Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/933108.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Avengers_(Marvel)_-_All_Media_Types, The_Avengers_(Marvel_Movies),
      Marvel_Cinematic_Universe, Marvel_(Movies), Hawkeye_(Comics)
  Relationship:
      Clint_Barton/Phil_Coulson
  Character:
      Clint_Barton, Phil_Coulson, Kate_Bishop, Natasha_Romanov, Steve_Rogers,
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes, Nick_Fury
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Enemies_to_Lovers, stupid_boys_doing
      stupid_things, Puppies_in_love
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-19 Updated: 2014-11-18 Chapters: 8/9 Words: 54995
****** My Insides Are Copper ******
by foxxcub
Summary
     Just once, Phil wished he could ignore Clint Barton. It would make
     his life so much easier.
     (or, The High School AU Where Clint and Phil Hate Each Other, Only
     They Really Don't, and Feelings Happen)
Notes
     This is a case of me writing something for me to read because no one
     else would write it and all my friends are jerks (NOT REALLY, I LOVE
     YOU ALL <3333). Sirona and Polly are the instigators here, and Tora
     has been an awesome cheerleader who isn't afraid to yell "MAKE CLINT
     MORE SAD!!" so, you know.
     Thanks as always to sno for the beta!
     All of this is written to old school Fall Out Boy songs, so naturally
     the title and lyrics are from "Sending Postcards from a Plane Crash
     [Wish You Were Here]".
***** Chapter 1 *****
i am such a sucker
and i’m always the last to know.
my insides are copper;
i’d kill to make them gold.
 
 
The first words Clint ever said to Phil Coulson were, “That’s really stupid.”
He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but his brain was struggling with the
things this kid was saying about Captain America. Mostly because the same kid
had the most beautiful eyes Clint had ever seen.
Clint was thirteen. As far as he knew, boys didn’t have eyes that looked like
Phil Coulson’s. It made his mouth run dry and his palms sweat.
And that’s when he’d opened his mouth and said, “That’s really stupid,”
interrupting Phil’s detailed explanation of his trading card collection.
Phil blinked at him. His cheeks went a little pink, which was also pretty. It
made Clint scowl. “They’re not stupid,” Phil said softly, the corner of his
mouth twitching. “They’re vintage.”
“Who the hell cares about Captain fucking America?” Clint said, and luckily the
bell for the start of the school day rang, saving him from having to watch Phil
get even more blushy and hurt-looking, even though Clint didn’t care. Clint
didn’t even know him.
It was the first day of seventh grade, in a new school and a new town, with
brand-spanking-new foster parents who didn’t give a crap about him. They were
nice enough—they still hadn’t yelled at him, which was always a plus—but Clint
knew how to read the signs of apathetic fosters. Apathetic beat abusive any
day, though. He’d learned that the hard way.
What he hadn’t expected was to slip into homeroom unnoticed and somehow end up
sitting next to a guy with annoying blue eyes and a hard-on for superheroes. He
had all his school supplies lined up neatly on his desk; fuck, he had the
expensive kind of ballpoint pens, the kind Clint used to shoplift from the
Target in his last town. Clint was pretty sure Phil never had to shoplift a
thing in his life.
So, yeah, he’d told the guy his cards were stupid and pretended to enjoy the
way his face crumpled up like Clint had insulted his mom or something.
Whatever.
Clint reached under his desk and rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans.
“Jerkwad,” he heard Phil mumble under his breath, and that had been that. Clint
knew he hadn’t made a friend.
Phil Coulson was the last person Clint needed to make friends with, anyway.
 
 
three years later
 
“We’re not having this discussion again, Phil.” His mom gave that withering
sigh that usually meant Phil was wearing down her defenses, but he still had a
lot of work to do.
“C’mon, we both know you don’t have time to be driving me back and forth every
day and picking me up from practice,” Phil said in his most earnest, wide-eyed
tone. “You told me to get more involved, I’m just following your orders!”
She raised an eyebrow. “They weren’t orders, they were suggestions, and don’t
think I don’t know what you’re doing. I was an almost-sixteen-year-old once,
too, you know.”
“So does that mean you’ll think about it?”
“Let’s see how this varsity soccer thing goes and I’ll consider it. How about
you worry about me funding your college education before we start buying you
cars?”
Phil beamed. “If I get a full-ride to an NCAA school, you won’t have to worry
about it.”
His mom rolled her eyes, then laughed. “You always have an answer for
everything,” she replied with obvious affection. “Wonder who you got that
from?”
He leaned across the console and kissed her cheek. “No clue,” Phil said. He had
friends he adored, but sometimes he knew, deep down, that his mom was his best
friend. The past few years since the divorce had been hard, but their
relationship was stronger because of it.
As Phil stood on the corner in front of the main school doors as his mom drove
off, he slung his duffel bag full of soccer gear over one shoulder and his
backpack over the other. He felt the usual first-day jitters, but this year was
going to be different. This year he was a sophomore starter for the varsity
soccer team, thanks to a long, hard spring spent in the gym. Phil wasn’t
scrawny anymore—well, he liked to think he wasn’t scrawny, at least. He’d grown
a good five inches over the summer, and his t-shirts were tighter around his
shoulders. No one really had an excuse to call him Weasel Boy, not that a lot
of people did.
Just one guy.
Who happened to be standing right behind Phil when Phil turned around, smoking
a cigarette and texting on his phone.
However, it seemed like Barton didn’t really notice who Phil was until he
glanced up from his phone and met Phil’s gaze. He blinked at Phil, and his eyes
flared before narrowing into a nasty scowl.
Phil tipped his chin up and squared his shoulders, waiting for the inevitable
Clint Barton cutdown. It was the first time he’d seen him since May, and it
occurred to Phil rather suddenly that they were finally the same height. He no
longer had to look up at Barton or feel the usual angry jealousy over Barton’s
early growth spurt back in eighth grade, which had not only made him taller and
broader than Phil, but also made Barton’s obvious disdain for Phil even worse.
Weasel Boy was something he’d come up with when Phil had reported him for
smoking under the bleachers during class. “Skinny little douchebag, gotta
makeup for your tiny dick somehow, right?” Barton had sneered. Phil had flipped
him the bird and mouthed fuck you, hating that he didn’t have the balls to say
the words out loud.
Now, though—Phil wanted to smirk and ask who’s the skinny little douchebag now?
Of course, Barton wasn’t phased one bit. He took a drag off his cigarette and
blew smoke right in Phil’s face. Phil didn’t cough, just held his breath.
“Nice shirt,” Barton drawled.
“Thanks,” Phil replied with a sweet, forced smile. He’d bought his Captain
America t-shirt from a comics store in Chicago when he was twelve. It was
Phil’s favorite and no one, not even Clint, could make him ashamed of it. Sure,
it was probably too small for him now, but vintage was in again—right?
“Does your mom pick out your clothes every morning, or just on Mondays?” Barton
flicked his cigarette onto the pavement and stubbed it out with the toe of his
sneaker. Phil resisted making a comment about how Barton was littering on
school grounds.
“I’m not walking around with archaic, medieval weaponry strapped to my back,”
Phil said. He wondered if Barton even knew what archaic meant. He must on some
level if he always insisted on participating in a sport that was made popular
by The Hunger Games and a Pixar movie.
To Phil’s satisfaction, Barton glowered and tugged on the black leather strap
across his chest. “Archery’s way more technical than kicking a fucking ball
around, smartass.”
“Do they have a World Cup for archery? I can’t remember...”
“Do they even let mouthy dickheads play soccer? I can’t remember.”
Phil felt his cheeks grow hot. Barton was smirking at him again, like he’d won,
like it didn’t matter that they were the same height and Phil could (probably)
kick his ass if he wanted to.
“Clint!” a female voice called. “Are you done smoking or what?” Phil glanced
over Barton’s shoulder and saw Natasha Romanoff standing in the doorway, hands
on her hips. Phil didn’t know her well—she’d been a new student last year—but
everyone knew she didn’t socialize with many people. Except Barton, for some
weird reason. Nat was beautiful and had this soft, sexy Russian accent that
half the school drooled over, and yet it was Barton she’d chosen to hang out
with.
They were probably fucking. It was the only explanation that made sense.
Phil bit the inside of his lip. Jesus, where the hell had that thought come
from?
Barton rolled his shoulders, which did stupid things to the stupid gray henley
he was wearing. It was Phil’s turn to glower. “Yeah, coming,” Barton yelled to
Nat, taking a few steps back away from Phil. Then he gave Phil a totally
douchestastic grin and added, “Just helpin’ this lost kid find his way back to
junior high.”
“You’re hilarious,” Phil said, because sometimes he was genius around Barton.
Barton spread his arms out—again with that stupid henley pulling across his
stupid chest—and said, “I like to think so! Later, Weasel.” Then he turned to
saunter over to Nat, his gait lazy and careless like he was the coolest guy in
the world, oblivious to the fact that he could still make Phil feel about three
inches tall.
So much for this year being any different from the others.
~
“What the hell was that all about?”
“Huh?” Clint tilted his head at Nat as he dumped his books into his locker and
then (very carefully) set his bow and quiver inside, double-checking that the
lock was in place. Arrows were fucking easy to steal, and he couldn’t afford to
lose any this year.
She waved her hand over her shoulder. “Your little discussion with Coulson back
there. Are you two fighting already? It’s not even nine o’clock yet.”
“Hey, he started it,” Clint replied defensively, even though he knew that
wasn’t entirely true. It’s just that—he wasn’t prepared for Coulson to show up
to school looking like—like—well, not like he used to look. Not like a jock.
How the fuck else was Clint supposed to respond?
Nat rolled her eyes. “You’re blushing.”
Clint slammed his locker shut. “No, I’m not.”
“You are. Have you ever considered becoming an adult and actually being
Coulson’s friend? He seems all right to me.”
“He’s not,” Clint hissed, “trust me.” Nat didn’t need him rehashing all the
reasons Phil Coulson was an asshole. There was the smoking incident from eighth
grade, of course, not to mention the humiliating time Clint showed up to school
soaking wet because he’d missed the bus and his foster dad had refused to drive
him even though it was pouring rain, and Coulson had drawled, ”Better dry off
or you’ll start to mold,” making everyone in homeroom laugh. There were the
snide little whispered comments whenever Clint would walk by him in the library
(“Do you actually know how to read, Barton? I thought you were raised by a pack
of wild dogs.”), and the one that still stung the most was when Clint had
relented to Kate taking him to the winter formal, and naturally Coulson, who’d
been there in his perfect shirt and tie, took one look at Clint and said,
“Sneakers? Seriously? It’s a formal. Go hang out at the skate park, loser.”
It had hurt much more than Clint wanted to admit, because he didn’t own a pair
of dress shoes, and his suit was something Kate had found for him at Goodwill
for three dollars. He’d already known he’d be miserably out of place, but
Coulson had practically hung a blinking neon sign over his head screaming POOR
FOSTER KID.
Coulson always knew how to make Clint feel like the outcast he knew he was.
“Maybe if you weren’t—what’s the word you use?—a dickhole?—to Coulson all the
time, he wouldn’t be so hateful to you,” Nat said with a deceptively innocent
shrug.
“I could if I cared, but I don’t,” Clint said, smiling brightly.
Nat muttered something under her breath that Clint couldn’t quite catch. He was
pretty sure it was a Russian swear word. “You tripped him that one time, he
nearly broke his nose.”
