fics_by_maple: (Avengers)
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To Say His Name Part 1


~

Phil takes a whole team to Buenos Aires. He's only supposed to be transferring research from Japanese scientists and taking it to the Swiss Embassy except that the city is infiltrated with Hydra and Phil ends up having to shoot his way out of a lab and rescue a few hostages along the way.

“No, no it's fine, Coulson,” Barton says into Phil's comm. “I mean, the rest of us only came to South America to listen to you be a badass. We even got to watch couple minutes of it on the video feed.”

“Barton-”

“We're just going kick it at the pool. Let us know when you've finished saving the world, sir.”

“Barton, are you finished?” Phil is rushing through the crowded road, weaving through a sea of street vendors, narrowly avoiding tripping over small children and tourists.

“No, no, I've got more where this came from.”

“I need a change of clothes before I can go to the embassy. I'm covered in blood.”

“You hurt, sir?” Phil's pleased to hear the change in Barton's tone, concerned and serious. “What's your status, Coulson?”

“I'm not injured. It's not my blood.”

“Right. Hang on...” Phil can't hear the words but hears low, hushed tone as Barton talks in the background. “I'll meet you at site A west of the embassy, off the alley, can you get there?”

“Yes. And Barton? If it's not too much trouble. I'm starving.”

“Site A, sir.”

After that, Phil has Carter in his ear. She talks Phil through the city streets to avoid the Policia and Hydra and the occasional Hammer henchmen who'd like to capitalize on the chaos. The Swiss Ambassador leaves in fifteen minutes and Phil needs to get the research to her before it's too late.

He doesn't realize he's reached the alley until he's standing in it, counts four doors down and kicks it in. This part of the building is empty, not surprising really as it appears uninhabitable. Three rooms in and he's beginning to think he's got it wrong until Barton swings in the back window.

“Fourteen minutes,” Phil says, yanking off his jacket.

“I'm aware,” Barton says, then, “bite,” as he holds something sandwich-like partially wrapped in paper to Phil's mouth. He doesn't know what it is, there's meat and it's too spicy but delicious and he wonders if Barton realizes how much trust Phil just displayed by eating food from his hand without even asking about it first.

“Choripan,” Barton says, like he knew exactly what Phil was thinking. “It's probably better when it hasn’t been stuffed in my cargo pocket.”

“Than’ goo,” Phil tries to say around the mouthful.

Barton nods, all business and says “tie” and just starts unbuttoning Phil's shirt. Phil yanks at the knot and says, “no time, rip it.”

Barton's face goes momentary blank before it breaks into his 'nothing but trouble' grin. “Yes, sir.”

The buttons scatter and Barton shoves Phil's shirt down his arms and they're only a breath's space apart looking at each other hopped up on energy and surprised at how arousing such a ridiculous scenario has become.

Barton yanks at the shirt once again and the cuff buttons give way and the shirt comes off.

Phil probably shouldn’t even acknowledge the tension but he huffs anyway.

“I'm not even saying anything, I'm being so good, c'mon!” Barton says, clearly speaking on behalf of a guilty conscience.

“You're hopeless,” Phil says and reaches for another bite of food.

Barton tears into a plastic garment bag and passes Phil a clean shirt. While Phil buttons it, Barton puts a tie around his collar. Under, over, around the ends go and Phil watches Barton's face while he concentrates on the Windsor knot.

“Yes, I know how to do this,” Barton murmurs.

“Man of many skills.”

Regardless of how wildly inopportune the timing is, he visualizes a fully formed fantasy involving taking Barton to his tailor and dressing him in a fine suit, all sleek satin and wool, dressing him up and taking it all off again. Phil promises himself to revisit the image when he has the time to spare.

Both Barton's and Phil's hands work together, skimming over his body, straightening his collar, tucking in the shirt, adjusting his shoulder holster straps and sliding the new clean jacket into place. It feels ridiculously sexy for getting dressed.


“I think I'm good. Am I good?” Phil asks, glancing down at himself, shifting and shrugging a bit, thinking eight minutes and looks up at Barton for approval.

