft from wear, skin glowing in the firelight. It takes some effort before Phil could tear his eyes away and focus on inventorying, but he somehow manages.
He finds himself missing the dark of the forest. It’s easier then to hide his cataloging of his page.
“I’ve sent a runner ahead of us, to give Shield a heads up. Stark’s also been informed; he’ll make his own way there a few days after us. Something about having to gather more wood to fuel an idea. It’s probably nothing good, judging from Bucky’s expression when he told me.”
Shaking his head, Phil huffs out a small laugh. He’s learned the hard way to not involve himself with Stark’s little projects. Even if he’s successful with them most of the time.
“Nick will be pleased. He’s been trying, but Stark always maintained that his loyalties lay with himself. Guess Steve changed his mind. He seems to be the type to inspire goodness in everyone around him.”
“I guess.”
Clint’s still at the door, so Phil beckons to him to come closer, saying, “Let me clear this stuff up and we can go to sleep.”
He starts stuffing his belongings back into the pack, listening to Clint’s shuffling footsteps as he shuts the door behind him and moves to the foot of the bed. Settling himself on a corner, he picks up the portrait of Steve, running a finger over the coffee stains.
“So… were you really going to kiss him? Even though you suspected it was a ruse?”
“If it were the only way to wake him up.” Phil replies. “It was our mission, after all. But between you and me, I’m rather glad I didn’t have to.”
“Why not? He’s not as perfect in real life as in the drawing, but it’s still pretty close.”
Clint is turning the parchment over in his hands, head bowed. It makes the light hit his hair at just the right angle to make it glow golden, rather like an angel’s halo. Phil cringes at the fanciful thought once it materializes, but doesn’t quash it.
His fingers itch to reach out and touch the soft strands, to run through them and muss them up. He’s only ever been this close to Clint when they’re both exhausted and half asleep, and now that they’re both here and wide awake, Phil is beginning to want things he’s not entirely sure he can have.
He’s busy curling his hands into restrained fists when Clint speaks up again.
“Well, I’m sorry you didn’t get to do it anyway. I know he’s your hero.”
Clint’s voice echoes in Phil’s ears as he watches the way his fingers, calloused and bruised from his arrows, clench around the edges of the parchment, the way his lower lip is on its way to being bitten raw.
He’s suddenly reminded of the way Clint would grin up at him after a particularly raucous joke, the twist of his lips when he’s angry, how they slacken in sleep.
And then he very briefly lets himself wonder if he's really not allowed what he wants after all.
“I’m not,” he finally says. “Because I’d much rather do this.”
He reaches out to tug the portrait from Clint’s hands. Setting it aside, he leans in. Clint stiffens for a few moments before quickly melting into the kiss, lips curving up into a smile even as they press back eagerly.
It’s so much better than Phil ever imagined.