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Phil had been out of the hospital for nearly two months before he was allowed to resume active field duty, and the way that was interpreted—"active field duty"—was embarrassing. To be honest, the entire thing was embarrassing.
If he never had to see Pepper Potts cry and Tony Stark look dangerously angry again, he'd be grateful. In his defense, he hadn't expected their reactions. He hadn't thought to, because at the time, under the circumstances he remembered before coming to in a hospital room, dying had looked more likely than the alternative. Waking up to groggy awareness with the faces of his heroes staring down at him had been almost as much of a shock as getting stabbed in the first place, but their reactions had been something else entirely.
In retrospect, Phil was ashamed to admit he hadn't realized he was important. Stark and Pepper, fine—he'd had enough contact with them over the last year that he admitted reluctant fondness for them, and it was apparently mutual. Natasha and Clint, also fine—he'd been the agent in charge of their missions for the past seven years, and they probably didn't want to break in a new one. But Thor, Banner, and Captain America? Phil had assumed he was just another face in the background to them, and to be proven wrong—Thor had hugged him carefully, Banner had shaken his hand in introduction and said he was honored, and Captain-call-me-Steve had handed him bloodstained but signed cards—had been the cherry on what had to be a strange morphine-induced hallucination.
Those he had known the longest—Maria, Jasper, and Nick—were much more predictable, and annoying like family usually was. Maria had looked like she desperately wanted to push him out of his bed in retaliation for worrying her, Jasper had cheerfully said he'd filed his paperwork all wrong on purpose so Phil couldn't die just yet, and Nick? Nick had said that except for the time he spent "herding those damn children" (read: The Avengers and occasionally SHIELD's junior agents), he was on milk runs for the rest of his damn life. Phil told him that was an awful joke.
As it turned out, Nick wasn't joking.
****
Phil flipped through the briefing materials three times before he finally stopped to look across the scarred desk in front of him. The serious expression on Nick's face was the only thing convincing him the pages in his hands actually belonged to a real mission rather than an elaborate prank, but he wouldn't put it past Nick to manage the trick all the same. Nick was still, curiously enough, a little angry about him dying. Phil thought he was overreacting; it had only been for two minutes.
"I'm supposed to infiltrate a honeymooner's cruise." Phil summarized, just to check. Nick nodded. "One that circles New York Harbor and is run by a company called Hearts and Flowers Cruises." Nick nodded a second time, and Phil sighed so deeply he felt the pull in the knot of scar tissue over his chest. "Director Fury, why am I infiltrating a local honeymooner's cruise run by a two-bit company that probably won't be around by next year?"
Nick's lips twitched at that, a minute reaction he quickly blocked with his folded hands.
"We have it on good authority that two arms dealers are meeting on that cruise to discuss terms for a large shipment."
It was exactly what the materials claimed, but Phil didn't quite believe it for several reasons. It wouldn't have been the first time they'd gone chasing a bad tip.
"Good authority?" Phil repeated, voice politely bland to cover his doubts.
Nick glared at him.
"That's what I said, Agent," he said, voice naturally sharp for an instant before he made the effort to soften his gaze and relax his shoulders. "Also, you're still technically recovering. We may not be able to afford extended medical leave at this time, but we can give you a few easy trips. Observe, and document—that's all."
Phil smiled very briefly, because he'd known Nick for almost half his life, had moved up in rank right alongside him. Phil knew he wasn't as hard-edged as he liked to pretend, openly-lying to superheroes aside.
"Favoritism, Director?"
"Priorities," Nick corrected, and then he held out a folder. "This is your cover story. You're half of a couple rather than wait staff or maintenance crew—it required less of a background story."
Phil didn't react to that, although he was surprised. They usually tried to avoid these situations for obvious reasons, but it must have been inescapable on a cruise ship meant solely for honeymooners. No immediate backup or contact otherwise, and they would hardly send a convalescing agent alone, not even on a data retrieval mission.
"Who's my second?"
"Agent Barton."
Phil's mouth went dry, and his grip on the file tightened.
"But sir—"
Nick interrupted him before the protest was even fully formed.
"Tough shit, Coulson—he volunteered, and we all know how I'm running low on volunteers right now. Put your issues aside for three days and just do it."
Phil firmed his jaw and nodded. When silence followed, he tucked the folder under his arm and excused himself. Nick let him leave without another word, and he'd turned back to his other work before the door even closed.
As he walked, Phil forced himself to revise his assessment of the situation; clearly, Nick was angrier about him dying than he'd thought.
****
August was regularly one of the hottest months of the year on base, but this year, it was breaking records, turning their building into a sweltering tomb that harshly punished an organization that chose to make their uniforms dark and long-sleeved. As a result, Phil, for the first time in the forty hours since he'd been assigned the Loveboat mission, wasn't entirely displeased to be spending time on a cruise ship rather than in a stuffy office . Even if it were for some trumped up reason that he doubted had much basis in reality, he was grateful for the break. As he dragged his small suitcase behind him and felt the linen of his light suit stick to his shoulders, he was even relieved to be getting away, away from the rubble and the reality of SHIELD's very diminished staff.
His relief evaporated like sweat in the air when he met Clint at the entrance to Pier 88. Not because he'd forgotten—Clint, much to the misery of SHIELD operatives everywhere, was a difficult man to forget—but rather because Clint looked much the same as any handsome, thirty-six-year-old man in summer wear. In a tight tee that showed muscular forearms and shorts bright enough to blind, he even looked like one of those expensively kept business men in tennis whites, and the image surprised Phil, because that wasn't the Clint he knew at all. Then again, Phil couldn't say if they were his clothes or SHIELD's; Phil had never seen Clint in casual wear before, despite having known him for almost ten years.
The realization caused a peculiar ache somewhere in his chest, and Phil told himself it was just strain from having to pull his case further than he'd expected.
"Traffic's backed up three blocks from here," he said once he'd stopped, putting a little sheepishness in his tone for anyone who might overhear. "They still haven't fixed 7th Avenue completely. I'm amazed you made such good time."
"Got off work early," Clint said, voice a light breeze to fit his character. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses, which was unusual enough, but then he glanced down at where Phil's hand clutched at the handle of his case almost for balance, and he smiled. The expression wasn't Clint either, but amazingly, that did absolutely nothing to keep the answering smile off Phil's lips. "Do you need help with that?"
Phil tightened his grip on the handle, the motion causing his fake wedding ring to clink against the hard plastic.
"No. Thanks." Phil realized how stiff he sounded, and he made a deliberate effort to relax. His shoulders protested. "I don't suppose you have the tickets? I am not walking all the way back to the apartment if you forgot."