“Okay, one, I said it was an accident, and two, he didn’t break his nose. He
was fine.” Except Clint had totally tripped him on purpose, mostly because
Coulson had insinuated in front of their entire World History class that Clint
had cheated on a test. The spectacular subsequent fall Coulson took in the
halls had been pretty satisfying.
“Hmmm.” Nat made an unimpressed noise.
Clint pulled a face at her. “Besides, why do you care if we’re chummy or not?”
he asked as he followed her into homeroom.
Nat shrugged. “He has very sad eyes sometimes, like yours. Especially after you
are mean to him in public.”
Clint blinked. “What do you—you think I have ‘sad eyes’?” He wasn’t going to
acknowledge the other part, which insinuated that Coulson was actually hurt by
the shit Clint did and said to him. Like that was even remotely possible.
She patted his hand, not saying anything more. Clint leaned back in his chair
and glowered as the morning announcements came over the PA system.
~
Phil’s heart thumped in a hard, anxious beat as he looked up into the gym
bleachers, now filled with the entire student body for the first pep rally of
the school year. The fall sports teams were lined up in neat rows for the
traditional introduction of the new season, and while Phil had been waiting for
this moment since he’d made the team, he was still nervous about being
introduced in front of the whole school as one of the rookie players. He rocked
back and forth on his heels, palms sweating, but he kept his shoulders squared,
proud of the jersey he was wearing with his very own name across the back.
The cheerleaders did their usual dance routine, then introduced the varsity
football team. Phil didn’t really resent them for being the team to go first;
the football team weren’t regional champions or anything, and Phil had a lot of
friends who played. As the players were called by name, Phil glanced idly up
into the bleachers.
Up in the very top far left corner sat Barton, sprawled across two benches
among his usual posse of friends. He was wearing shades indoors—probably
because he was hungover—and texting while Natasha sat to his left, whispering
something to him. To his right sat Kate Bishop, who was leaning over Wade
Wilson’s shoulder as the two of them read over what appeared to be an old issue
of Zoobooks about zebras.
As Phil watched, Barton sort of lazily lifted his arm and draped it across
Natasha’s shoulders, fingers toying with her hair. She didn’t seem to notice or
react, just kept whispering to him with a very intense look on her face. At one
point Barton looked up from his phone and grinned at her, a crooked slant of
his mouth that could almost be called sweet if you didn’t know the guy.
Did Barton actually smile at people he liked? What did it take to earn a smile,
or did he only save them for people he was sleeping with? Phil frowned to
himself; like it even mattered. He’d never have to worry about it, since Barton
would probably run through the halls naked before doing something as innocuous
as smile at Phil.
“And now for our newest goalie, Phil Coulson!”
Shit, his coach was saying his name. Phil blinked, realizing everyone was
staring at him and clapping politely. His face flushed a bright pink, and he
could feel himself giving the dopiest grin as he waved awkwardly. Then he made
the mistake of looking back up into the bleachers.
Barton had pushed his sunglasses up onto the top his head and was watching Phil
with narrowed eyes. Natasha was clapping, and she poked Barton in the ribs,
nodding toward Phil. He could plainly see Barton’s mouth form the word whatever
as he flipped his sunglasses back down and went back to his phone.
Phil absolutely hated that his stomach dipped in vague disappointment. What the
hell was he expecting, anyway?
“Hey, why the face?” Dylan, one of the senior players, asked Phil as the pep
rally ended and the teams filed out of the gym. “It’s game day! You’re
starting! You should be, like, owning that shit, dude.” He slapped Phil on the
shoulders.
Phil grit his teeth and thought, Yeah, I should. I’m pretty damn awesome, and
what Clint Barton thinks doesn’t mean shit.
He beamed at Dylan, gave him a fist bump, and decided then and there that he
was going to spend the rest of his high school days pretending Barton didn’t
exist.
~
“Is this really necessary?”
Kate sighed as she yanked Clint down onto the bench beside her. “Yes, it is.
Either you come to these things with me or I’m going to have to get new friends
who actually socialize and aren’t assholes.”
“You don’t socialize, what the hell,” Clint muttered, glaring at the soccer
field stretched out in front of him. The last thing he wanted to do was watch a
damn game when he should be practicing, and Kate of all people should’ve
understood that. “You realize we have a meet in like three days.”
“Right, and you practiced for five hours yesterday. You were rubbing your elbow
all day today,” Kate replied, waving to someone over Clint’s shoulder. “You
need the rest.”
Man, he hated it when Kate got mom-like on him. He was four months older than
her, for fuck’s sake. Clint scrubbed both hands through his hair and dug his
phone out of his pocket. If anything, he could kill some time flirting with
this guy he’d met at a meet last week; the dude was kind of dumb, but he was
hot and only lived fifteen minutes away from town. Plus, he had a car. Clint
hadn’t gotten laid in a while, he could use a blowjob or two.
“Ugh, are you texting that Hayden guy again?” Kate wrinkled her nose. “He told
me I had a nice ass.”
“You do have a nice ass,” Clint said.
“Duh, but you don’t tell me that right when I’m about to make a shot.”
“He was intimidated. ‘Sides, I’m workin’ an angle here. It’s not like the guy’s
gonna be my boyfriend or anything.”
“Like you’d even have the slightest idea what to do with a boyfriend. Or a
girlfriend, for that matter,” Kate grumbled.
Clint couldn’t help but laugh at that. He draped his arm around her neck. “Aw,
Katey-Kat, you know I love you.”
“Ew, I told you not to call me that, it’s so gross,” she hissed, but still
leaned into him. Clint was happy she’d gotten over being embarrassed and tense
around him after she’d kissed him late one night at a party after too many
beers. Clint adored her, but like a sister he’d never had. The chemistry just
wasn’t there between them.
“Am I interrupting something?” Nat drawled, nudging Clint’s knees apart and
wedging herself between his feet on the bench.
“Uh, hi, since when do you come to these things?” Clint said, poking her thigh
with the toe of his sneaker.
“I like soccer. I’m supporting my school,” she replied smoothly as she took her
MacBook out of her bag and proceeded to pull up a word doc.
Kate grinned. “Didn’t think you’d actually respond to my text to come out
here.”
Nat shrugged one shoulder. “I can do homework and watch a game. It’s excellent
multi-tasking.”
Uh-huh. Or you heard Bucky Barnes is starting tonight.”
“I have no idea what you’re referring to, Katherine.” Nat started typing a
little faster.
Clint had a snarky comment all ready to go about how Nat was, in fact, human
like the rest them, except the home team came out onto the field just then.
Sure enough, Barnes was out there, but Clint’s attention was snagged by someone
else.
He didn’t like to admit that he knew Coulson played goalie; he told himself it
was because everyone made such a big fucking deal over Coulson being a
sophomore and being on varsity. No one would give a shit if he played any other
position.
“D’you know if they stay undefeated they’ll set some school record?” Kate
asked.
Clint made a grunting noise, chewing the inside of his lip as he watched
Coulson drop into a sprawl near one of the goals, legs spread in a straddle and
his arms stretched over his head in one long, solid line. Someone threw a ball
at him and he caught it one-handed, laughing as he rolled neatly to his feet.
“Please don’t embarrass yourself. Or us,” Nat drawled without looking up from
her furious typing.
“Embarrass myself?” Clint flailed his hand around. “I’m just sitting here!”
“You’re staring at Coulson, and I can feel something horrible’s about to come
out of your mouth.”
A flare of heat crawled up the back of his neck. “Just ‘cause Weasel’s the
goalie doesn’t mean—”
“Oh my god, would you stop?” Kate moaned. “I have gym with Phil, he’s a really
nice guy. Why can’t you mess around with someone like him instead of d-bags
like Hayden?”
Wow, okay, the absolute last thing Clint wanted to think about was getting head
from Phil Coulson, because no. Jesus Christ. Like Mr. Perfect would ever get on
his knees for another guy. Or jack another guy off. Or kiss another guy. Or—
“Hayden’s hot, for one thing,” Clint said, making a pointed attempt to go back
to his hook-up texting agenda.
Kate snorted. “I’ve seen Phil with his shirt off, okay, he’s totally your
type.”
Clint glared down at his phone. “Give it a rest, Bishop. If he’s so hot, why
don’t you date him?”
“I’m not into getting laid constantly like some people.”
“Stop making me sound like a goddamn manwhore.”
“You kind of are,” Nat chipped in.
“Hey, when did this become about my sex life? I’ve only—” He lost his train of
thought when he saw Coulson taking a flying leap across the goal to block a
practice shot, landing in a heap with the ball clutched to his chest. His
jersey had ridden up, exposing a fine, dark trail of hair.
Clint blinked, then got pissed. Fuck this, why’d he let Kate talk him into
going to this stupid game, anyway?
His phone suddenly buzzed with a text from Hayden. Want 2 meet up in 30?
“Yeah, I’m out of here,” Clint said. He stood up, ignoring the exasperated sigh
from Kate and the eyebrow tilt from Nat.
“The game hasn’t even started!” Kate said.
“You’ll survive without me.” And because his stomach was doing a weird twisty
thing he didn’t want to think about, he cupped both hands over his mouth and
yelled, “Don’t fuck it up, Weasel!”
Coulson’s head jerked toward the stands, and in the process he completely
missed blocking another practice shot. The ball sailed past him, and Clint took
that opportunity to give two huge, obnoxious thumbs up.
For a moment, those stupid blue eyes of Coulson’s were very wide and very—well,
Clint would say hurt if he didn’t know better. But the look disappeared almost
immediately, replaced with the familiar glare Clint expected.
“Embarrassing,” he heard Nat say in a sing-song voice.
~
“Is there a scout hangin’ around somewhere that I don’t know about?” Bucky
asked.
Phil shoved wet hair out of his eyes as he stripped off his jersey. “Not that I
know of, why?” He couldn’t stop grinning, still running on post-game
adrenaline.
“‘Cause that was some intense shit from you out there.”
Phil beamed. “What can I say, I wanted to win.”
“So did I, but you were on another level, dude. I thought you’d, like, wolf out
and eat those guys’ faces or something.” Bucky laughed and slapped Phil’s
shoulder. “Whatever lit a fire under your ass, I hope it happens all the time.”
“I’ll try to focus on my werewolf tactics more,” Phil said, ignoring the swoop
in his stomach from the suddenly memory of hearing Barton’s voice yelling at
him from the bleachers not to fuck things up. What was he even doing there,
anyway? Barton never came to games as far as Phil knew—any sport other than his
own was beneath him. Obviously Barton had shown to fuck with him, as usual, but
the joke was on him; Phil had gone on to block a half dozen goals, leaving the
other team scoreless. He was the star of the game.
“You keep playing at that level and you’ll have a great future in this sport,”
his coach had said as they’d headed to the locker rooms, and Phil had thought
his heart would burst with pride.
Take that, Barton, he’d thought smugly.
“Come out with us tonight,” Bucky said, pulling Phil from his satisfied
internal monologue. “I’m meeting Steve and some other guys for burgers.”
“Yeah, okay,” Phil said right as his stomach growled. His mom was working late
and would be expecting Phil to feed himself, anyway.
He rode with Bucky out to a diner on the edge of town, a greasy spoon joint
Phil had never been to, but Bucky apparently loved. It was packed for a
Wednesday night, and half the crowd Phil didn’t recognize.
“The guys from Crawford like to hang out here,” Bucky explained, referring to
the rival town ten minutes away. “We mostly ignore ‘em, but it’s not a big
deal. It’s usually the archery team, anyway, and those guys don’t make
trouble.”