“Yes. No.” Barton shakes his head. He steps back at first but stops and moves close again. He reaches up, putting both hands on Phil's face, ostensibly to halt him, and wipes at the corner of Phil’s mouth with his thumb, like he’s swiping away sauce from the choripan.

“Did you, get it?” he asks, his voice coming out ragged.

Barton nods, still holding Phil’s face, looking from his mouth and back up to his eyes and then gives him an apologetic smirk.

“What? Now?” Phil says, feeling like his heart to lurching to a standstill. “You're gonna do that now?”

“Sorry, sir. Don't think this can wait anymore.” He inches his body a little closer, giving Phil plenty of time (if counted in milliseconds) to decline, to pull away, but he doesn’t. It’s completely unprofessional but Phil has wanted this too much to protest even a little bit.

“Carry on, then, agent.”

Phil sees an almost smile on Barton’s face before he kisses him. It’s urgent, rough and Phil puts his hands on the back of Barton’s shoulders, fingers digging in. He can hear his pulse rushing in his ears and where it throbs under Barton’s thumb pressing against the side his neck.

They pull apart, their mouths slightly open, lips barely brushing and just like they read each other in the field, they both ease their posture, fit together a little bit closer, and kiss again. This time it lingers, easy and tender, a sweetness Phil never would have wished for and then Barton’s stepping back.

“Six minutes, sir. Meet you at the pick up point.”

Phil squares his shoulders. He can feel a wetness on his upper lip and thinks for a moment that he’ll wipe it dry but he turns to leave and licks his lip instead.

Barton pilots the flight to HQ NY while Phil sits in the commander’s seat and talks for hours, giving instructions to his agents in the field, conferring with Fury and acting as SHIELD’s ambassador to various political figures. He doesn't even realize that he’s been getting a scratchy voice and clearing his throat until he hears Barton’s voice over the in flight comm.

“Briggs, you got hot tea in your medkit? Coulson’s voice is falling apart up here.”

Phil continues his conversation with the Secretary of Defense but does make eye contact with Barton through the glow of his clear-screen monitor. There isn’t tea of course, but Phil thanks Brigg’s for the cough drops and warm water and Phil doesn’t know what this thing between them is, but he knows that Barton is really listening.

When they finally dock Phil issues the crew 48 hours of leave with his praise for a job well done, and turns to Barton.

“A word in my office, Agent?”

Barton nods and follows without a word and Phil finds the cadence of his bootsteps along side of his reassuring. Phil realizes he already can’t remember what it was like to not have Barton at SHIELD with him. That he even thinks of Barton like that, as with him.

When his office door shuts Phil turns and sees how tense Barton is. He looks like he’s bracing for what he clearly expects to be an admonishment of some kind.

“Barton?” He says, trying to keep the authoritative edge out of his voice. He steps forward and tilts his head, trying to get himself into Barton’s eyeline where he’s fixed his gaze on the floor between him. “I asked you here for the sake of discretion, that’s all.”

He takes another step closer and he wants to reach for Barton but that feels too forward in spite of the fact that they were embracing and kissing not ten hours ago.

Barton’s shoulders lower a little bit and he looks up. “You’re not shipping me off to Greenland?”

“Never.” Phil takes another step closer. “You know I’m saving that seat for Sitwell as soon as the Director lets me.”

A muscle in Barton’s jaw clenches. It’s a smile muscle.

“I’m trying to development a risk assessment in my head, okay? I have an optimism bias that is probably skewing my perception and this? This whatever, is completely unprecedented for me. I have no data with which to implement a plan of action and--”

“Coulson. My god. I’m not that complicated.”

“You are 100% uncharted territory.”

“Is that a euphemism for virgin? Because sorry, boss, but that ship sailed a long time ago.”

“No. I meant me.”

“I don’t believe you’re a virgin, sir.”

“Can you stop saying that word? I didn’t mean that. I’ve never been involved with a person in the Agency. And I’m in a key position of authority, I don’t want to jeopardize the agency, and that’s not to mention that I’m a good deal older than you.” Phil lays it out there quick and succinct, because facts don’t have to be emotional sticking points. Facts speak for themselves.

Barton looks at him with surprise, the furrow between his brows deepening, and then his face breaks into a laugh. He doesn’t even try to hide it, just crosses one arm over his ribs and buries his face in his hand, giggling out right at him.