Clint revealed two tickets with a flourish more in common with a magician's student than the architect he was pretending to be, but Phil didn't comment. Already there was a crowd gathering beside them, forming a disorganized line, and Phil edged closer to Clint, as much to maintain the cover as to avoid the press of strangers. Clint didn't lean away, didn't look uncomfortable or surprised; SHIELD had never given him much credit as an actor before, but that was clearly an oversight.
A few minutes later, Clint took his case despite his earlier refusal, likely because he didn't miss the way Phil kept flexing his arm in an effort to relieve the pressure. Phil made a show of neither minding nor noticing, and they kept up a steady stream of friendly and familiar conversation all the way to the ticketing gate. It was all fake—Frank's day at work, Clive's latest project, the fact they both hated their bed and should buy a new one, what their families were up to, the usual gossip about the Avengers from third-party sources—and once the ticket agent had ushered them across the boarding walk, they stopped talking. Phil told himself he shouldn't miss a fictional conversation, and he told himself, also, that he'd really brought this awkwardness on himself.
They found their room quickly—second deck, white painted door between two pink ones, and Phil tried not to be relieved about that—and as soon as it was closed, procedure took over. Phil's case was dropped and opened to reveal equipment, carefully smuggled past the detectors thanks to a man on the inside at the gate, while Clint flopped heavy and deliberate on the bed in the center of the small set of rooms. It was a graceless move, but it didn't disguise the way his eyes darted back and forth to search for bugs, the way his fingers trailed the edges of furniture for wires. By the time Phil had mostly unpacked and his equipment was online, Clint had moved to tap his fingers on the white nightstand; all-clear it was.
"Barton. I'm assuming you've been briefed?"
"Yes sir, Agent Coulson." There was a little bit of amusement there, but Phil couldn't guess at the basis. It was likely just Clint's good humor making itself known, although if rumors were to be believed, he hadn't been too cheerful these past few months; Phil hadn't been there to see it personally. "Do you know they have you listed as a pencil pusher? Can you believe it?"
"An accountant, actually." It had been Phil's idea. "I'd be more worried about you—an architect. Do you even know what a building looks like when you're not blowing it up?" The joke escaped unbidden, familiar banter that he'd been fighting against for months, and Phil immediately focused on setting up the machines in front of him before Clint could react.
Clint laughed.
"A good point—too bad you forgot to mention it earlier." He sobered and relaxed more on the bed, movement accompanied by gentle squeaks of springs. "How'd you get saddled with this, anyway? Isn't it a little below your pay grade?"
Phil shrugged. He didn't want to get into it, and so he countered. "How did you end up here?"
"Volunteered, because Hill asked me to." Phil glanced at him in time to catch the dismissive shrug, and the continued tap, tap, tap of his fingertips on metal. A dusting of cheap paint stuck to his fingertips. "I wasn't doing anything else, and I think she thought you needed backup." He smiled, tight and sharp. "I think she just didn't want you to get stabbed. Again."
"Well, unless someone's coming at me with a skewer stick, I don't think she has to worry."
Phil didn't smile while he said it, but he did admit privately that the request sounded like Maria. She would ask someone to back him up because she was cautious…and she would ask Clint because she wanted Phil to get what he wanted, even if a reasonable man could see it wasn't in the cards.
Phil, always a reasonable man, resigned himself to spending the next three days and three nights suffering the efforts of his well-meaning friends.
****
Phil and Clint had worked well together from their very first mission, but it had still taken time to build flawless teamwork, then more time to integrate Natasha into their mix until she was indispensable. After nearly three months out of active duty and another three months since he'd worked with Clint alone, Phil had expected that the ease of camaraderie would have faded, the unspoken lines of communication broken down. Clint and he had never been that close outside of work, after all, and if there was one thing Phil knew, it was that coworkers obviously moved on faster than friends. He expected some bumps in the road, at least, while Clint remembered that Phil was more than capable of pulling his share.
There were fewer bumps than he expected. While Phil was uncertain about the lingering awkwardness while they were alone, the communication on the job, at least, remained. They had only just walked into the dining room for the formal welcome dinner an hour after launch, and already Phil could see Clint's eyes scanning the room for their targets but unintentionally, curiously lingering on the older couples. Phil knew exactly what he was thinking, even if he hadn't said it.
Phil leaned forward, tightening his hold on Clint's covered elbow to get his attention before murmuring in his ear.
"Marriage isn't just for the young." And beautiful, he didn't add, but Clint grinned like he'd heard it regardless.
"I know that. And I know that gay marriage has only been legal since July or something." He nodded towards a table across the room, indicating a distinct couple of women who must have been well into their seventies. "I don't blame anyone for grabbing a honeymoon when they can, especially now; I'm just having a hard time believing everyone is choosing to celebrate with this cruise rather than camping out in bed somewhere."
Phil felt his lips twitch. "Not much of a romantic, Barton?"
"Haven't had much opportunity to try it out," Clint answered, shrugging as he did.
The gesture was so casual that Phil saw through it immediately, but he didn't know how to respond. Fortunately, the silence that followed was only temporary, because they reached their table just a few seconds later and it was easy to fall into the act. Clint introduced himself with a charming ease to the six people already seated, smiling flirtatiously and indiscriminately all the while.
"Hello, everyone, I'm Clive Marchens. Now, notice that's 'Clive' not 'Chives'—delicious as I am, I'm not an herb."
Phil groaned with exasperation that wasn't entirely feigned. "Clive."
The others at their table—three men and three women, and Phil remembered their names and details on principle—laughed, some more freely than others. Phil noticed one man and one woman edge away when they sat, looking nervous for reasons entirely unrelated to the mission, but other than that, the reaction was positive enough that Phil felt capable of plying them with their background story without suspicion. By the time the captain and the cruise organizer took to the stage in the center of the room, the others were discussing their personal lives, leaving Phil and Clint much to themselves while still being noticeably part of the group.
After the welcome speech had been given and their pre-ordered meals served, Clint reached across the span of tablecloth for Phil's hand, fingers giving a warm, subtle squeeze: targets spotted. Phil didn't show his surprise, either at the confirmation of a good tip or the unexpected touch. Instead, he turned his wrist immediately and grasped Clint's hand in return, noting the wide expanse of his palm, the calluses on his fingertips, the skin-warmed golden ring. Phil gave an affectionate squeeze before releasing him, ostensibly to eat his soup: acknowledged, and proceed.
Extracting themselves from the table turned out to be harder than Phil would have expected, but the woman to his left was chatty and sharp-eyed, more attentive than average for someone in the first glow of a new marriage. It wasn't until the first notes of a light music hit the air that he had his excuse, and he wasted no time in tugging Clint to his feet to join the other dancing couples.
Clint looked like he was a step away from laughing the entire time, but whether that was character or not, Phil was only half-certain.