Phil paused. If the Crawford archery team hung out here, that could mean—no.
Screw it. Phil shook his head and followed after Bucky, reminding himself that
he didn’t give a shit if Barton was around or not. In fact, it would give Phil
a great opportunity to gloat and tell Barton was fucking loser he was and—
“Hey, Phil, great game!”
He jumped and nearly collided into Kate Bishop. “Sorry, sorry, I was—hi, hey.
Thanks?” Phil gave her a sheepish grin. “I didn’t know you were at the game.”
Kate waved her hand. “My schedule’s been insane this year. You’re awesome, by
the way, wow. That last play was crazy.”
Phil blushed. He liked Kate; she had a confidence about her that Phil envied.
“Thanks. I’m pretty happy with how the game went.”
“You should be! I wish Clint had stuck around to watch, I told him he was
missing out.”
And that was Kate’s one flaw: she was best friends with Barton. Phil didn’t
understand how someone so cool could have such crap taste in friends. “How much
did you pay him to be there?”
Kate rolled her eyes. “I didn’t. I’m trying to get him to be more social, or at
least the kind of social that doesn’t involve shoving his tongue down random
guys’ throats.”
Phil totally wasn’t prepared for the weird coiling sensation in his chest. The
heat in his cheeks hadn’t gone away. “What do you mean—”
“Oh, gimme a break,” Kate suddenly moaned. “Ugh, wait here, Phil, I’ll be right
back.” Then she stomped across the lot to a red Honda Civic parked in the
shadows. She slapped her hand against the passenger window, and it was then
that Phil recognized who was in the car.
“Really?” he heard Kate say. “There are people around, Clint. No one wants to
see that.”
The door opened and Barton climbed out, grinning deviously at Kate. His hair
was a wreck, sticking up in all directions, and his cheeks were flushed, not to
mention his mouth was all puffy-looking and—
Fuck. Phil grit his teeth and told himself to go inside.
Barton looked over as Kate gestured toward Phil and their eyes met.
“‘sup, Weasel? Were we givin’ you a good show?” Barton called out in a lazy
drawl. The guy behind the wheel—Phil could vaguely make him out as big and
blond—must have said something to Barton then, because Barton laughed and
added, “Yeah, probably. Though I’d feel sorry for that poor bastard.”
Phil was pretty damn sure Barton was making a comment on Phil’s sexual
attractiveness—or lack thereof. Go inside, the rational part of his brain
screamed, but Phil took a deep breath and called back, “I don’t need to get
laid in a parking lot, I have standards.”
“Sure you do,” Barton laughed, swiping his tongue over his lower lip, which
was...not something Phil wanted to see. At all. He dug his nails into his palm
and tried to keep himself in check.
Kate was tugging on Barton’s sleeve. “C’mon, I’ll buy you a milkshake if you
shut up.” She gave Phil an apologetic look, but he didn’t blame her for any of
this. It wasn’t Kate’s fault Barton was an asshole.
Barton shrugged, ducked back into the car to say something to the big blond
guy, who laughed and grabbed Barton by the front of his t-shirt, yanking him
into a fast, messy kiss. Even at a distance Phil could see the way Barton
smiled against the guy’s mouth, the flash of tongue as his lips parted wide.
Phil swallowed. He’d never been kissed like that. He’d never been kissed,
period. It wasn’t something he really thought about much; his focus these days
was on soccer, not making out with someone. The latter wasn’t going to get him
a college scholarship.
But watching Barton go all loose and easy as he let the guy manhandle him into
the kiss, Phil couldn’t help but breathe a little deeper, heart thumping low
and heavy.
It was over almost immediately, Barton jerking away and out of the car, winking
as he slapped the hood of the car. “Later, man,” he said in a smooth, flirty
voice Phil had never heard before. His nails dug harder into his hand.
He didn’t need to see this. Barton’s extracurricular activities weren’t his
business. Phil turned on his heel and marched into the diner, making a beeline
for the corner booth where Bucky sat with Steve.
“Where were you?” Bucky asked as he pushed a plate of fries toward Phil.
“Thought you’d gotten lost or something.”
“Got sidetracked,” Phil mumbled, not looking up when Barton walked in with Kate
behind him.
Steve frowned. “You okay?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Barton sprawl into the booth across from
them, legs stretched out beneath the table. He rubbed his thumb absently over
his lips, and Phil wanted to punch something.
“Yup, I’m great,” Phil replied. He forced himself to smile at Steve. “Just
having an adrenaline crash, I guess.”
Just once, he’d like to truly be able to ignore Clint Barton. It would make his
life so much easier.
~
Clint snuck in through the back gate, barely making a sound. Thankfully, the
porch light wasn’t on, and as he fumbled for his key, Clint breathed a sigh of
relief. It was an hour and a half past his curfew, and his foster dad didn’t
normally take lightly to Clint showing up late.
He heard a snuffling in the bushes along the house. Clint froze, then carefully
knelt down on the ground and whispered, “Lucky? Is that you?” There was a soft
woof, and soon a scruffy head poked around the corner.
Clint smiled and shook his head. “C’mere, you,” he said, holding his hand out.
The dog immediately trotted over and butted against Clint’s palm. Lucky was a
stray who hung around the area; Clint had named him several months back after
he’d managed to keep Lucky from being hit by a garbage truck. He knew his
fosters would never let him keep a dog, so Clint fed Lucky on the sly, even
taught him a few tricks whenever he could. Clint kept waiting for the day Lucky
disappeared for good, or got hit by a car without Clint there to save him.
A lot of times, Lucky was the only thing that made Clint come home at night.
Well, that and the promise of the beat-up Harley sitting in the shed once Clint
turned sixteen. Margo, his foster mom, had told him he could have it if he kept
his grades up and could fix it himself. His foster dad hadn’t been too keen on
that, saying Clint would probably “fuck the thing up even more,” but he hadn’t
objected. Sometimes Clint fantasized about taking the Harley and Lucky and
leaving town forever.
At least Margo wasn’t so bad. She’d let him have a cell phone, mostly because
she worked at a cell phone store and got a really good discount. But all her
good intentions meant shit when her husband was drunk and angry at everything.
Terrance was a big guy, much bigger than Clint, and Clint had learned years ago
that you didn’t mess with people bigger than you, no matter how much you hated
them.
Clint sat down on the dirty porch and leaned his head against Lucky’s. He’d
spent the night fucking around in with Hayden in his car, and a part of him had
wished Kate hadn’t shown up and demanded he cut things short; he’d been waiting
for Hayden to invite him back to his house, since his parents were out of town
for the week. Clint half-wished most of the guys he fucked would take him
home—not because he liked them that much, but because any house was better than
coming back to a dog that wasn’t technically his and foster dad who had a short
fuse. Clint compromised by staying out as late as he could, until he was
certain Terrance was asleep or passed out.
Lucky made a quiet grumbling sound, and for some reason that made Clint think
of Coulson standing in the diner parking lot, staring at Clint like he’d never
seen him before. Probably thinking about what a lame piece of shit Clint was,
but whatever. Clint could care less what Coulson thought of him. When he left
the diner, Coulson went home to his perfect house and perfect family, and went
to sleep in his perfect bed. He probably had his own dog that his parents let
him pick out.
Clint flinched and wrapped his arm around Lucky. Fuck Coulson, he could judge
Clint all he wanted. Clint just had to survive until he was eighteen and then
he was gone. Most guys Clint’s age cared about college, but all Clint wanted
was to have his own life.
Coulson would never understand that.
***** Chapter 2 *****
one year later
 
Phil had never cut out of school a day in his life, but today was beginning to
look like that all could change. He sat through each hour and watched the clock
slowly tick toward three, dreading each second that went by.
”It’s only dinner,” his mother had said that morning, right after she’d
informed Phil that his dad was in town and wanted to see him. Funny how the guy
hadn’t bothered to see Phil for the last four years.
“I’m not going,” Phil had replied tightly, but he’d winced when his mom had
laid a hand on his arm.
“I know what you’re feeling,” she’d said quietly, “and you have every right to
be angry. But he’s your father. He wants to hear about how his son’s the new
captain of the soccer team.”
The last thing in the world Phil wanted was to make the man who’d abandoned
them proud. But he hated upsetting his mom even more, so he’d gritted his teeth
and whispered, “Fine. Just dinner.”
And now he sat through class with a lead weight in his stomach. It wasn’t fair,
none of it was fair; Phil was finally learning to move on from the divorce. He
didn’t want to relive the helpless anger he’d dealt with all through junior
high.
“That anger helped make you captain,” Phil muttered to himself as he made his
way through the halls to his final class. Maybe he’d let his dad know that
after all; maybe he’d tell him about how Phil was looking to go to Indiana
University to play Division I soccer, that a scout for the program had already
been in contact with him, and that Phil had been the star player his sophomore
year, setting records and earning regional and state titles. And none of it
happened with his dad around.
Phil was so lost in his thoughts and the frustration that been building all day
that he didn’t watch where he was going. The next thing he knew, he’d slammed
into someone’s shoulder, hard, and a familiar voice growled, “What the fuck,
Weasel?”
Shit. He wasn’t equipped to deal with any of this right now. “Sorry,” Phil said
to Barton, eyes downcast. “Didn’t mean to.”
“Yeah? You sure about that?” Barton got right in Phil’s face, nose to nose.
Phil’s heart jumped into overdrive, every inch of him ready to strike back, but
he wouldn’t. Not today.
“I said I was sorry.” This time Phil met Barton’s eyes.
“Uh-huh. I think this is payback.”
“Maybe if you didn’t fuck with my stuff, you wouldn’t be so paranoid.” Great,
now Phil was being reminded of how Barton had let the air out of Phil’s back
tires in the school parking lot two weeks ago. No one had seen him do it, but
Kate had come to Phil the next day and told him what Clint had done—“I already
reamed his ass, but feel free to rinse and repeat,” she’d said.
“Who said anything about me being paranoid? I’m calling it as it is.”
“You’re being a paranoid dickwad, so get the fuck out of my face.” Phil shoved
him for real this time, and he felt the spark of anger that had been simmering
inside him all day flare into something hot and ugly.
Barton’s eyes widened in surprise as he stumbled back. “You little shit,” he
hissed, and Phil knew what was coming next. His head hit the lockers with a
loud bang, making Phil see stars as pain sparked behind his eyes.
And that was all it took to send everything into a downward spiral.
Phil was aware of fists flying, of his knuckles crashing into Barton’s nose and
feeling it crack, of Barton tackling him to the ground and the shooting pain in
the side of his jaw. Blood was dripping down over Barton’s mouth and onto
Phil’s cheeks, and they were screaming things at each other: asshole,
cocksucker, fucking bitch, and worthless bastard were just a few Phil could
remember when it was all over.
It was as if Phil had been in a trance of anger and didn’t fully come out of it
until he was sitting in the principal’s office in a chair beside Barton,
panting and aching all over. Barton’s nose was a mess of blood, and his left
eye was starting to swell a little. They didn’t speak as Principal Xavier
called their parents.
Damn it, Phil’s mom was going to kill him.
Xavier hung up the phone and gave Barton an unreadable look. “Young man, it
seems your foster parents are unavailable at this time. Mr. Coulson, your
mother is on her way. You’re both suspended for the day. In the meantime, I’d
like an explanation for what transpired between the two of you before I make my
decision as to whether I suspend you for the rest of the week, or merely assign
you both to detention for the month.”