“What? Stop it. It’s a valid issue.”

“Jesus, Coulson,” Barton says through giggles, wiping at the corners of his eyes. He looks exhausted. “I’m not long off from forty years old. I mean, hell, it’s not often I’m told I’m too young for anything.”

Phil just purses his lips and huffs an annoyed sigh at his totally valid point being dismissed, but he also can’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching either. He likes it when Barton laughs and finds himself easily inclined to join him.

“I don’t think you’re too young. It’s just, I can’t imagine you really want-“

“Hey now. You me let decide what and who, I want. Okay?”

And it’s just out there now. It’s hard to believe it can be this simple. Barton slides up to him, right into Phil’s personal space, he moves slow but with intent and eye contact, hands sliding to rest on Phil’s waist, under his suit jacket. Phil’s hands come up and settle onto Barton’s arms. He’s given so much thought to touching him, his arms specifically, the tactile reality of finally doing it gives him a rush of warmth from his chest right to his groin. He presses himself closer to Barton, who smiles, more of a smirk really, and kisses him.

And god damn it.

“You’re my subordinate, Barton,” Phil says, hanging his head to rests on Barton’s shoulder, but neither move apart. “This isn’t me being fussy, you understand? I have a legitimate professional ethics issue here.”

“Bullshit. Technically speaking, I outrank you.”

“That’s a stretch at best and not even-”

“No, listen.” Barton widens his feet and settles his stance against Phil a little heavier, hands still braced on his waist. “Your S Level outranks mine within the command structure, sure. But my combat rank plus my security clearance supersedes yours. Sort of. I checked it out. SHIELD Code 634 subheading 14. It’s a checks and balances maneuver. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Phil stares for a moment at him, mind blown and heart clenching at the knowledge that Barton took the time to do investigate the legal entanglements of their potential relationship status.

“You did research,” he says whispers as he slides his hands up from Barton’s arm and takes his head into his hands and kisses him.

Phil’s mobile beeps in his pocket and the sounds stops them kissing, though their lips still just barely touch. Phil can hear the muted buzz of many people busy at work and he knows he needs to be one of them. He presses into Barton slightly and finally opens his eyes.

“I’ll still be a few more hours.” Phil didn’t need to explain, everyone knew the handoff to the Ambassador signalled a major swing in the focus of SHIELD’s work on this project. Phil had a lot of work to do.

“Have to inventory the rest of my gear but then I’m clear,” Barton says, his hands are still on Phil and it sinks in a little bit more that this is what they’re doing now, that thing where you hold and touch while you have a conversation like it’s all perfectly normal.

“But you didn’t sleep much,” he says, and it’s just a known fact, because barring extreme exhaustion or injury, Barton rarely sleeps in flight, but Phil says it with a quiet certainty of something he knows about Barton. Because he watches, because he cares. “But you should.”

Barton gives a little nod, a playful glint in his eye acknowledging that Phil isn’t giving him an order, but that he’s concerned.

“Okay.”

“No, here.” Phil pulls out a sleek folded leather key fob from his jacket, and disengages a single, and holds it out. “Go sleep at my apartment, I assume you know where it is.”

Barton gives a shameless lift of his eyebrows because, spy, yes he knows where Phil’s apartment is. He looks at the key, presses his thumb against the teeth of it. “You’re not seriously gonna tell me your front door has an old-fashioned dead bolt on it?”

“It does. It also has bio-feedback security features you’ll recognize. You’re already on a short list of those with authorized entry.”

Barton takes the key and holds it up in question.

“The key is symbolic,” Phil says.

“Ooh.” Clint leans close, giving Phil a quick kiss. “Symbolic of what?”

Phil presses forward and dips his fingertip into Clint’s collar, stroking his neck. “Of invitation.”

Phil detects a hesitation in Clint, like maybe a protest that he could just easily sleep in on-site quarters or on Phil’s couch in his office, but then he seems to get that Phil is inviting him over.

“You’ll be there later? You gotta sleep too, Boss,” Clint says against Phil’s ear, maybe less sexy than he intends and more like he’s fighting a yawn.

Phil tilts his cheek closer and nuzzles into him. “Soon as I can.”