"Frank, you know I don't know how to dance," Clint chided gently, putting a little awkwardness into his steps like he hadn't run across rafters fifty feet off the ground before. Phil smiled as gently as he could; it gave them an excuse to slow down when necessary, making observation much easier.
"That's fine. I'll lead you."
Phil placed a hand on Clint's waist, the other on his shoulder—it wasn't proper dancing by any means, but he didn't feel up to the forms, not with his limited range of motion in one shoulder. Clint noticed, naturally, but he didn't say anything as he copied the gesture, too aware of the crowd around them. They were of a similar height nearly to the inch, and Phil was pleased at how little of an effort it was to take that half-form, how easy it was to maintain the lowest approximation of a box. Clint didn't feel awkward in his arms, but Phil had never expected him to; Clint was too professional for that.
It wasn't until they were circling the dance floor in a slow, off-beat pattern, removed from the rest of the group, that Clint leaned forward. His breath was a ghost against Phil's cheek, and it smelled sweet like after-dinner mints.
"You all right there, Frank?"
"Sore," Phil admitted, voice just as soft, because it never paid to lie to the men whose lives depended on his capabilities in the heat of the moment. Clint, in response, tightened his grip on Phil's shirt.
"You should still be in physical therapy, sir."
The tone was harsh, the words enough out of character that Phil shot a glance at the couples dancing beside them, just to be safe. Nobody paid them any attention, thankfully, but that was only luck.
"There aren't enough men to spare for that." Phil's response was barely audible over the clink of glasses, and intended as much to end the subject as to chastise. "You know that." Clint had, after all, been pushed through the re-certification and psychological exams questionably fast for much the same reasons.
Clint didn't look at all apologetic although Phil knew he still had nightmares, knew it with the certainty of someone who understood an asset better than he'd like but not half as well as he wanted.
"There is that, but I never skipped out on the physical parts. I take good care of my body, dear, in all ways." Clint ended the statement on a note of perfectly executed flirtation, and Phil felt relief more than anything else.
"I do know that." Again, not half as well as he wanted, but that was an issue for another time. Phil leaned closer, looking for all the world like a man basking in romance. "Which table are they at?"
"Six o'clock."
Their motions across the floor made it unnecessary to risk a glance behind him, and Phil was too well trained to let awareness show otherwise. Within a minute or two, they passed a table occupied by a man and a woman, both familiar. Even if Phil hadn't looked over the briefing less than two hours ago, their expensive clothes and jewelry made Monika Lebois and Trenton Harlan stand out against a backdrop of bargain vacationers. As it was, they seemed to pay little attention to the stares they were attracting, closely huddled as they were with their lips rapidly moving; it wasn't a particularly notable characteristic in this crowd, but under the circumstances, Phil noticed the behavior and saw it as suspicious.
Phil wasn't a lip reader, not at that speed, but he didn't have to be. Once they had circled back around, Clint paused them on the edge of the floor, faking a need for a breather. Phil huddled around him like a concerned husband should.
"Did you get any of that?" he murmured, with a hand cupped around Clint's elbow and concern written on his face.
Clint smiled, feigning gratitude.
"Monthly dividends and some talk about airports before they switched languages—French, I think. I don't know if we were spotted."
Phil nodded, glancing up quickly to the table where Lebois and Harlan remained, still wrapped in their own world. It was reminiscent of the other couples, enough that Phil paused and considered a different motive for their presence than criminal plans.
"No, I don't think so." At least not any more than expected. That was the key—to be seen but not noticed, to be background but not anything notable.
"And now?"
"We go back to our room."
****
Phil gave Clint the bed, although "gave" was a poor word choice when Clint fought him for almost twenty minutes on the subject. Phil could see his point, in retrospect—he had been recently released from the hospital, his shoulder hurt, and time wasn't as kind to him as others, especially not Barton, who was a good ten years younger anyway—but Phil stood firm, used his position as mission handler shamelessly, and invented reasons when it seemed like that alone might not do the trick. He had data retrieval to do, Phil said. Standard procedure, he finished, and Clint looked furious but gave in, probably because he was just as tired after a long day and a longer year, and because Phil was "a stubborn jackass." Phil didn't take it personally, or consider it worth addressing in a professional capacity; if it made Clint feel better enough that he would go to sleep, it was fine. He'd heard worse, even.
Phil didn't open his laptop for close to an hour after Clint drifted off, choosing instead to rotate his shoulder against the pain and twist when his muscles seemed like they might bunch. He listened to Clint breathe, nearly inaudible, and he listened to the creaks in the hallways of other passengers returning tipsy and handsy to the doors next to them. He listened until the sounds had dwindled down to just machinery, and then, only then, did he sit in the small chair at the small desk and begin the task of reading files he'd long since memorized, looking for something to scratch the niggling itch of suspicion in his spine. He hacked the clientele database for Hearts and Flowers Cruises and found Lebois and Harlan's room, made a plan to investigate in the morning, and continued to read, to examine.
Four hours in, Clint began to shift and groan in his sleep, and Phil was at a loss. He knew he should just ignore it—none of his business, and it was hardly unusual in their work to wake violently from a nightmare—but Phil had never been the sort to let his operatives suffer for his own peace of mind. Even if he hadn't considered Clint something more than a traditional asset, Phil's first instinct would have been to help, and it was with that in mind that he firmed his jaw and rose from his chair.
It was heartbreaking to see someone who normally kept their thoughts close to their chest so discomposed, but it was especially bad with Clint. His forehead was dotted with sweat, his face a grimace in the dark, and he barely moved at all; somehow, that was far worse than open thrashing, like the nightmare was so deep he didn't even try to fight it. Phil swallowed, feeling something thick catch in his throat, and then he slapped Clint lightly on the cheek, almost hard enough to sting. Clint jerked away, breathing going from shallow to silent; Phil braced himself, figuring he could take a few hits. It might soothe Clint's subconscious and conscious mind to take a swing at him, even, considering Phil didn't have it in him to explain why he'd been avoiding him for half a year.
Clint didn't show any sign of being awake and violent, however, and the tension of his shoulders was visible through his cotton shirt.
Phil leaned forward and made his voice as professional, as cold, as he could.
"Barton. Stand down." He waited a beat, then reached over and squeezed one shoulder. "It's fine. You're safe, and you're going to sleep. Acknowledge."
Clint didn't say a word, still sleeping despite it all. He remained frozen for half an instant before he relaxed, his shoulders going loose under Phil's hands like a worn out spring. It was unnerving for many reasons, and Phil resolved to have a talk with the SHIELD psychologists when he was back on base. He knew Clint never would.
Phil stayed awake much of the night, catching a few minutes of sleep when daylight first began to pour in, but it was never more than a light doze. He knew it was dangerous, knew it was a problem, but he had other things on his mind. He'd found the information he was looking for, mostly, and Clint didn't stir again; as far as Phil was concerned, his duty as handler on this particular mission was fulfilled.