Neither of them said a word. Out of the corner of his eye, Phil could see
Barton licking at the corner of his lower lip where the skin was split; his
knee bounced nonstop.
Xavier raised an eyebrow at Phil. “Mr. Coulson? Care to enlighten me? This is
extremely uncharacteristic behavior for you.”
Barton snorted. Phil glared down at his hands in his lap and said, “No, sir.”
“I see. Mr. Barton?”
Clint shrugged, knee still bouncing frantically. “Friendly tussle, ‘s all.”
“Friends don’t bloody each other’s noses.” Xavier sat back in his chair,
fingers steepled under his chin. “If memory serves me right, you’re both
captains of your respective teams this year, yes?”
Phil sat up a little straighter. He hadn’t known Barton had been made archery
team captain; traditionally the position had always gone to a senior.
Barton’s knee had stopped bouncing. “Uh...sir?” he asked, very softly.
“Do I have your word that there will be no more fighting in my halls between
the two of you?”
“Yes,” they said in unison.
Xavier held up his hands. “Then I’ve made my decision. I won’t have you both
suspended, or send you to detention. I will, however, turn this matter over to
Nick Fury. He will decide your punishment.”
Phil’s stomach dropped into his feet. Fury was the school’s athletic director,
the head of the sports teams. He had just as much authority as Xavier—if not
more. He could easily decide to bench Phil and Barton for the rest of the
season.
Phil would rather have taken the suspension.
Barton was apparently reading Phil’s thoughts. “Sir, Director Fury will have us
benched,” he said.
Xavier clucked his tongue. “He very well might. That decision is out of my
hands. In the meantime, Mr. Barton, please make your way to the nurse’s office
before you head home. Mr. Coulson, you’ll wait here until your mother arrives.”
Barton was up and out of his seat in a flash. Phil just slumped down and buried
his face in his hands, wondering just how much worse this day could get.
~
“Well, it’s not broken,” Mrs. Carly, the school nurse, said as she swabbed
Clint’s nose clean. “You’re lucky the guy who hit you didn’t put his back into
it.”
Clint rolled his eyes. “Just give me some painkillers and get me out of here.”
“What do you think I am, a dealer? You get Tylenol and that’s it, buddy.” She
swatted Clint on the shoulder, but it wasn’t hard at all. If anything, she
sounded fond. Like a mom.
“Do I at least get Codeine for the road?” Clint asked, just to be an ass.
Mrs. Carly wasn’t amused. “You wish. Now stay put while I go get some butterfly
bandages from storage. Haven’t had any use for them in months.”
The second she was out of sight, Clint gingerly felt his nose to make sure it
wasn’t still bleeding, then slipped out the door and into the quiet hallway. He
wasn’t looking forward to the three mile walk home—his bike wasn’t fixed up
yet, so he usually rode to school with Natasha—but walking beat waiting around
for Terrance to show up and make a scene.
He was about to turn the corner by the principal’s office when he heard a woman
say, “God, Phil, look at you. What were you thinking?”
Clint halted and pressed his shoulder against the wall. He leaned carefully
around the corner and saw Coulson standing with his hands shoved in the pockets
of his jeans, shoulders hunched and head bowed. His left cheek was seriously
starting to bruise, and there was a cut at the corner of his mouth. A lady
Clint assumed was his mother shook her head at him.
“It just—happened, okay? I don’t know what you want me to say.” Coulson sounded
really young.
“I want you to tell me why you’re fighting at school. And on today of all
days—you’re going to show up to dinner with your father looking like a
prizefighter.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t go to dinner, then,” Coulson replied darkly.
His mom put her hands on his shoulders. “Is that why you did this? To get out
of seeing him?”
Coulson shrugged her off. “Why do you even care? Who gives a shit what I look
like, it’s not like the bastard’ll recognize me, anyway.”
“Phil, watch your mouth.”
“Stop defending him, Jesus! He’s the one who left us, and I’m the one getting
yelled at? That’s fucked up, Mom, and you know it.” He pointed a finger at her,
but the second the words left his mouth, Coulson seemed to regret them. He bit
his lip, eyes going wide as he jerked his hand back.
His mom’s lips thinned out, and Clint could see a distinct, angry tick in her
jaw. She didn’t really look like the type of person to be pissed off lightly.
“You know better than to speak to me that way, Phillip,” she said in a
dangerously low, even voice.
“I’m sorry,” Coulson said. “I didn’t—” He shut his eyes and cupped both hands
over his face, sighing roughly. “Can we just go home now, please?”
“I think that’s a good idea.” His mom took a deep breath, then pulled Coulson
into a hug. He was taller than her by quite a bit; she fit under his chin
perfectly.
Clint tried to remember what his own mom had looked like, if she’d be shorter
than him now. He wondered if she’d hug him like that right after he’d smarted
off to her in public.
He started to turn away, feeling uncomfortably intrusive on their family
moment, only he heard Coulson’s mom ask, “The boy you hit—who was he?”
Clint chewed the corner of his thumb and tried his damndest to keep walking.
Instead, he waited, ignoring the way his heart pounded a little harder.
“His name’s Clint Barton. He...didn’t deserve it,” Coulson said quietly.
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“No. He kind of hates me. A lot.” He sounded weirdly sad.
His mom pulled back and reached up to ruffled Coulson’s hair. “I doubt that’s
true. You’ve got my looks and my charm, everyone should love you.”
He laughed weakly. “I guess Barton’s immune.”
“Then he’s defective somehow. It’s his loss.” She tugged him down and kissed
Coulson’s cheek as the two of them headed toward the front doors to the parking
lot. Her arm stayed around Coulson’s back the whole way.
Clint leaned against the wall and dug the toe of his sneaker into a crack in
the tiled floor. Coulson’s mom’s words kept bouncing around inside him, making
his head hurt.
Defective? Screw her.
He took off down the hall after them, slowing his steps as he got to the doors.
As he pushed out into the afternoon sunlight, Clint swallowed hard and yelled,
“Hey, Coulson!”
Both Coulson and his mom turned abruptly. She eyed him curiously, but Coulson
looked braced for another fight. “Yeah?” he asked warily.
Whatever self-righteous determination had sent Clint after them immediately
deserted him. He hugged his arms across his chest and licked absently at his
split lip. He desperately needed a smoke.
“I—sorry,” Clint said.
Coulson blinked. “Seriously?”
Clint shrugged.
“Fine.” Coulson folded his arms, mimicking Clint’s stance. “I’m...sorry, too.”
“D’you think Fury will really bench us?” Clint tried to ignore the way
Coulson’s mom’s eyes darted between them.
Coulson sighed. “I don’t know. At least this was our first fight.”
“Only fight,” his mom interjected, then smiled at Clint. “It’s Clint, right? Do
you need a ride home?”
“Oh, I—” He glanced at Coulson, who quickly looked away. “Naw, I’m fine. I got
a car.”
Coulson’s eyes snapped back to him. He frowned, and Clint waited for him to
tell his mom Clint was lying, that he didn’t own a car.
Coulson didn’t say anything.
“All right, well, I’m glad you two reconciled,” his mom said. “Go home and put
some ice on that nose, Clint.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Clint forced a smile as Coulson ducked his head and rubbed the
back of his hand over his bruised eye.
He didn’t deserve it.
Clint watched Coulson get into his mom’s pristine Lexus and drive away. He
wondered what kind of idiot he’d have to be to ever think the two of them had
anything in common.
~
They met with Fury that following Friday. Phil assumed it was so that he and
Barton would have the weekend to freak out over whatever punishment Fury dealt
out for them. Phil had spent the last few sleepless nights considering all the
horrible possibilities that could come out their meeting, and all of them ended
with Barton blaming Phil for ruining his sports career.
Then again, Barton had apologized, which...had been unexpected, to say the
least. Phil thought maybe Barton had been trying to make him look bad in front
of his mom, but the way he’d acted all fidgety and nervous didn’t seem like a
typical Barton response to humiliating Phil.
Phil’s response to it all had been to ignore Barton for the rest of the week,
which had worked out pretty great.
Now, though, they were both seated in uncomfortable plastic chairs in Fury’s
cramped office that was just off the boys’ locker rooms. Everything smelled
like dust and sweat; half-inflated basketballs sat on a shelf behind Fury’s
desk, along with broken field hockey sticks, a pair of volleyball knee guards,
a filthy soccer ball, and a football that had 1976 Varsity scrawled across it
in black ink.
An arrow was duct taped to the wall beside the shelf. Phil wondered if Barton
had put it there.
“Where the fuck is he?” Barton muttered, tapping his fingers against his chair.
The guy never sat still for longer than thirty seconds.
“He said he was running late. Are you really that eager to find out just how
much our lives are gonna suck soon?” Phil asked.
“I’m eager to get the hell out of here. I gotta get to work in forty-five
minutes.”
Phil frowned at him. “You have a part-time job? On top of being captain?”
Barton turned and smirked at him. His nose looked better, but there was still a
nasty bruise around his left eye, and the cut on his lower lip was still fairly
red. “Some of us don’t get Mommy to pay for everything.”
“Hey, fuck off, I work, too.”
“Yeah? Where at?”
“At...home. For my mom. I do filing for her sometimes and she—” Phil flushed
angrily, because damn it, he was making it sound like Barton had a point.
“Whatever, she pays me for the work.”
“Uh-huh. What, your mom’s, like, a lawyer or something?” Barton licked absently
at his cut lip, flicking the tip of his tongue back and forth over it.
Phil scowled. “No. She works for the federal government as a consultant.
National security stuff.”
Barton rolled his eyes. “So your mom’s a spy?”
“No. And if she was, she wouldn’t let me file her paperwork. Duh.” Not that
Phil hadn’t jokingly called his mom Spy Mom once or twice. Without thinking, he
added, “She met my dad in Washington, D.C. when she was in training.” Phil
winced. Yeah, talking about his dad with Barton wasn’t high on his list of
priorities. And talking about his dad just made him remember the horrible,
awkward dinner from three nights ago.
“Your parents are split up, right?” Barton said it so casually, like he was
asking about Phil’s ACT scores or something.
Refusing to give anything away, Phil replied, “Right before I started seventh
grade. Dad moved to Arlington.” And that was all Barton was getting out of him,
because it was none of his goddamn business.
They sat in silence after that, the clock on the wall behind them ticking
obnoxiously loud.
“Your shiner’s not that bad,” Barton mumbled.
Phil sniffed. It was a lie; his eye looked like shit, although Bucky kept
saying it gave Phil “street cred,” whatever the hell that meant. Rumors were
flying through school about why Phil and Barton had gotten into the fight in
the first place; Phil liked the ones that said he’d won. It made his black eye
a bit more tolerable.
His dad, on the other hand, had taken one look at his eye and split lip and
said, “I didn’t realize soccer was a contact sport now,” with so much resigned
disappointment that Phil had wanted to launch himself across the table and
reenact the fight all over again.
“I’m into boxing now, didn’t Mom tell you?” Phil had replied instead.
“She told me you’re an honor roll student and team captain. That—” He’d waved
his hand at Phil’s black eye. “—isn’t honorable or captain-like. Maybe I’m
missing something.”
The rest of dinner had been a red blur of impotent rage on Phil’s part. When
his dad drove him home in his stupid, glossy black Mercedes, he’d started to
say something about being back in town at Christmas. Phil had gotten out of the
car and slammed the door before his dad had finished speaking.