They stay like that, leaning on each other, breathing in and out together a couple of times before Clint kisses Phil’s temple, squeezes his upper arm and then leaves without another word.

Phil flicks on his comm and spends the next few hours talking his base team through exactly how to file their case to work around international laws and then spends another hour prepping the next day’s orders because he plans to be out.

It’s been three weeks since he’s been to his New York apartment. It has that high-up, closed-in feel that anywhere else would make him uncomfortable but in this city it just feels right. He senses the clean humidity of a shower taken hours ago lingering in the hall, and he can smell his own shampoo, and there’s a light on over the stove. The presence of someone else already here is calming and Phil has the unexpected warmth of homecoming curl up in his chest.

“Hey,” Barton says from where he’s stretched out on the sofa. His voice is rough and low and his eyes are little puffy.

“Why are you sleeping out here?” Phil asks, moving to sit on the coffee table beside him. He thinks of leaning down to kiss him but feels shy of doing so for some reason he can’t explain. They’ve already kissed. But it’s quiet and dark and Barton is laying back in a pair of Phil’s boxers and a ribbed tank top and while he’s all fit muscle he looks relaxed and at ease and nothing at all like the dangerous man he really is.

“Didn’t feel right sleeping, uh, anywhere else,” Barton says, sitting up onto his elbows. “Without you here, anyway. I did snoop around, of course.” He hooks a thumb under the sleeveless edge of the tank top. “Also, spy.”

“I expected no less.” He looks Barton up and down and just, his knees, and his bare feet! Phil’s mind supplies the last with tiny exclamation points. Never in his life has Phil given feet a second glance but they look so delicate, so vulnerable, he wonders if Barton would let him rub them someday. He’s about to ask, something, he doesn’t remember, his sleepy brain is all fuzzy and instead he cracks out a face-eating yawn that leaves his eyes watering.

“Oh, yeah. That right there, that’s how I can tell someone really wants me.”

Phil lets out a breath of silent laughter and leans forward until he faceplants into Barton’s chest. He smells so good and it feels amazing when Barton’s puts his hands on Phil’s back and neck. Phil feels a little silly, a little unsure and out of sorts because all of the lines in his mental compartmentalization are shifting and he doesn’t know where to place himself and Barton, in his apartment in the dark, with Barton wearing Phil’s underclothes. He has no contingency for this.

“Want to share a sliver of sofa space with me?” Barton asks, but Phil shakes his head, rubbing his nose against Barton’s ribs and then sits up.

“The bed is infinitely superior. Trust me.”

“Oh, I do, sir. Lead the way, then.”

Barton gets to his feet and Phil takes his fingers. Walking to his bedroom feels far more pragmatic than sexy like how he might have hoped it would. He stops next to the dresser and disarms, lining up guns, knives, and his daily carry gadgets and devices.

Barton glances at the bed and back to him and Phil realizes that he’s just as uncertain and that’s not fair to leave in the air. He nods, says, “yeah”, and Barton pulls the covers down, pats the pillows into fresh floofness and then crawls into the middle of it. Phil sits on the side and get as far as kicking off his shoes and Barton is right there behind him, moving close turning his head to kiss him. His hands slip around Phil’s waist and Phil reaches for an anchor and finds Barton’s knee. He rubs his thumb feeling the thrasp of thin coarse hair on his shin.

Barton undresses him, jacket, then tie and shirt and Phil opens his pants and lets them fall off in a heap when he stands and turns to climb into bed.

“I should shower first,” Phil says, but he’s not even convinced by his own voice.

Barton shakes his head, slides further down the bed and reaches for him. “Negative, sir. Sleep first. Shower second.”

Phil climbs into bed and then scoots closer to Barton and while there’s a heady spike of arousal in his brain stem somewhere, his limbs are shaky with fatigue, almost nauseated with it. He ends up with his head nestled in the crook of Barton’s chest and shoulder.

“Are we really doing this?” he says into the dark, and Barton squeezes his arm.

“You and me, Coulson? We’re about sleep together, yeah. Sleep so hard.” He gives a tiny thrust of his hips on the last word. Neither of them have the energy to actually laugh, but the last bit of tension ebbs and Phil finally falls asleep.