When Clint woke around eight, it was with a loud yawn and more noise than Phil would have expected. Phil didn't turn to catch sight of his bed hair or rumpled clothes, and it wasn't until Clint had come and gone from the shower that he said anything at all.
"Is this going to be a problem?" Phil asked without turning, voice quiet.
"I suppose a 'good morning' is too much to ask for." Clint sighed. "It wasn't about Loki."
"That's not what I asked."
Clint's response was a mumble, and then Phil did turn. If he were less professional, his eyes might have lingered on too-much naked skin or the towel Clint was barely wearing, but he'd had more practice than one might expect with attractive mostly-naked men, and his gaze never wavered from Clint's face. Of course, given that it was Clint, meeting his eyes was just as telling as ogling, at least as far as Phil was concerned.
"My super-hearing is a little rusty first thing in the morning, Barton, so I'm going to need you to repeat that."
Clint rolled his eyes and continued to towel dry his hair.
"I said, no sir, absolutely not, Agent Coulson, sir."
Phil let it go, mainly because he had much more important things to deal with than Clint's snippy comments. He turned back to the computer screen, pulling up the pages he'd found that revealed a distinct pattern.
"Come look at this."
Clint came to stand beside him, smelling like generic soap and soft cotton. It took him less than a minute to see the important fragment of information among many others.
"So they're sharing a room." Clint shrugged and stepped away, and there was the distinct sound of rifling through a suit case. "That doesn't mean anything. We're sharing a room."
There was a pause, but Phil didn't comment on that. He wished he had, if only to offset Clint's next question.
"Did you get any sleep at all?" His voice was concerned, because Clint had liked Phil, once, as a friend. Or at least he had before Phil had made every attempt at distancing himself without warning.
Phil neatly skirted both issues with an ease borne of practice.
"It's not just the room. I also found bank histories and credit card statements dating back at least fourteen months." That had taken a little digging, but Phil hadn't come as far as this without picking up the basics of computer hacking. "Aside from the usual wire transfers and cash withdrawals, they both take a trip to some country at the same time almost every month. A neutral country."
"Where they won't be recognized except when SHIELD agents happen to be on the dance floor," Clint finished, voice amused. When he pulled up a chair next to Phil, he was fully dressed. "So, they're having an affair."
"Not necessarily." It was the simplest explanation, but it still made Phil feel strangely off-center. It couldn't be that simple. "Regardless of what they're doing on their trips each month, doesn't it seem strange that this trip is the first one where we've heard rumors of them doing business? We need more intel."
****
They decided that Phil was the one who would do the infiltrating, mostly because he could pull off "innocently breaking into the wrong room" well enough and Clint was inclined more towards watching the targets than scouring for information. It suited them well enough, and when the dining room opened for service around ten, Phil began to wander the halls innocuously while Clint scuttled off to claim a table with a good vantage point of the room and a book in hand. Phil hoped that Lebois and Harlan didn't decide to spring for room service, but since he hadn't actually had a chance to place a bug outside room 104, he couldn't tell.
It was Clint who spotted them first, and Phil could just imagine him bent over a book, elbows resting on the tablecloth while he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the pages but still saw everything. Clint was better at observation than anyone Phil had ever met, and when Clint said Harlan and Lebois had just entered the front dining room doors, obviously fresh off the pool, Phil slipped inside. He was in their room and out in under forty-five minutes, bug placed and papers sorted through for clues and context.
Phil gave Clint the all-clear through the tiny mic inside his collar, and he was back to the room in two minutes flat, hunched over his computer and earpiece out. Clint showed up fifteen minutes later with an odd expression on his face. Phil didn't comment; Clint would tell him if it pertained to the mission. As it was, the information he'd found was…interesting.
"They're married." Clint looked at him blankly, and Phil explained from where he sat on the edge of the bed. "Harlan and Lebois are actually married, and married recently, I might add. I found their marriage certificate in their room. Newly signed, written in Portuguese."
"Legal?"
"According to the powers-that-be in Brazil, yes."
Clint sat next to him and very slowly edged his copy of The Wind in the Willows across the night stand. They sat in silence for a moment, and Phil felt tired. His shoulder was aching again, and the throb of pain kept time with his heartbeat; it didn't distract from the fact that Clint looked far more disturbed by the recent development than Phil would have expected.
"We're actually stalking honeymooners on their actual honeymoon," Clint said, voice betraying how he felt about that. Phil nodded unnecessarily.
"So it would seem." He hurried to add, "Of course, this doesn't mean that they're not actually conducting dangerous business here. They are arms dealers."
"Yeah, of course." Clint agreed, then breathed out slowly through his nose and rubbed his hands along his thighs, the action thoughtful. "But even so…dammit, Coulson. I feel like an asshole. I know I wouldn't want anyone dragging SHIELD shit into my honeymoon."
Phil swallowed, but only partly in agreement with the sentiment. The thought of Clint on a honeymoon with anyone was a little staggering. A little painful.
"I'd hope SHIELD would have a little more tact."
"I doubt it." Clint glanced at him, expression serious. "You did place a bug, though?"
Phil should have been insulted he would ask. Should have been, but wasn't.
When he confirmed that he had, Clint just nodded and picked up his book again. It was a well-worn copy, one Phil had seen it before, on other missions. He didn't know if it was Clint's favorite book or just something he happened to have read once and found convenient as a cover, and it didn't feel right to ask.
"I'm going back to the dining room. For observation."
Phil nodded and let Clint go, sliding his earpiece back in neatly as he returned to the desk. Apparently, he was spending his day indoors.
****
Clint spent the day tailing Lebois and Harlan around most of the ship, and Phil didn't have to be sitting next to him to read the signs of irritation about the assignment. As the morning and afternoon passed, Clint sighed more frequently, and the Phil could hear the sounds of agitated shifting even over their comm link. Clint, who was not prone to fidgeting or restlessness by his very nature, was clearly aching to be out in the field in the literal sense, and Phil didn't blame him. By the time dinner rolled around, Phil had spent eight hours listening to silence and machinery feedback from Lebois and Harlan's room, and he was about fed up as well. There was cautious, and there was paranoia that led to burnt-out agents in more ways than one. Looking to avoid the later and since Phil doubted anyone was going to blow up the ship or take a shot at them in the next few minutes, he relaxed his guard just slightly.
"Barton, we're having dinner. Are Lebois and Harlan in the room?"
Clint's quiet "yes" was a sound of welcome relief, and Phil hurried out of the room, shrugging on his linen suit coat as he went. The comm link went silent, and Phil assumed that meant Clint had disconnected; assumed, but quickened his step his step anyway.
When he saw Clint sitting at a back table with a plate of food already in hand, he was relieved. Very slightly. When he sat down next to him, however, Phil couldn't quite keep the annoyance out of his voice.