“My dad thought my shiner made me look like a thug,” Phil said with a harsh
laugh. He glanced over at Barton, who was looking at him funny.
“You went to the dinner,” he said quietly, then wrinkled his nose, like he
hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Phil’s eyes widened. “How did—were you listening to Mom and me in the hallway?”
Barton actually blushed. It was really weird, seeing his cheeks go all pink. It
made his freckles stand out. “I may have accidentally heard you guys talking,
yeah. Thought you didn’t wanna go.”
“I didn’t. Mom insisted.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
Phil drummed his fingers on his knee. “My fourteenth birthday.”
Barton didn’t say anything. When Phil finally looked up, he was watching him
with narrowed eyes.
“Look, whatever, dude, my dad’s not your problem,” Phil said. He didn’t like
Barton looking at him like that, like he was trying to dissect him. “You
shouldn’t eavesdrop on private conversations. I don’t go asking you shit about
your parents.”
“I don’t have any to talk about,” Barton sneered.
Oh. Right. Foster care. Phil’s stomach dipped in contrite embarrassment. Why
were they even talking about any of this? Where the hell was Director Fury?
“You know what I mean,” Phil muttered, slumping down in his chair.
“How ‘bout you don’t have your little family talks in open hallways, dumbass,”
Barton said, and Phil was about to tell him where his dumbass comment could go,
only he was interrupted by Fury storming into the office.
“Gentlemen,” he announced loudly. He walked behind his desk, opened one of the
drawers, and pulled out a giant spiral bound notebook, which he promptly
slammed down in front of Phil and Barton. “Do you know what that is?”
Phil leaned forward and read the cover. “Um, Standards and Ethics for
Sportsmanship?”
“Exactly. This is the Bible for all the sports programs here at Westville High
School. Have you read it?”
“...No?”
“Of course you haven’t. And I know this because if you had, you’d know that
fighting on school property constitutes immediate suspension from at least a
third of the season.”
Barton made a whimpering sound. “Sir, my season’s like halfway over, I can’t—”
“I’m sorry, you can’t, what?” Fury asked, splaying his hands over the notebook.
“You can’t handle the consequences of being assholes during school hours?”
Phil winced. “It was a mistake. Sir.”
“No. A mistake is when you accidentally try to unlock a car that looks like
yours. You two were assholes. It’s beginning to be a bit of a problem.” Fury
sat down hard in his chair. The hinges screeched loudly.
“We’d never gotten in a fight before,” Barton said. His voice had gone a little
shrill, panicky.
Fury raised an eyebrow. “True, but don’t you dare sit there and tell me you
guys haven’t been at each other’s throats for years. You’re like dynamite just
waiting to be lit. I thank my lucky stars every day you both don’t play on the
same damn team.”
“So...we’re benched?” Phil asked miserably. Barton’s knee had started bouncing
again.
“Do you think I should bench you?”
He hated it when adults asked things like that. Phil’s mom did it all the time;
it was a trick question. Contrary to what Fury thought, Phil wasn’t an idiot.
Sighing heavily, Phil said, “Probably.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught
Barton glaring at him.
“You disagree, Barton?” Fury asked.
“I—I think we’re first-time offenders. I get good grades, and so does Coulson.
We’re captains. We messed up; bench us for one game and one meet. It won’t
happen again.” It was about the most earnest Phil had ever heard Barton sound.
Fury laughed, which did not bode well for them. “So you’ll both kiss and make
up, huh?”
Phil almost choked. Barton’s eyes widened, and he coughed once before replying,
“I-I mean, we’ve apologized—”
“Spare me the apology bullshit. There’s nothing saying you won’t be tackling
each other again in a few months.” Fury rocked back in his squeaky chair, hands
folded under his chin. “But I do agree with you, Barton. I don’t think I should
bench you.”
“Really?” Barton said, and Phil would have laughed at the way his voice cracked
had he not been overwhelmed with relief.
But then Fury smiled. Phil knew whatever was about to come out of his mouth
wouldn’t be good. “You’ll both get to finish out your respective seasons.
However, I’m giving you an assignment for the rest of the year. One you’ll be
required to work together on, as a team. You will meet all my set deadlines on
time, no questions asked, or you will be suspended from play for next school
year. Do you get me?”
“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison, although Barton was glancing warily at
Phil. But what more could they say? Getting stuck working on some project
together was worth not getting suspended.
Maybe.
“What, um, assignment is this?” Phil asked.
“Why, Coulson, I’m glad you asked.” Fury reached back into his desk and
produced a fat, messy file folder stuffed with a mountain of paper. Scrawled
across the front of the file were the words Summer Camp.
Fury walked around his desk and unceremoniously dumped the folder into Phil’s
lap.
“You, gentlemen, will be planning and organizing the first annual Westville
High Summer Sports Camp for Kids,” Fury said. “And you better not fuck it up.”
~
A year ago, Clint had been in the local pet store trying to buy a bag of dog
treats for Lucky, only he’d run short on cash. Just as he’d been about to
scurry away from the checkout line in humiliation, a woman in line behind him
said, “It’s okay, I’ll pay for them.” She’d smiled kindly at Clint.
“You don’t have to do that,” Clint had stuttered in embarrassed relief. He’d
always had a hard time accepting charity. “I can’t really pay you back right
now, but—”
The lady had waved her hand. “You obviously have a dog you care about, yes?”
“Yeah,” Clint had replied shyly. It had been the first time he’d really
admitted anything about Lucky out loud.
“Then I consider this helping a good cause. Besides, I might have a way for you
to pay me back.”
Her name was Laurie and she was the director of the local animal shelter, which
happened to be within walking distance of school. She’d asked Clint to come by
the following afternoon and she’d show him around.
And that had lead to Clint’s first real part-time job.
It wasn’t something he talked about, and he only got a handful of hours a week
that paid next to nothing, but he fiercely loved it. Clint was the youngest
employee by about twenty-five years, and that suited him just fine; Laurie and
the office manager, Diane, frequently doted on Clint, although he was careful
never to mention his fosters.
If the shelter stayed open past seven o’clock, Clint would’ve probably slept
there every night. There was something about being alone with the animals, the
way they quietly watched you and didn’t expect anything in return. Clint
sometimes found himself having one-sided conversations with them.
The Monday after the shitty meeting with Fury, Clint was taking Samson for a
walk around the block. Samson was a black Great Dane with white paws who really
thought he was a kitten; he liked to nuzzle his face into Clint’s chest and
make grumbling sounds like a purr. Clint wished he could keep him.
Samson stopped to delicately sniff at a patch of flowers, ears perking up when
a butterfly emerged.
“C’mon, Cupcake,” Clint drawled, using the nickname he’d given Samson several
months back. “I don’t have all day, y’know.”
Samson’s tail stopped wagging as he gave Clint a pitiful look. Then he spotted
something over Clint’s shoulder and suddenly moved onto the sidewalk, letting
out a loud woof.
Clint turned and saw that the soccer team was apparently out for their
afternoon run. In the front of the pack was Coulson.
“Whoa, giant dog!” Bucky Barnes yelled as they got closer. “Is that your
security detail, Barton?”
“You wanna find out?” Clint said, and several of the guys laughed. Except
Coulson, who slowed to a stop in front of Clint as the rest of the guys ran on.
“Hey,” Coulson said awkwardly. He swiped the back of his arm over his face, and
Clint really didn’t need to be presented with so much bare, sweaty skin. Why
couldn’t Coulson do his runs with a shirt on? Why did his shorts have to sit so
damn low on his hips?
“Hey,” Clint replied, biting the inside of his lip. It wasn’t like he’d never
acknowledged to himself that Coulson was built, but Clint had seen hotter guys
naked before. Seriously. Coulson wasn’t all that hot. It’s just that his
shoulders were too wide for the rest of his body. That’s all. It was weird.
Distracting.
Coulson seemed to notice Clint’s inability to stop staring at him. He fidgeted,
hugged his arms tight across his chest. It didn’t help the whole shoulder
distraction—thing. “So, we need to talk about Fury’s assignment,” he said. “We
can’t just ignore it and hope it goes away.”
Clint huffed. Samson tugged on his leash, spotting another errant butterfly.
“When I’m not working, I’m in practice. Same goes for you.”
Coulson tilted his head. “You’re at work now?”
“Yeah, I...I work at the animal shelter on tenth street two days a week. That’s
where this guy came from.” He pointed his sneaker at Samson.
“Oh.” Clint fully expected Coulson to make some stupid comment about Clint
having a lame sport and a lame job, but instead he crouched down in front of
Samson and rubbed both hands behind his ears.
“You’re a handsome dude,” Coulson said, his voice a combination of playful
affection and quiet gentleness. He grinned at Samson, who completely went to
pieces for him and butted his head against Coulson’s cheek.
“Wow, he’s a sweetheart.” Coulson turned that same smile to Clint, and it
was—Clint blinked, like he’d been sideswiped.
“Samson, stop flirting with Coulson, Jesus.” Clint pulled on the leash, but
Samson wouldn’t budge. He licked Coulson’s nose, which made him laugh.
“How come no one’s adopted him yet?”
“I dunno. Big dogs are a hassle.”
Coulson’s expression sobered somewhat, and his stupid blue eyes went all wide
and earnest. “Does your shelter have a no-kill policy?” he asked.
“Not officially, but our director, Laurie, never puts ‘em down. She always
finds a home for them eventually.”
“That’s good.” Coulson stood up and scratched absently over his stomach, right
over the thin, dark trail of hair that disappeared into the waistband of his
shorts. Clint swallowed and looked away.
“Practice gets out at six-thirty on Thursday,” Coulson said. “We could go to my
house after?”
Clint really didn’t like the idea of being alone with Coulson in his own house
for some reason. It made his heart beat a little faster. But Coulson was
right—they had to get started on this summer camp project soon or Fury would
have their asses. “I should be out of practice by then, too,” he said.
“Do you...want to ride with me?” Coulson didn’t meet his eyes, like he was
embarrassed to admit Clint didn’t have a car.
“You could just make me ride the bus,” Clint replied snidely, without really
meaning it.
He watched Coulson flinch, followed by a familiar glare. “I was just being
nice,” he said.
“I don’t need you to be nice, Coulson. Just ‘cause we’re on this project
together doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
“I never thought we were friends. I’m not a fucking idiot.” He shoved a hand
through his hair, jaw clenched. “Whatever, just be at my house by seven on
Thursday.” Coulson took off down the sidewalk after the rest of his team, his
back a long, tense line.
Clint refused to feel guilty about any of it.
Samson pushed his head under Clint’s arm and made his weird little purring
noise.
“Yeah, yeah,” Clint muttered. “You like everybody, whether they deserve it or
not.”
***** Chapter 3 *****
Phil tried not to dread Thursday, and he mostly succeeded. A huge game was
coming up on Friday against a really hard team; Phil tended to take on the
pressure like every match was do-or-die, making him tense and nervous during
the forty-eight hours leading up to game time. Needless to say, Barton was the
least of his worries when Thursday afternoon finally rolled around. He was so
unconcerned, he didn’t even notice practice had run late.
He was headed to the locker room to shower when he happened to glance at his
phone and saw it was nearly seven o’clock.
“Shit,” Phil hissed, and ran straight for his car.
He pulled up in his driveway at ten after, still wearing his cleats. Sitting on
the front steps with his bow in his lap was Barton. He was also smoking.
