Work Text:
It's an uncommon view that greets Clint when he gets back from his morning jog. Phil should be at work by now, but his car is still in its place in the parking garage when he walks in. A tiny frown twists his mouth downward at the corners and he pushes the button for the elevator a few times before giving up and letting his impatience push him to the stairs. He takes them two at a time, a buzz of worry in the back of his skull.
His hands itch for his bow, or a gun, or even a knife (bigger than the pen knife shoved in his sneaker) as he approaches the door of their apartment. Clint can't shake the feeling that something is just not right.
He opens the front door, glad that at least it's still locked. Stepping into the front hall, he reaches for the gun he kept in one of his boots in the coat closet. Better to be prepared, after all. He toes off his shoes slowly to keep his feet quiet on the floor.
He checks the rooms carefully as he moves through the beginning of the apartment, the closets, the downstairs bathroom... he doesn't get far into the place before he spots Phil.
Relief washes over Clint and he almost laughs with it.
Phil's slumped over the breakfast bar, asleep. It's not too surprising, not after the night he'd had. Clint barely remembers waking up to welcome Phil into the bed in the middle of the night, but the older man hadn't been back when Clint fell asleep and he'd been curled up in his arms when the younger awoke for his morning routine.
He can't help the fond look on his face as he quietly pads over to his boyfriend, tucking the gun in the back of his sweatpants. He takes care of the dirty dishes around him, and moves the half-empty mug of coffee aside, as the pressure from Phil's arm against it had it partially tipped over--just enough that it didn't spill.
Teeth nibble the corner of his lip before he makes up his mind and sets in close, brushing his mouth carefully over the soft skin between the collar of Phil's shirt and the hinge of his jaw. The agent stirs and Clint moves back before he awakens any more. The fact that he isn't awake and on high-alert right now is testament to the lack of sleep he's had.
Clint makes the executive decision to call them both out for the day and take advantage of one of the two weeks of sick days they both have yet to use. Once that's settled, he gently rouses Phil from his slumped position, keeping his voice soft and soothing and his hands as light as needed so his handler doesn't wake so much that he thinks he actually needs to go into work.
The archer uses his nimble fingers to make quick work of Phil's clothing and soon enough he's tucking the man under the blankets. He strips out of his sweats, putting the gun in the bedside table, and slips under the covers as well. With a low hum, he gathers Phil to him, the drowsy man pliant and cuddly in his groggy state.
"You stink..." he murmurs, burying his nose into Clint's neck anyway.
"Go to sleep and then you can't smell me," Clint mutters back, threading his fingers through the soft hair at the base of Phil's skull. He massages lightly, humming a soothing tune. It doesn't take too long before the man becomes boneless in his arms and Clint just smiles and tucks his nose against Phil's temple and drifts off himself.