"It's standard protocol to inform the in-house agents when you're disconnecting," he reminded him, voice a clipped whisper. They were alone, not another passenger within twenty feet, but that meant very little.
Clint nodded, and he hid his lips behind his napkin before he spoke.
"I did. There was a huge surge of feedback, though—mass electronics inference." Clint tapped the table next to his book, and Phil could just make out the almost-invisible ear piece and collar mic. "I think they might be dead."
"Really?" Clint nodded. "That's…odd." Suspicious, to say the least. "Other than that, how was your day, Clive?"
Clint sighed, long and drawn out and exaggerated, as the waiter approached. "Boring. I've read this book, like, a dozen times, and there was nobody interesting around. Mrs. Hester asked about you, though."
"Did she?" Phil murmured, surprised at the mention of one of their previous dinner companions. It must have been while he was off the comm, but Clint hadn't mentioned it before.
They ordered their meal; Phil let Clint order for him for show, but mostly he didn't care what he ate, since he hadn't had much of an appetite since he'd left the hospital.
"Did she?" Phil repeated once the waiter had left, and this time Clint nodded.
"I said we'd had a spat. She seemed to understand. Asked a lot of questions about my work afterwards, too."
"Nice of her."
"I thought so."
Phil drummed his fingers against the table, and Clint, on cue, grabbed his hand, tapped twice against the back of it. Cover might be blown, be advised was the message, and Phil gave his fingers a squeeze: acknowledged.
They ate their dinner in pleasantly false conversation, but Phil spent the moments of silence wondering what they knew about Mrs. Hester, and how Mr. Hester fit into this. It was easy to find faces to match the names; both of them were in their late twenties, ambitious, a schoolteacher and a dentist respectively. Phil realized with some alarm that Mrs. Hester had been the one to keep them at the dinner table the previous night, and that was a little too much of a coincidence for his taste.
They finished their meal a few minutes after the Hesters had entered for their own supper, and the opportunity, unexpected, was too good to pass up. Phil held out his hand and Clint read him perfectly, taking the offered hand and letting Phil lead him back onto the dance floor. They swayed mostly in time with the music, and when Clint leaned forward to get a better look over Phil's shoulder, burying his lips against his suit as he did, Phil acted like they did this all the time.
"The Hesters aren't talking," Clint murmured, words muffled by cloth that warmed further with each breath. "They barely look like they know each other." He sighed, and Phil shivered. A natural response, he told himself. "Shit, Coulson—who are we supposed to tail, again?"
"We'll figure it out," Phil said soothingly, a proper response to what he hoped looked like a couple making amends. It was hard to say if the Hesters bought it or even cared, and Phil wasn't entirely used to not knowing an enemy when he saw them. Maybe he deserved a milk run or two after all.
It took a moment before Clint spoke again.
"You really do know how to dance, don't you?" He sounded like he might try laughing, and Phil clenched his hands against Clint's back in warning. Not the time. "Is this some mandatory SHIELD class I don't know about?"
"You'd know, if you attended the mandatory sessions," Phil shot back, and Clint…hugged him. There was no other word for it, and Phil wasn't sure if it was in character, or if it was Clint.
A few minutes later, it didn't matter.
"Coulson." Clint's voice sounded urgent, and Phil focused on that, pulling his gaze away from Harlan and Lebois for a moment. "The Hesters are leaving. Permission to tail?"
Phil went with his instincts, and hoped he was right.
"No." Clint might have been surprised at that, if he'd had enough time to be. "I'll go with you. Better cover."
They broke apart and left the dining room, moving at a measured pace to keep twenty feet behind the Hesters at all times. Phil thought they were unnoticed, but then they turned a corner and were suddenly alone.
Phil didn't curse, but that was because Clint suddenly slammed him against the wall.
Phil's first instinct at being manhandled was to fight back, to twist out of his attacker's grip with an ease he hadn't lost yet. He would have done so, probably, completely removed from his intentions to keep a low profile and play a besotted spouse, except for the way Clint pushed him. Phil's good shoulder hit the wall first, and when his still-sore one followed, it was cushioned by Clint's hand such that there was barely a sting at all. It was careful, and it was deliberate.
Then Clint was kissing him, mouth firm and questing and giving every appearance of longing, and Phil's first instinct was ignored, alongside many other, greater survival instincts. The only thing he wanted was to kiss Clint. The one thing he wanted to avoid was kissing Clive. Phil ached, not only because Clint was a good kisser, but because this couldn't have come out of nowhere. There had to be a reason.
A soft feminine laugh sounded behind them, and they pulled apart, as if startled, to see Mrs. Hester with her hand wrapped around her husband's elbow.
"I see you two made up."
Clint angled his head away, giving a good approximation of sheepish. Phil, for his part, glared like he was angry at being interrupted (he was, and he wasn't.) Their reactions were perfect, because the next moment, the Hesters were heading back down the hallway, laughing.
Phil and Clint didn't follow them. It would seem too suspicious if they were caught again, whatever the circumstances, and they'd found what they needed to besides: the Hesters were more than they appeared.
Phil felt annoyed, a rare enough feeling, and then he realized Clint was staring at him.
"Sorry, sir."
The apology was a little bit like a killing blow, even expected as it was under the circumstances.
"It couldn't be helped," Phil said stiffly, in the face of a Clint who looked truly apologetic. "They got behind us somehow, and our cover might have been blown otherwise." The next words were a little harder to force out. "Good move, by the way. I didn't see them."
Clint, at least, smiled at that, and if Phil didn't stare too hard at his lips, he could pretend he couldn't still taste him.
"I almost didn't see them, Coulson. I'm used to people shaking a tail, but that was too good." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "It almost reminds me of Natasha."
That, Phil decided, could only be a bad sign, and it was with more urgency than usual that they hurried back to their room, the last few minutes forgotten, at least on one end.
****
It took all of ten minutes to find the answer, and the answer was that the Hesters were assassins. Of course they were. Phil felt stupid for not realizing it sooner—they had been fairly high on INTERPOL's wish list for months, after all—and he blamed a faulty tip and a poor informant for the majority of the mix-up. The rest of it he blamed on his focus on Harlan and Lebois, and his strong belief that the mission was a waste of time. Phil wouldn't be making that mistake again, of that he was certain, and he didn't want to admit that just this once might have been enough to leave lasting repercussions.
Phil and Clint searched their room for bugs more thoroughly than before. When they found nothing, they researched every passenger on board via facial recognition software, all through the evening, and every sign pointed to Harlan and Lebois being the only people on-board worth assassinating. Unless they somehow recognized Clint from some of his long-ago mercenary work or Phil from some of his undercover jobs, there was also no other real reason for them to be on-board. Phil highly doubted the Hesters—Nickie Valdeen and Michael James in their normal work—were also secretly married and enjoying an impromptu honeymoon.