“Sorry,” Phil said as he grabbed his backpack and duffel full of gear.
Barton didn’t look up as he stubbed his cigarette out. “I was here at seven,
dude. Just so we’re clear.”
Phil gritted his teeth. Yeah, he wasn’t going to hear the end of this for a
while. “I lost track of time. Don’t you ever get caught up in stuff?”
“I’m not Mr. Perfect,” Barton drawled.
“Don’t call me that. I’m not perfect.”
“Obviously, since you’re late.” Barton stood up and slung his bow over his
shoulder with a smirk. “D’you have any food in your house? I’m starving.”
“I don’t know, is my food good enough for you?” Phil snipped as he unlocked the
front door. He made a point to shoulder his way in front of Barton before
dumping his soccer gear by the stairs and toeing his cleats off. He desperately
needed a shower, but he didn’t want to leave Barton alone to wander around
gathering incriminating evidence on Phil’s personal life.
But when Phil turned usher Barton up the stairs to his room, he found him
huddled in the doorway with his hands shoved in his pockets.
“Are you coming in or not?” Phil gestured to the stairs. “I can probably dig up
a frozen pizza or something if you’re gonna be a jerk about—”
“You’ve got a really nice house,” Barton said quietly. His eyes were wide, and
he was staring up at the antique chandelier that hung in the foyer. It had been
a birthday from Phil’s grandma to his mom years ago; Phil hated the thing
because he always got stuck dusting it.
“Thanks?” Phil replied. “I’ve basically lived here my whole life.” He’d never
really had anyone look all wonderstruck over his house before. Phil knew he
lived in a nice neighborhood, but he’d grown up here. He figured his house was
normal for the area.
Barton chewed his lower lip. “D’you have, like, maids and stuff?”
Phil burst out laughing. “Are you serious? My mom would die before she let
strangers in the house just to clean it.”
“She makes you do it?” Barton scowled at him, his cheeks faintly pink.
“Sometimes, when she’s traveling.” Phil wondered why Barton cared so much about
who cleaned his house, then he remembered: fosters. Did Barton’s foster parents
make him do a lot of chores? Did they have a huge house that he got forced into
cleaning?
Phil didn’t know how to even begin to ask those questions, so he awkwardly
waved his hand toward the kitchen. “I’ll go see if there’s any food in the
freezer. You can, uh, tag along, or just go up to my room. It’s the first one
on the right.”
Barton glanced up the stairs. “Yeah, okay,” he said, shifting his bow to his
other shoulder. He closed the door behind him, but didn’t move right away. Phil
was already in the kitchen before he heard footsteps heading toward his room.
“Damn it,” Phil murmured, and dropped his forehead against the fridge. He’d
totally forgotten to clean up, i.e. hide all his Captain America paraphernalia
and Magic: The Gathering cards that were scattered everywhere from the night
before when he’d had Steve over for a game. Barton already thought he was a
raging nerd; he didn’t need solid proof of it.
“Nothing to do about it now, buddy boy,” he mumbled to himself as he dug a box
of pizza rolls out of the fridge and stuck them in the toaster oven. Couldn’t
he do anything right tonight?
Once the food was ready, Phil grabbed two cans of Coke and ran upstairs, still
in his filthy socks and sweaty practice jersey. There were grass stains on his
elbows and knees, and he knew he smelled like a giant arm pit. Not actually the
ideal condition to be stuck in a room with Barton.
With a sigh, Phil pushed the door to his room open with his shoulder. He braced
himself for Barton’s inevitable sneering judgement.
He didn’t expect to find Barton sitting cross-legged on the floor by the bed,
his leather quiver sitting out in front of him as he carefully and methodically
checked each and every arrow. Barton’s fingers danced over the tips like they
were made of glass.
Phil cleared his throat. “I have pizza rolls.”
Barton looked up and blinked. “Really?” he asked. “I didn’t think—”
“I never eat these things, they’re gross,” Phil said as he shoved the plate in
front of him, along with the can of Coke. It was only a partial lie; Phil only
ate them when there was no other food in the house. He still didn’t want Barton
thinking he went to any trouble for him.
“At least you get junk food,” Barton mumbled under his breath before inhaling
two whole pizza rolls. He closed his eyes and groaned low as he chewed. “Fuck,
those are good. Haven’t eaten all day.”
Phil wanted to make a comment about how he didn’t need to see Barton’s orgasm
face over pizza rolls, only he couldn’t quite make himself say it out loud. He
found himself staring at the slick curve of Barton’s lower lip as he licked the
grease from his fingers, and suddenly the room felt very close and stuffy. “Are
you missing dinner?” he asked, just to have something to say as he pulled off
his dirty socks and dumped the contents of his backpack over his bed.
Barton snorted. “We don’t do dinner a lot at my—where I live.”
“Your foster mom doesn’t cook?”
“She works late,” was all Barton said. He snuck another pizza roll—his fifth,
Phil was fairly certain—and then started gently slipping each arrow back into
his quiver. It was a weird, slightly hypnotic process; Barton handled each one
with a surgeon’s care, and when he closed the flap he pressed his hand over the
leather like he’d just tucked a kid into bed for the night.
Phil must have been more exhausted than he thought. He scrubbed a hand over his
face and wrinkled his nose when he smelled dirt and grass. “I really need a
damn shower,” he mumbled.
“Yeah, you do kinda look like shit,” Barton said casually. It pissed Phil off
probably more than it should have, but he was tired and dirty and irritated
that he couldn’t seem to stop staring at Barton’s hands and his mouth while
Barton apparently thought Phil looked disgusting.
“Hey, guess what, I don’t care what you think, you’re not here to smell me,”
Phil said.
“I don’t care if you care. Shocker.” Barton set his quiver aside and flopped
back on the carpet. “How’s this gonna work, anyway? Can’t we just, I don’t
know, divvy the work up so we don’t actually have to hang out?”
Phil glowered at the pile of Fury’s notes spread out across his bed. “Sorry
it’s such a hardship to be in my house and eat my food,” he snipped, ignoring
the part where Barton’s t-shirt had ridden up slightly, showing off a strip of
smooth skin.
“Just sayin’, it’s not like this is a picnic for you, either. We could just
email each other ideas.”
“Ideas?” Phil barked out a laugh and flailed his hands at the mess of random
crap Fury had left them with. “The guy’s been trying to plan this summer camp
for like five years. He’s got very specific things he wants. Our ideas mean
jack at this point.”
Barton sat up and frowned. “You’re saying you don’t have anything you want to
add? At all?”
“What, like you do?”
“Well, yeah.” He climbed on his knees across the carpet and grabbed a battered
magazine article from one of the piles. “What if we gave out awards for overall
sportsmanship, or something? That way kids in the smaller sports could still
participate even if there’s only like three people on their team. And I’m not
saying we give out trophies or anything, but maybe a shirt with their name and
a jersey number on it? Way cooler than some stupid plastic thing that’ll just
sit and get dusty.”
“You’ve...really been thinking about this,” Phil said.
Barton’s shoulders hunched. “It’s what I’d want if I were going to a camp like
this,” he replied.
Against his better judgement, Phil said, “What else were you thinking about?”
Barton chewed his lip for a second. “Clinics,” he said. “One-on-ones. Kids like
that mentoring shit. And maybe we can get a bunch of the varsity players to
come and do like an exhibition game for them.”
Phil rummaged through the piles and produced a pen and a notebook. “Wait, go
back to the personalized jerseys…,” he said, scribbling frantically.
The next thing he knew, his hand was starting to cramp and he had two pages of
notes—and almost all of them were Barton’s ideas.
“Wow, I didn’t think we’d get this far.” Phil laughed sheepishly.
Barton shrugged, sprawled out on the floor with different camp brochures
scattered around him. “Rather do this than get benched.” His cell phone rang,
and Barton rolled over onto his back as he dug it out of his pocket. He glanced
at the screen and made a goofy little grin. “Hey, Katey-Kat, what’s up?” he
answered, his voice going all soft and affectionate.
Phil stared down at his notes.
“Naw, I’m at Coulson’s, we’re almost done, thank God. Can you come pick me up?”
There was a pause, and Barton huffed loudly. “Fine, okay—Coulson, Kate says
hi.” He rolled his eyes.
“Hi, Kate,” Phil mumbled, drawing random doodles in the margins of his
notebook.
“Yeah, he said hi, happy now? So you’ll come by? I’ll just wait outside for
you—314 Springwood—the big fancy one with the red door. Awesome, you’re the
best.” Barton hung up and jumped to his feet, slinging his backpack, bow and
quiver over his shoulder like he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
“When do you want to meet again?” Phil said just as Barton got to the doorway.
He sighed and tipped his head back. “I dunno, Coulson, whenever. But we’re done
for tonight.”
“Maybe we could go to your place next time.”
Barton burst out laughing. “Right! That’s so not happening in this century.” He
shook his head and disappeared down the hall, calling, “We’ll stick with your
fancy-ass house, how ‘bout that, Weasel?”
Phil didn’t answer. He couldn’t exactly flip Barton off when he was already
gone.
~
Somehow or another, they grudgingly worked out a schedule. Fury wanted bi-
weekly updates of their progress, and after the first two weeks they presented
him with what was basically Phil’s notes of Barton’s brainstorming. Fury looked
it over, grunted, and said, “See you in another two weeks, gentlemen.”
Phil didn’t know what the hell Fury wanted. He never gave any feedback or
comments. It was as if Phil and Barton were being left to their own devices and
pray to God Fury didn’t eventually lose his shit.
It hardly seemed worth it. Barton would show up at Phil’s house once a week,
usually on Thursday evenings, and for an hour they’d either argue over ideas or
sit in silence while jotting things down. Barton would thrust his notes at Phil
on his way out, leaving Phil to read over everything afterwards and be
reluctantly impressed.
The guy really had been thinking things through, and he knew exactly how to map
his thoughts out. If Phil was being really honest, he’d even admit Barton was a
good writer.
After the fourth week, when Barton had run out Phil’s front door after calling
Natasha to come pick him up, Phil’s mom had come up to his room and said, “I’m
pleased you two haven’t murdered each other yet. This group project thing seems
to be going well.”
Phil had shrugged, still reading over Barton’s detailed plan for a cross-team
“buddy” system to get kids learning about other sports while making new
friends. “I guess.”
“Are you finally starting to see Clint as friend material?” she’d asked.
Again, he’d shrugged without glancing up. He wasn’t going to tell her that
Barton still called him Weasel at school. Granted, the taunting had died down a
lot, but Phil didn’t trust that to last. The unspoken, tentative truce between
them was so fragile, pretty much anything could shatter it.
Phil tried not to think about it too much. It didn’t help his stress levels,
which were at an all-time high these days with a possible regional championship
coming up and mid-term exams looming.
The following Thursday brought a torrential downpour, complete with thunder and
lightning. Practice was canceled for all outdoor sports, and the weight room
was flooded with guys trying to get a workout in. Phil hated fighting for
equipment time, so he went looking for Barton to ask if they could start their
meeting early.
It was times like these that Phil wished they’d traded cell phone numbers. But
Phil was paranoid Barton would prank call him at random hours, and Barton
seemed to think giving Phil his number was almost insulting. Yet Phil had to
admit texting Barton would have been much easier than picking his way through
the locker room, looking like an idiot as he awkwardly asked around for
Barton’s whereabouts.
“What about Kate?” Phil asked one of the archers. “Is she around?”
“She had a dentist appointment this afternoon,” the girl replied.