He wakes a couple hours later to find they’ve shifted. Barton’s weight and heat is still nearby though. He reaches out, eyes still closed and finds Barton’s forearm and slides along until his fingers curl into Barton’s reflexively closed hand. He listens to Barton’s breathing, each inhale almost a snore, and Phil feels honored that Barton is sleeping so soundly in his apartment, his bed and with the touch of his hand. He doesn’t know when his meandering thoughts fade into sleep again.

When he wakes again, it’s still dark but the city beyond is beginning to wake. He’s rolled onto his side away from Barton and there’s no question that he’s woken up because of his aching bladder. He rubs his arms against the chill of the morning from the fan Barton must have turned on to circulate the air. He doesn’t turn on the bathroom light and pees in the dark and doesn’t concern himself about the flush waking Barton.

He stops at the dresser and checks the notifications on his mobile. Scrolling through, he’s relieved to see objectives moving forward but there are no urgent alerts that require his reply.

“What time do you have to go in?” Barton asks.

Phil clicks his mobile off and into darkness and momentarily blinds himself. “I’m not. Scheduled myself the day off.”

“Awesome.” Barton leans up on one elbow and rubs his face and hair with the other. “Hey, come back where it’s warm.”

It’s funny, he thinks, Barton easily speaks his intentions, even when contrary to orders, and will question Phil or make operational suggestions, but he doesn’t recall Barton ever giving him a personal directive before.

As Phil’s eyes adjust, the faint glow of the city’s light slipping in around the window blinds reflects off the skin of Barton’s bare arm and shoulder above the sheet still pulled up to his chest. He knows Barton got a couple more hours of sleep than he did, but neither are ready to be awake for the day. He expects to settle and return to sleep but once he lays down, Barton rolls on top of him.

This is an infinitely better idea.

Barton is heavy but agile over him, gliding in small rolling movements that quickly leave Phil breathless and wanting. It’s unnerving to feel this out of control, to not have a plan or just know intuitively what the next step will be but being with Barton is the biggest rush he’s ever known. He might wear a suit every day but he’s still his own brand of adrenaline junkie.

Barton has some kind of brilliant hovering starfish maneuver that allows him to push at Phil’s t-shirt but he doesn't even try to take it off, just leaves it bunched around Phil’s chest. He feels fully naked just from having his nipples exposed.

Phil arches back while Barton sucks kisses along his throat, his chest, and down his stomach.

“This,” he says, words coming out only loosely attached to any thought process. “So much better.”

Barton sits up, knees straddling his hips, putting very welcome pressure against his balls.

“Better than what?” he asks, dipping to lick over a nipple.

“Not important,” he says, realizing that having had only partial sleep and being desperately turned on is not a safe combination for his carefully cultivated self possession.

Phil,” Barton says against his neck, goading him. “What?”

And damn him, it’s the first time Barton has spoken Phil’s first name and it’s to draw something out of him that he’s too embarrassed to mention.

“I, a dream. I couldn’t feel anything, in a dream. I had.” He thinks that might be a enough explanation without revealing that he’s had unsatisfying sex dreams about Barton, but Barton, as usual, has the ability to push right through his defenses.

“Yeah? How about this?” Barton leans down and sucks on a nipple, hard and slow, pulling a stuttered moan out of him, before letting off again. “You feel that?”

Phil half-heartedly jabs at his shoulder. The smartass. “Yes.”

“Mmm.” Barton hums against his chest like he’s making a some kind of sexy purring sound but there’s also an undercurrent of that broken up little chuckle he does, and Phil fully intends to say something to put Barton in line, remind him who he’s dealing with here but Barton slides down, the weight of him pressing against Phil’s cock as he goes.

“Oh, god,” Phil gasps, because what else is he going to say? Barton does that hovering starfish thing again and Phil’s underwear is pulled away and off and then there’s a firm grip around his cock, which is completely at odds with the tender kisses being pressed against his stomach and thighs and he’s even thinking in run-on sentences now.

“Do you feel this?” Barton says again, still teasing him but Phil is so, so okay with it. Whatever. Fine.

“I ...yes. Yes.”