Clint agreed, although Phil wasn't sure how reliable that was when the agreement was interrupted by a yawn. Clint tried valiantly to fight it, but Phil was amused to see the efforts did little good. He didn't blame him; it was well past midnight, and the only reason Phil wasn't in the same condition was that he was hitting his second-wind after a previous sleep-sparse night.
"Barton, maybe you should catch a few hours' rest."
"Can't. Your turn for the bed, Coulson."
Phil nearly sighed; it looked like they were in for this argument again, and he was preparing for the exact same lines when Clint interrupted him, eyes strangely focused despite the hour.
"Or, you know, we could share. We have before, and frankly, I could give less than a shit if the two people we do have bugged are actually up to something."
"Arms dealers, Barton," Phil said, mostly to avoid the fact that his heart pounded, and that he couldn't. He might have been able to share a bed with Clint before, to sleep the sleep of the exhausted, but he couldn't now. He didn't dare try.
"Honeymooners, Coulson," Clint said, and he looked more amused than he should have been. "Do you really want to listen to them going at it in the middle of the night? They haven't returned from the game room yet, but I can guess how they're going to return."
"Procedure, Barton. You know as well as I do—"
"What did I do?" Phil closed his mouth with a snap, surprised, and Clint hastily continued. "Seriously, what did I do? Even before—well, before Loki—you suddenly wanted nothing to do with me, and now you won't even sleep next to me when you're about to collapse from exhaustion. What did I do?"
Phil looked away and opened his mouth to say that it was nothing, of course it was nothing, but he hesitated. Clint would think it was his fault without explanation, and he wouldn't accept a lie, no matter how good. Clint had always had the best eyesight in the business, and he would see right through him, unless…unless Phil told him. The truth.
He hesitated too long, a sure tell, and his window passed. When Phil next glanced at Clint's face, it might as well have been a mask, and his eyes were cold.
"You know what? Fine. You take the damn bed. I'll listen to the lovebirds."
The anger in his voice, the pain, made Phil's heart ache, but however often he ignored it, he couldn't ignore this. Phil surrendered his chair without protest, then took a shower and went to bed the same way. He glanced at Clint's back occasionally, saw only stiff muscles, and couldn't resist, knowing Clint couldn't hear him.
"Goodnight, Clint," he said softly. "And I'm sorry."
Phil was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillows, and it was thankfully a sleep without dreams. When he woke, it was barely four in the morning, and his eyes felt gritty, but not too gritty that he couldn't see the empty room around him.
Clint was gone. Phil was out of the bed in a flurry of covers and a chorus of squeaks from harassed springs, pulling on the first clothes he could find that wouldn't alarm any of the early birds or reveal anything about his state of mind. By the time he sat down to tie his shoes, however, the door opened, and Clint stepped back in.
"You would wake up in the ten minutes it takes for me to go place a bug on the Hesters' window, wouldn't you?" Clint smiled, and it was very nearly friendly. Phil couldn't help but tense in reaction, a reaction that Clint clearly spotted and just as clearly mistook for annoyance at abandoning his post. "Relax. Harlan and Lebois are sleeping. After a very acrobatic night, I might add; Harlan's got some moves."
"Thank you, Barton, for that update," Phil answered back wryly, and then what Clint had actually said caught up with him. "You were on the side of the ship?"
Clint shrugged, as if it were no impressive feat to scale water-slick metal before dawn.
"Seemed the easiest way. Are you going back to sleep, sir, or can I catch a few hours? Nobody's awake, as far as I can tell."
Phil sighed, but obligingly stood from the rumpled wreckage of blankets and pillows. Clint immediately flopped on the bed and burrowed beneath the covers, unmindful of the wet clothes he wore.
"Barton." There was no response, and he tried again. "Barton."
Clint ignored him, and Phil let him. It was no business of his if Clint wanted to sleep while covered in salt water, he told himself, and Clint was angry. Pushing the issue might actually end with punches thrown, and that was one fight Phil didn't want to have ever, but especially not now.
When Clint's breathing had evened out in sleep, Phil pulled another blanket from the closet and covered him with it, figuring, at least in this, he could avoid the argument.
****
The Hesters might have been incredibly skilled in their work, but unlike Harlan and Lebois, they were clearly not used to tempering their conversation for the atmosphere. The bug Clint had placed was good, and once the usual sounds of the swishing harbor were filtered out, it was easy to figure out their assassination plans. "Wait until the ship docked, take the shots, and disappear into the crowd while the bodies tipped overboard" was a good plan, at least as far as escape went. It was all very neat, in fact, with the details providing the right kind of cover and a perfect amount of time to escape, provided there were no complications.
Clive, Frank, and SHIELD weren't mentioned at all, and that, more than anything, screamed of a setup. Phil didn't mind since, all things considered, Clint's commentary on the conversation was the first thing he'd said since he'd woken up from a thankfully peaceful sleep.
"Okay, that? That's bullshit. Who do they think they're fooling?"
"It is a very good plan," Phil offered generously, and Clint snorted before saying something uncomplimentary under his breath. The words were a little less professional than Phil was used to, but they were both feeling ragged, worn by the previous day and tired from infrequent sleep. Frankly, they didn't look very professional.
"Do you think they're here to catch us after all, then?"
"Probably just hoping they can get a bonus. Catch a few agents, get a long holiday. That sort of thing."
Clint nodded along with the comment, not even cracking a smile. "Well, then how do you want to play this? Since 'loving spouses' is out."
Phil thought about it for a moment, and then he shook his head. "I'm not so sure it is, actually. We know who they are. Probably they know about the bug. They didn't try to put one in here, though. Why?"
"No equipment?" Clint guessed, looking thoughtful. "Maybe they weren't expecting to be recognized."
"Or maybe they know that SHIELD is here, but not who is here." It made sense to Phil in light of the last two days, and Clint nodded again, understanding. "You were a last minute volunteer, Barton, and I've been out of the field for months. Off-record and out of commission."
"So we tail Harlan and Lebois. As a couple, to avoid attracting attention. Well, attracting attention again."
"That's the plan."
Clint looked like he had something he dearly wanted to say about that, and Phil braced for it. Almost wanted cruel words, because at least they would help keep the infatuation under control.
Nothing came.
"Sounds good," Clint said instead, voice strictly professional and perfectly bland. Phil hated it.
"Barton—"
"I'm going to go take a shower. I smell like seaweed, you know?"
Clint didn't wait for a response and Phil didn't try to give one when he pushed through the bathroom door with more force than necessary. The sound of water blasting against tile was audible through the thin bathroom walls, and Phil sat down on the edge of the bed. His entire body felt heavy.