Great. Phil’s other option was to track down Natasha; she was the only other
person in Barton’s circle of friends that Phil felt remotely comfortable
approaching. But he had no clue what she got up to after school. With a sigh,
Phil muttered, “Screw it,” under his breath and dashed out into the rain toward
his car. He’d just have to wait around until seven for Barton to show up like
usual.
Even with his wipers on high, Phil could barely see through the downpour. The
gutters were beginning to overflow, spilling out onto the streets. Phil slowed
to a stop at an intersection just as a truck sped by and sprayed a huge wave of
water across Phil’s car.
“Asshole!” Phil yelled at the retreating taillights. What if he’d been on the
sidewalk? Anyone walking outside would have been instantly soaked—if they
weren’t already drenched from the rain. Phil shook his head in disgust, and he
was just about to ease back into traffic when he saw a blurry figure of someone
walking along the street about a block ahead. As Phil drove closer, he could
make out the distinct outline of a bow and quiver case.
Jesus, Barton was out walking in this stuff? Phil pulled up beside him and
rolled the passenger side window down. “Barton! What the fuck are you doing?”
Barton visibly startled, then ducked his head down to peer inside Phil’s car.
He jerked his soaked hoodie off his head. “Walkin’ home, what’s it look like?”
he yelled over the roar of the storm.
“Your arrows are getting wet,” Phil pointed out dumbly, knowing full well
Barton was aware of this fact.
“No shit, Sherlock. Can’t be helped.” He pulled his hood back up and started
back down the sidewalk. A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, followed
by a loud crack of thunder.
Phil knew he should let Barton do whatever the hell he wanted, that it wasn’t
his business. But he simply wasn’t the type of person to let someone walk home
in a thunderstorm. He followed after Barton, ignoring the rain streaking into
his car. “Barton! You dumbass, get the car!”
Barton stopped walking. His shoulders drooped a little, like he was honestly
debating with himself whether or not to take Phil’s offer.
A second later, he was slamming the door closed. He threw his water-logged
backpack into Phil’s back seat, but kept his bow and quiver in his lap.
“Thanks,” Barton mumbled as he wiped a hand over his face. Water dripped off
the ends of his hair, trailed down his cheeks like tears.
“I thought you always got a ride after practice,” Phil said. He wasn’t sure why
he had such an accusatory tone in his voice.
“I do, but Nat’s sick and Kate’s at the dentist and everyone else has a life.
Happy?” Barton looked out the window. He gave a slight shiver. Phil turned on
the heat.
“Since we both got out early, I was—looking to see if you wanted to meet
early,” he said.
Barton sniffed. He shifted his feet and Phil could hear the wet squelch of his
socks. “Fine.” Then, softer, “I...should get some dry clothes. Can’t be molding
all over your nice house.”
Immediately, Phil remembered his comment from a few years back, when Barton had
come into class soaked to the bone. His chest gave a tight squeeze; looking
back on it, he also remembered how miserable Barton had looked, and how he’d
curled into himself when everyone had laughed. At the time Phil had felt
hateful satisfaction, but now…
“I can stop by your house, if you want,” Phil said hesitantly, knowing how
Barton tended to avoid the subject.
Barton’s face screwed up into a weird combination of a wince and a sneer. He
rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. “Yeah, okay. But you’re not coming
inside.”
“Gee, I’m heartbroken,” Phil snarked almost automatically as he pulled away
from the curb. A part of him was terribly curious about where Barton lived and
why he never wanted to talk about it.
Barton rattled off the address, and Phil silently acknowledged that it wasn’t
in the best part of town. Not the worst, but definitely not an area Phil went
through very much. “I think I took karate lessons at studio near that block as
a kid,” he said.
“I think that place is a dive bar now,” Barton said. “And you had karate
lessons? Guess they didn’t really take, huh.”
Phil bristled at the reference to their fight—another topic they never
discussed—but when he glanced over, Barton gave him a smirk that somehow didn’t
seem all that malicious. “It was only for a year. I was like six,” Phil
replied.
“Six or not, I’d ask for a refund.”
“It’s not like you’re a pro MMA fighter or anything.”
“I can throw a decent punch.”
“Uh, karate isn’t just about throwing punches? And your punches are shitty.”
“Who had the black eye?”
“We both did.”
Barton shrugged. “Yours was worse, Weasel,” he said airily.
Phil passed a knuckle under his eye where the bruise was all but faded
completely. “Congratulations, you got lucky.”
“I didn’t get anything, I—fuck, stop the car.” Barton’s hand shot out and
grabbed Phil’s arm, hard enough to make Phil hiss in pain.
“What the hell, Barton—”
“Fuck, oh, fuck, oh, shit, just stop, now!” He scrambled out of his seatbelt
before Phil could pull over.
Phil couldn’t see anything through the rain. “Barton, what’s wrong?”
“Lucky,” he breathed, tumbling out of the car and into the downpour. Phil
watched, wide-eyed, as Barton ran into the street; they were in a residential
neighborhood, so there wasn’t any traffic to speak of, and Barton suddenly
dropped to his knees beside a lump Phil couldn’t quite make out.
“Shit,” Phil growled, and put the car in park. He grabbed the slightly broken
umbrella he kept in the glove compartment and got out, swearing loudly again as
cold rain hit him in the face. He jogged over to Barton, telling himself he was
only going to tell the moron to get his ass back to the car before he drowned.
He didn’t expect to find Barton hunched over the body of yellow Lab, quietly
freaking out.
“No, no, no, c’mon, boy, c’mon, you’re okay, c’mon, you’re fine, you’re—”
Barton’s voice caught, his hands petting over the dog’s head. It wasn’t moving
at all.
Phil crouched down beside him. Barton’s shoulders were starting to shake, and
the rain had plastered his hair against his forehead. “Is this your dog?” Phil
asked.
“It’s—his name’s Lucky,” Barton whispered, barely audible over the rain. He
sounded like he might be crying, but Phil couldn’t be sure; Barton’s face was
already soaking wet. “He’s—he’s mine, yeah, he’s mine, fuck.” His fingers
curled into Lucky’s wet fur, and he shook the dog, yelling, “Damn it, c’mon!
You know better than to run into traffic!”
Very slowly, so subtle Phil almost missed it, Lucky’s tail thumped once against
the pavement.
Barton made a choked sound. “Fuck, oh god, he’s still—” He covered his mouth,
his head bowed like he was forcing himself not to break down. Phil looked away,
not sure at all what he was supposed to do.
He heard Barton ask in a terribly small voice, “Help me.”
Phil’s head snapped up. “You want me to—how?”
“There’s a—an emergency clinic like ten minutes away. We have to take him
there.”
Emergency veterinary clinics cost money. Phil knew Barton didn’t have much.
“Barton…”
“Just do it, okay? I can’t—he’s—” The words cracked around something awful, and
Phil found that he didn’t want to know Barton could sound that, all wrecked and
desperate and lost. It made an ache open up in Phil’s chest, one he
didn’t—couldn’t—define.
This dog meant everything to Barton. Phil wouldn’t be the one to take that away
from him.
He stood up and closed the shitty umbrella, shoving it in the waistband of his
practice shorts. “Help me get him in the car,” Phil said.
Barton looked up him with wide blue eyes, rain clinging to his eyelashes. He
sniffed, swiped the wet sleeve of his hoodie over his nose, and gave a jerky
nod. His hands shook as he got to his feet, and between the two of them they
managed to lift Lucky as gingerly as possible. Phil could hear the dog make a
low whimpering sound, which in turn made Barton sniff again.
They laid him across the back seat; Lucky was a fairly big dog, and he barely
fit the width of Phil’s Corolla. Barton kept his hand on Lucky’s flank the
entire way to the clinic, whispering, “You’re gonna be okay, dude,” over and
over.
The receptionist took one look at two sopping wet boys carrying a very injured,
equally sopping wet Lab through the front doors of the clinic and immediately
called for the doctor. Within minutes, Lucky was whisked into the emergency
room, leaving a very unhappy Barton behind.
“Look, can’t I stay with him?” he begged. Water dripped off every inch of him,
trailing puddles everywhere as he paced the lobby.
The vet tech smiled reassuringly at him. “Lucky is in good hands, Clint. But
he’ll need to stay overnight, if not two nights at the least.”
Barton huffed out a loud breath. “Okay. All right. So can I stay here?”
She patted his arm. “He’ll be fine. Go home and dry off. You’ll both catch your
death running around like drowned rats.”
Phil reached out and plucked at Barton’s hoodie. “Come on,” he said. Barton was
starting to shiver again.
They went out to Phil’s car and sat in silence for several minutes while the
rain pounded against the hood. Phil was beginning to feel miserably
uncomfortable in his wet clothes, but he could only imagine how Barton felt.
Eventually Barton bowed his head and whispered, “I don’t know how I’m gonna pay
for this. Terrance is gonna fucking kill me.” He sounded as if he were speaking
to himself, not Phil.
“Is that your foster dad?” Phil asked. “Did he give you Lucky?”
The laugh Barton made was more like a sob. “Yes and most definitely fucking
no,” he said, cupping both hands over his face. “No one...no one knows about
Lucky,” he added, words slightly muffled.
Phil sat back in his seat. “He wouldn’t just let you keep him?”
“Let’s just say Terrance isn’t a big fan of giving me stuff I want.”
“Oh.” Well, fuck.
“Yeah.” Barton sighed heavily. “But I couldn’t just—leave him there, you know?”
Phil swallowed, unable to look away from Barton’s painfully open expression. He
found himself wanting to say something, anything to make Barton not look so
defeated. It was a sudden, scary thought; this guy didn’t give a shit about
Phil, and yet Phil wanted to comfort him? All because of a dog?
“Maybe they’ll let you set up a payment plan,” Phil said.
“Sure. With the money I make, I’ll have it paid off when I’m fifty.” Barton
groaned and punched his fist against the door. “It’s not like asking Laurie for
a raise would help, not when—” He stopped, hand pressed against the window,
eyes going wide.
Phil frowned. “What?” It was hard not to stare at the way the rain had caused
Barton’s eyelashes to clump together, making them look all delicate like a
girl’s.
“I—” Barton started digging into his backpack, until finally he produced his
cell phone. He dialed a number Phil couldn’t see, mumbling, “C’mon, be there,
please.” A few seconds later, Barton flushed a bright red as he said, “Laurie?
Hi, it’s Clint. I, um...I have a situation I was wondering if I could, uh, talk
to you about?” He slumped down in his seat. “Yeah, it’s about Lucky…”
Phil sat by and awkwardly listened to Barton work out a system with his boss to
help pay for Lucky’s treatment. He would be working weekends for the next
several months.
When Barton hung up, Phil said, quietly, “Aren’t a lot of your meets on
Saturdays?”
Barton didn’t say anything as he put his phone back in his bag.
“You’d give that up for a dog?”
He tugged at the flap of his quiver case. “Take me back home, Coulson. I gotta
get changed.”
~
The rain had stopped by the time Phil pulled up in front of a worn two-story
house with a dilapidated picket fence around the front yard. The mailbox was
covered in duct tape.
“I’ll only be like five minutes,” Barton was saying as he grabbed his stuff.
Phil shook his head. “Just...we can hold off this week. Don’t worry about it.”
Barton went very still, watching Phil like he was waiting for the other shoe to
drop. “You’re sure?” he asked slowly. “We gotta have something to show Fury
tomorrow.”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Don’t...tell anyone. About this. About Lucky.” Barton’s voice dropped into a
whisper again. Then he met Phil’s eyes and said, even softer, “Please?”