He strains against Barton as the pleasure, so near painful, grows. He bends his knees and grasps at Barton’s shoulders, and pushes against him and he knows he wouldn’t let himself go like this with anyone else, hasn’t been able to for years, but Barton is tenacious enough to push him, test his limits, and then not let go.

“And this? Like this, is good?” Barton’s question lacks the usual ‘sir’ and Phil admires him so much for being brave enough, to be humble enough, to ask how Phil wants to be touched.

“It’s good, yes.” He does reach down though and puts his hand over Barton’s. He adjusts the angle that Barton is stroking him, repositions where the pad of his thumb presses just under the head and “Yes so good, Barton.”

Barton doesn’t let up jerking him off but surges upwards, his mouth next to Phil’s ear.

“Say my name,” he says. It’s an instruction, really, but has a hint of request in it, meaning several things at once like so many of their conversations do.

“I just-” Phil starts to say.

“-No. Say my name,” he says, pleading and demanding and skims his teeth over the shell of Phil’s ear.

Phil’s sweating in the cool air, they both are, and he can smell them. He feels Barton in every one of his senses, and suddenly he’s just there.

“Clint,” he says. “Clint.” The rush starts deep in his balls, a pinching ache and then his orgasm kicks its way out of him. He clings to Clint, sinks his teeth into his shoulder. He gasps for breath and then pulls Clint’s head up into a kiss and feels the last pulse out of his body with Clint’s tongue against his.

Phil pushes up into Clint’s space, yanks his shirt off and uses it to clean up. It’s been a long time since he’s touched another man’s cock and for a few minutes he completely forgets everything he knows about case files and code words and op objectives and the only thing of any import is the pitch of Clint's moan and the way he arches while Phil jerks him off.

He ducks down and opens his mouth over the head of Clint’s cock and gives a careful but thorough suck.

“God-god, oh fuck,” Clint groans. Phil isn’t quite ready to give a proper blow job yet, he thinks. He wants to give a really good one and have the time to enjoy the taste and feel of Clint in his mouth.

“Close. Phil!” Clint says in a wrecked whisper, almost like a plea.

“I’m here,” Phil says, and settles along side him, kisses him, and never stops stroking him. He realizes then that it’s begun to get lighter, he can see Clint's chest and stomach and is struck by how gorgeous Clint is when he lets out a choked groan and comes by Phil’s hand.

Clint relaxes into the bed, lets his bodyweight roll close to Phil's as he shifts to find someone’s discarded clothing and wipes him off. Clint pushes his face under Phil's neck and Phil holds him close, scratching through the short hair at the back of Clint's head and squeezing him around the shoulders. Clint has seemed so confident, so sure, but now feels like he's clinging for reassurance. Now that the tension has been cut they're left here with the reality of each other, of who they are and what they do and Phil knows, pragmatically speaking, that he and Clint are a couple of pretty brave guys generally speaking so he doesn't know how regular people live through this moment. It's not that he expects Clint to hurt him, or that this thing between them will mean nothing – he's pretty sure there's something real here.

"We're pretty good together," he says, which is probably out of context for their spoken words but that's where his train of thought is.

Clint nods against his chest. "We kick ass. We're going to win."

"Win?” Phil lets his hand trail down Clint's side, runs his thumb along the curve of his hip bone. “Win what?"

"Don't know. Medal, trophy, whatever. For being the best."

"I don't think that's how that works.”

“I'm just saying.” Clint pushes up and plants his chest fully on top of Phil's and brackets him with his elbows. “We get the job done, right? No one's better than us?”

“Allowing for some humility, of which you have none ...agreed.”

“Right. So we'll win this thing.”

This 'thing' makes them both so much more vulnerable. It gives them a weak point, a distraction, a target to be exploited and manipulated. But then Phil thinks of his checklist, of the value of good tea in the middle of the night, the comfort of a tailored suit. He thinks that finding someone who understands your work and sense of humor and wants you, that's worth the risk. Phil has a knack for cost-benefit analysis and the projected outcome here is very positive.

“I'm still your boss.”

“I'm still your favorite,” Clint says, rubbing the tip of nose against Phil's and then kissing him. He's still a cocky bastard but he makes Phil blush because it's true.

~
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