He tipped backwards into salt-scented sheets and laid his good arm over his eyes to block out the light, trying to find some composure. This mission…it was a disaster in more ways than one. He wasn't sure how to fix it, which was a feeling he'd been having all too often over the past year. He wasn't sure how to fix himself.
When the water shut off and the bathroom door opened all too soon, Phil wanted to groan and bury himself under the covers. He didn't, but it was near thing, and he couldn't quite bring himself to uncover his eyes, to see Clint wandering around in a towel and looking for all the world like he didn't care that Phil was there at all. Phil could handle being ignored, could even handle rejection, but he didn't know how he could handle indifference.
There was a rustling of clothing, the gentle thud of cloth hitting floor, and Phil didn't move. It was eight in the goddamned morning; espionage could wait just a few more minutes.
All noise abruptly stopped.
"…Coulson?" Clint's voice was soft and gentle, and Phil wasn't sure how he could handle that either.
"I'm fine, Barton. Just a headache, that's all."
Phil was surprised when a hand came to rest on his shoulder, the lightest touch of damp fingers, a comforting presence that he wouldn't have expected since Clint was angry at him.
But then, maybe that was why Phil loved him.
"Do you need anything?"
"Other than an end to this damn charade? No." Phil sighed, and he uncovered his eyes to see Clint looking at him. He imagined their expressions were quite similar, harried and exhausted in equal parts. "I was never cut out for acting."
Clint nodded like he understood. He probably did, in the exactly opposite way. "I know." He patted Phil once more, this time on his bare arm, and the texture was distinct, a mix of damp skin and cold metal.
Clint still wore his fake wedding ring, apparently put it on even before his clothes. That was an odd habit to develop after just two days. Phil pointed, because he couldn't not.
"That seems a little too thorough, don't you think? If people are surprising us right out of the shower, the cover seems a little irrelevant."
Clint shrugged, but it did nothing to distract from the pinkening tips of his ears.
"I never expected to get married," he said, which wasn't an answer. Phil smiled anyway.
"It'll happen if you want it to. You're still young, and you just haven't met the right person."
"I have, actually, but…well. So much for that." Clint ignored the look of shock on Phil's face, moving to pull on his clothes. Phil couldn't look away fast enough when Clint dropped his towel; it was another tell, but unimportant just then.
He hadn't heard that Clint was dating anyone, but it made sense. Of course it did.
"Congratulations. And congratulations to whoever they are." Pushing the words out was like trying to breathe underwater, a surely impossible feat. Phil managed it through sheer force of will.
Clint huffed out a laugh, but it was hollow. "Yeah. Sure. Try telling him that." The words were muffled as he pulled a shirt over his head, but Phil heard enough to find them strange, to develop that same tingling suspicion that he'd had at the beginning of all of this.
"Barton?" Phil turned to look at him, and he was surprised to find Clint looking at the ground, a sad expression on his face.
"Don't worry about it, Coulson. I'll live." The prognosis was given with a smile, and Phil didn't believe it any more than when Clint smiled while bleeding out from bullet wounds. "But…breakfast? I'm sure everyone of interest is up by now."
Phil let it go to focus on the mission, but there was a part of him—a small part—that wondered why Clint had refused to meet his eyes.
****
The last day of the cruise was spent in a very much hurry-up-and-wait fashion, much to the annoyance of all involved. Although tensions were high at least for the Hesters and their SHIELD observers, from the outside, it was the only day that bore any true resemblance to the vacation they were supposed to be on. Harlan and Lebois sampled the many offerings on the ship, seemingly oblivious, and Clint and Phil kept close, waiting. They waited in the dining room. They waited at the card tables. They waited in the pool, and in the sauna, and in the sun.
If it weren't for the fact that the Hesters also followed Harlan and Lebois around for most of the day, Phil would have thought he'd given them too much credit, and that their overheard plan was their actual plan. Strangely enough, however, the Hesters seemed to be waiting for Phil and Clint to make a move, to reveal themselves for the agents they were before attempting the assassination, and Phil was in no mood to indulge that.
Phil and Clint hung off of each other like newlyweds should, all hands and hurried stolen kisses that were nonetheless perfectly visible to anyone who might be watching. Phil was sure it was nauseating to the people around them, and at another time, he might have found it entertaining. As it was, operating on poor sleep, conducting observation with Clint's hands all over him and fighting the jolt of surprise every time Clint leaned forward to kiss him was more taxing than amusing. By lunch he was feeling the tension in his bones, and by mid-afternoon, that tension had grown into a sizable knot in his stomach that made indigestion seem likely and focus seem impossible.
Then, around four in the afternoon, Michael James got impatient and botched the entire thing, interrupting a very trying game of bingo with the echo of shots fired just a few feet away. The passengers nearby, most having learned from the previous New York Battle, knew better than to stand around in the commotion, and with only a few jumbled words of instruction from the ship captain over the intercom, everyone filtered quickly to the opposite end of the boat. Almost everyone.
So much for stealth and secrecy, Phil figured, but he didn't have time to dwell on that as he ducked underneath the nearest metal stairwell. Clint had already fled to the highest point of the ship's chimney to ready his rifle, and Phil could see Lebois and an unwounded Harlan crouched behind an overturned table, James and Valdeen on the opposite end of the deck under similar shelter. Phil stayed put until he saw the flash of a sniper's gun from up high, and then he quickly darted off in the direction of the frightened civilians. Clint could handle the firefight, and the chance of Phil getting hit by a ricochet was high enough as it was if he chose to stay; Phil's job now was to maintain the cover of a panicked spouse.
It was easier than he thought it would be to distract everyone with thoughts of where "Clive" might be, and easier than it should have been to pretend like his world hung in the balance of the answer. It kept the few members of security on-board distracted until the fire fight had stopped, and by the time Phil was able to slip away to fake a phone call from Clive, Clint was safely back in the room with no one the wiser. It took a few minutes of excuses before Phil was finally able to respond to Clint's occasional comments through the headset, and he disguised it by holding a simple black phone pressed to his ear.
"Barton. Targets dispatched?"
"Affirmative, sir. I don't think Lebois or Harlan knew they weren't the ones to make the shots, though, so at least my cover's still there. When I left, security was taking care of them. All of them."
Phil sighed with more relief than he wanted to convey in the simple sound, and it was only partially faked for effect.
"Good. Excellent work, Barton."
"Permission to retrieve the bugs before anyone starts looking, sir? I mean, Harlan and Lebois are going to jail and the other two are dead."
Phil nodded and forced a smile just as he saw another couple from the first night's dinner coming his way.
"Permission granted. Coulson off-line."
He made a show of hanging up his phone to cover the way he removed his earpiece, but the two who approached—Beth and Brian Brennan—seemed too frazzled to notice anyway. They also seemed concerned about Clive's disappearance ("he was napping," Phil explained, sounding just the right amount of annoyed). Phil appreciated the attention in a distant way; inconvenient at the moment, but appreciated all the same.
Between security and the press of a crowd, Phil was stuck there for a little over an hour, answering questions and playing the weary and wary civilian. By six in the evening, the matter had been wrapped up to everyone's satisfaction, and by six-thirty, Phil had come down from the adrenaline rush hard enough that he could barely stand. Phil spent a few more minutes convincing everyone that he had to go check on Clive, and then he was walking back to the room with unfeigned exhaustion in every line of his body. Phil fumbled with the door and then leaned pathetically in the doorway, staring at the double bed that was half-occupied by an unconscious Clint in SHIELD-issued sweats. His gaze drifted back to the workstation at the desk, and saw the equipment shut down, unplugged, with a small bag of retrieved bugs sitting neatly atop the keyboard. The message was clear, and Phil didn't have it in him to protest this time. He just hoped that if he gave himself away, Clint would be too tired to notice.
It was with that thought that he pulled on an old shirt and a pair of boxers, shoved Clint to the inside of the bed and took the outside so that he could face the door. He was asleep almost as soon as his eyes closed.
He was awake within the hour, groggy but aware that something was not as it should be. It took him a few damning seconds to realize that Clint was moaning in his sleep, caught in the throes of a nightmare a second time. Phil rolled without thought onto his bad shoulder but ignored the jolt of pain in favor of reaching for Clint, fingers wrapping around the cool skin of his tense bicep.
"Barton, stand down." The words were quiet, not nearly as commanding as Phil would have liked. They didn't break through immediately, and he tried again, focusing on Clint's face with bleary eyes. "Barton, if you keep me up after all of this, I'm demoting you."
It didn't have quite the effect Phil was expecting, because Phil could have sworn he saw Clint smile. Still, at least Clint relaxed again before he murmured something unintelligible and turned away, breaking Phil's grasp on his arm with ease.
Phil took it as the sign it was, closed his eyes a second time, and let sleep wash over him.
****
It was dark the next time Phil woke, and he woke to find warmth at his back and an arm draped loosely across his waist, another circling his chest. He wasn't as surprised as he should have been, having seen Clint cuddle up to Natasha in similar circumstances before, completely lost in trust and contentment. It was what Clint did after missions, and he'd never seemed embarrassed about it, which meant in turn that no one who saw it ever commented on it.
If anything, what surprise Phil felt came from the fact that he apparently now rated the same as Clint's closest friend; the one time they had slept next to each other before had been in Dubai, in the hellish aftermath of a ruined month-long mission, and there had been no cuddling to speak of. Phil wasn't sure if something had changed or if Clint was just that far gone from awareness, but regardless, Phil knew he should put a stop to it immediately. As nice as it felt to have Clint's mouth pressed against his shoulder blade and a hand resting gently over the scar on his chest, Phil wasn't the sort to take advantage of exhaustion or post-mission stress, no matter how much he might want to.
Pulling away proved to be difficult, however, despite his efforts. Clint, even while unconscious, was a formidable foe, and every time Phil thought he might succeed in slipping out from under his loose grip, Clint would shift his grip and contort himself differently, and Phil would have to start all over again. Around the time that his efforts had led to him getting kneed solidly in the back, he gave up and decided it just wasn't worth it.
"Barton." Phil patted him on the arm, and then grabbed his wrist to give him a shake. Clint's hold tightened, just barely. "Come on, Barton, you're not normally this heavy of a sleeper."
"How would you know," was the mumbled response, a puff of breath against Phil's neck accompanied by the immediate loosening of his arms. His grip didn't release completely, Phil was surprised to notice, but when Phil made to pull forward, Clint let him go and rolled to face away from him.
"Sorry, sir. Won't happen again. I doubt I'll get the chance, anyway." There was something thick in his voice, barely perceivable, but Phil had known him for years, had known the rhythm of his voice almost before he'd known his name.
"Barton…" He couldn't complete the question, but before he could find the words to try again, Clint waved him off. Something glinted in the darkness, catching the sparse light from the side of the ship and turning it gold.
Clint was still wearing his wedding ring. In sleep, in SHIELD issued sweats, after the mission was over.
Phil couldn't help but see something more significant in that than mere forgetfulness, and with a bravery he rarely possessed in his personal life, Phil reached out to catch his hand before it fell.
"Clint."
Clint turned, and even in the dark, his eyes caught Phil's easily, finding them like a beacon home. Phil ran his thumb over the ring of gold, and Clint's eyes flickered, understanding immediately.
"It's creepy, right?" Clint whispered, and then he swallowed. Phil heard it, and felt it reflected in the tightening of his fingers. "It's weird. There's no reason I should…I mean, it's just a piece of jewelry. It's not even real gold, just gold-plated."
"You can tell that?" It seemed much easier to focus on that than process what Clint was saying. What it seemed like he was saying.
"Yeah. You work with enough scam artists…" He trailed off, sighed, and pulled his hand away. "Sorry."
"There's nothing to apologize for." Clint nodded, but for the first time, he clearly didn't understand what Phil was saying. Phil found the courage to take his hand again. "Clint. Would you forgive me if I kissed you right now? Me as me and you as you."
Clint's eyes widened, just barely, and there was a moment where Phil doubted. Then Clint smiled so wide and so bright that doubt didn't stand a chance.
"There'd be nothing to forgive."
Phil didn't ask twice, leaning forward without thought to find Clint's lips. Although they'd kissed several times over the past few days, this was the kiss that felt like their first, with Clint making a desperate sound in his throat and pulling Phil forward by the material of his thin shirt. It bunched in his hands, pulled across scar tissue and caught against his chest hair, but Phil didn't mind the sting.
Clint was kissing him like he was trying very, very hard to convince him of something, an argument made of brief kisses and slow, convincing slides of tongue. Phil could only wonder how long this had been building, why they'd waited until now.
When Clint did pull away, it was only so he could rest their foreheads together and pant softly against his mouth.
"God, this is real, right? I'm not just imagining it?"
"I was about to ask the same thing."
Clint's eyes gleamed in the darkness
"Phil, I've…with you. For years." He laughed softly, and somehow Phil hid his shock at the idea of Clint pining over anyone, but especially him. "I don't even know what to do."
Phil understood perfectly, both the sentiment and the reality, and that was what made it so easy to lace their fingers together. No code. No hidden meaning. It felt perfect.
"Now, we go back to sleep. And when we dock in the morning, I'll buy you breakfast."
"That sounds like the best plan I've heard all week."
Clint grinned and let Phil pull him back down, the two of them lying exhausted in ratty clothes, with sheets that still smelled like saltwater and springs that creaked too loudly.
It was the most romantic moment of Phil's life.
****
End