Phil’s heart gave a weird flutter. He felt breathless for a moment. “I won’t
tell anyone,” he whispered back, and suddenly the air in the car felt very
heavy.
Barton licked his lower lip. He started to say something more, but abruptly
closed his mouth. He gathered up his things and got out of the car, slamming
the door closed without looking back.
Phil stayed until he saw Barton disappeared into the house. His car still
smelled of wet dog.
~
Lucky was gonna be okay. Clint had to remind himself of this again and again,
just to make it real. He’d spent twenty-four sleepless hours waiting for the
clinic to call him and say Lucky was gone, sorry kid, where would you like the
body? But when the call had come saying Lucky had pulled through and would be
ready to come home that afternoon, Clint had skipped his chemistry class to go
hide in a storage closet and cry. He’d refused to cry at all since he’d made an
embarrassing ass of himself in front of Coulson, and he’d be damned if he let
it happen again.
God, Coulson. Clint didn’t begin to know what to do about that situation. It
was bad enough he’d gone to pieces, but now Coulson knew about Lucky, and knew
where Clint lived. He had leverage on Clint, could use it to his advantage to
get Clint in serious trouble. All Clint could do was wait for the shit to hit
the fan and watch Coulson gloat about it.
And yet, nothing happened. After Clint had been reassured that Lucky would be
fine—although he needed to take it easy for a week or so, which meant Clint was
going to have to get creative on finding a place for Lucky to stay—and he’d
composed himself enough to go back to class, Coulson found him in the halls.
“How’s...your friend?” Coulson asked, low and quiet, leaning in close so only
Clint could hear. Clint blinked at him, startled that Coulson was trying to
keep their secret a, well, secret.
“He’s—good.” Clint felt a little off balance, having just finished a crying jag
next to a shelf of cleaning supplies. “He’s, uh, coming home tonight.”
“Seriously? That’s awesome.” Coulson smiled, and it looked genuine, real. Like
he actually cared about Clint and his lug of a dog. Clint didn’t like it; it
made him feel all fidgety and his skin itch.
Worst of all, it...kind of made Clint want to kiss him.
Fuck, he really needed to get some fucking sleep.
“Yeah, so, anyway. Thanks.” Clint hugged his arms around his chest, tearing his
gaze away from Coulson’s stupidly pretty eyes.
“You’re welcome.” Coulson suddenly looked uncomfortable, probably because they
were talking like they were friends or something and it was weird. Coulson’s t-
shirt had a hole in the bottom hem and he kept playing with it, twisting the
material around his fingers. “Where’s L—your friend staying while he, um,
recuperates?”
“I don’t know. I’ll probably get my boss to put him up for a while.” He’d
already asked Laurie for too much, but it was the only thing Clint could think
of. The shelter had a few empty kennels, and technically Lucky was stray…
The thought made Clint’s stomach ache. What if someone came in and wanted to
adopt him? It wasn’t like Clint could say no. He didn’t have any legal claim to
Lucky.
He hadn’t noticed that Coulson had stepped closer to him, that he was touching
the back of Clint’s elbow. “What is it?” he asked in this soft, soothing tone
Clint had never heard before.
Clint jerked back, heart pounding. Since when could Coulson read him like that?
And when did he decide he could fucking touch Clint? “Nothing. It’s none of
your fucking business,” Clint growled.
Coulson’s cheeks went faintly pink and his mouth twisted to one side. For a
moment he looked hurt, and that horrible, stupid need to kiss him came rushing
back to Clint. It made him want to get as far away from Coulson as possible.
Clint turned and sprinted down the hall toward class, biting his lip against
the urge to apologize.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Lucky made the transition from the clinic to the shelter without a problem. He
even woofed at Clint when he was all tucked into his kennel with a clean, soft
blanket and a fresh pan of water. Clint could empathize; sometimes getting new
digs was nice.
Unfortunately, Laurie wouldn’t let him spend the night in a sleeping bag by
Lucky. “You can stay until ten,” she told him Saturday evening. “But after that
you need to head home. I don’t want your parents worrying about you, thinking
I’m some slave driver.”
Clint didn’t correct her. It was better to let her think he had people worrying
about him. He smiled when she patted his arm and told her he’d lock up when he
left.
Lucky slept soundly, his breathing quiet and even. The vet had told Clint he’d
broken a couple ribs, but that Lucky’s main problem had been the shock of
hitting his head against the oncoming car. Clint hadn’t wanted a detailed
explanation of Lucky’s injuries. His dog was alive. That was all that mattered.
It was worth giving up Saturday meets and getting an extremely disapproving
look from his coach when Clint had informed him he’d taken on more work hours.
“What gives, Barton?” he’d asked. “You’re captain. You live and breath this
sport.”
“Need the cash,” Clint had replied, thankful it wasn’t a lie.
Curled up next to Lucky’s kennel with one hand pressed against his soft muzzle,
Clint knew he’d made the best choice, the only choice. He was willing to live
with the sacrifices.
Sacrifices also meant consequences, which greeted Clint the moment he snuck in
the back door at ten-thirty. The kitchen light was on.
Margo sat at the dining table, and standing behind her with his arms crossed,
looking ready to fight, was Terrance.
Every organ in Clint’s body turned to ice.
“Where the hell have you been?” Terrance demanded. His sounded completely
sober.
“I…was out. At work.” Clint tried desperately to keep his face neutral.
Terrance smirked. “Work? At ten-thirty in the goddamn night? Try again,
hotshot.”
Clint didn’t understand what was going on, but whatever it was, he was fucked.
His fosters had never once commented on him keeping late hours; something was
wrong. “I don’t—”
Margo sighed. “Clint, the emergency veterinary clinic called. They were
checking up on Lucky to make sure he’d made it home alright.” She shook her
head. “Who’s Lucky? Why were you at a vet clinic?”
The ice in Clint’s veins quickly melted as panic set in. He’d been forced to
provide a secondary number to his cell when he’d filled out the admitting
paperwork; writing down the house number was a last minute decision. He’d never
thought for a second they’d actually call. “I can explain—”
“You sure as hell will!” Terrance said, slamming his hand against the table.
“Do you have any fucking idea how much those places cost? They said you’d left
a dog there overnight! Just how the fuck were you plannin’ on paying for all
this?”
Clint swallowed. “I’m gonna pay for it myself, I swear—”
“Yourself? Really? With what, your stupid little after school job? And don’t
even get me started on how neither one of us said you could have a damn dog in
the first place.”
Margo touched Terrance’s arm. “Terry, calm down—”
“No, I’m sick of this shit. After all we give to this little punk, he still has
to run around adopting random fucking animals and racking up giant vet bills.”
He stormed across the room and got right up in Clint’s face, the bulk of him
looming like an angry, dark cloud. “D’you know how much your dog’s bill is,
Clint?”
“N-no, sir, I—”
“No, ‘cause you didn’t even care. Over a thousand dollars—thirteen hundred
dollars and sixty-three cents, to be fucking exact. D’you wanna know how much
of that we’ve got at the moment?” Terrance shoved Clint’s shoulders, hard,
making him stumble back against the kitchen counter. “Zero fucking dollars,
that’s how much!”
“Terry!” Margo stood up from the table, but Clint knew it was a lost cause.
Drunk or not, Terrance never listened to her.
“You’re gonna send us into debt because of some mutt. I should send you to the
fucking shelter to live, since you’re basically the same goddamn thing—a
worthless, mangy mutt.”
Clint sensed the punch was coming before it happened. And because archery had
perfected his reflexes, he caught Terrance’s fist right before it hit his face.
Terrance snorted and threw his left fist instead. This time, it connected.
Margo screamed.
He realized in that moment that the fight with Coulson had been nothing. Clint
had never truly been punched until now. He was aware of pain screaming through
his jaw, of his right eye watering. He couldn’t breathe.. His back hit the edge
of the counter again with the force of Terrance’s hit, and Clint stood there,
stunned, one hand pressed against his cheek and the other trying to keep
himself upright. Margo was suddenly at his side, murmuring things at him.
“Sweetie, go outside and work on that bike of yours,” she said, steering him
toward the freezer and quickly wrapping a handful of ice in a dish towel. “Put
that on your eye to stop the swelling. Go on.”
Clint staggered out the door, but never made it to the shed where the Harley
was stored. His legs gave out and he collapsed on the back steps. He put his
head on his knees, closed his eyes and threw the ice away.
He could hear Margo yelling at Terrance, calling him all sorts of names. Bully
was one of them.
“He’s just a kid, Terry. You don’t hit kids!” she cried.
“He’s almost seventeen,” Terrance said. He sounded out of breath. Clint
wondered if his knuckles hurt at all.
“You’re going to go out there and apologizing to him. You know he didn’t
deserve that. If he says he’s going to pay for those vet bills, let him. It’s
not like he put us down as co-signers on a loan.”
Terrance didn’t say anything.
Clint, like a fucking idiot, waited.
Terrance never came outside. Eventually Clint heard the screen door open and
Margo say, “There’s macaroni in the microwave if you’re hungry.” She added,
almost in a whisper, “He’s sorry, Clint. He really is.”
He wanted to believe her.
Clint sat curled up on the back porch well into the night. More than ever, he
missed his dog.
~
Monday morning came like any other, except most Mondays didn’t start with
Phil’s mom heading out the door at dawn to catch a flight to Boston. She would
be gone until Friday evening, leaving Phil home alone for five days. The
Murphys next door and The Hendricks across the street had a standing agreement
with his mom to check in on Phil periodically, but for the most part Phil was
pretty self-sufficient.
“You’ve got plenty of food, right?” she’d asked on Sunday as she took inventory
of the pantry. “I don’t want to come back and find six empty boxes of Pop Tarts
in the trash.”
Phil had rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I’m the one that can cook, remember?”
He wasn’t going to remind her that she’d be missing his big game on Wednesday;
she didn’t need the guilt trip.
Still, he felt a bit bereft as he sat through homeroom. Phil never liked to
call it loneliness, because he had no reason to feel lonely. He had tons of
friends who’d hang out with him if he asked, and the Murphys fed him dinner
some nights and always let Phil watch movies on their projection screen. Phil
didn’t have to be alone if he didn’t want to be.
It’s just that sometimes he hated knowing he was coming home to an empty house.
The bell rang for the end of first period, and Phil considered asking Steve if
he could spend the night at his place. Steve’s grandma made the greatest
chocolate chip cookies ever, and also didn’t care if Steve and his friends
stayed up until all hours playing video games. Phil had a lot of great memories
of sleepovers at Steve’s house that consisted of marathon sessions of Halo and
Grand Theft Auto—and also Mario Kart, since Steve had a fondness for his Wii.
Phil was about to text Steve about future plans when he happened to glance down
the hall and see Barton leaning against his locker, one arm slung over the
door. His head was bowed, and he looked utterly exhausted.
There was also an angry purple bruise across his cheek, darker and uglier than
anything he’d gotten from their fight.
Phil came to a full stop, teeth clenched. He’d never admit in a billion years
that he’d spent all weekend thinking about what had happened last Thursday, or
the weird moment between them on Friday when Phil had forgotten himself and
acted like Barton wanted his sympathy. He didn’t want anything from Phil.
But Phil knew one of his secrets now, even if it was mostly by happenstance.
Whether Phil liked it or not, Barton—Clint—was human. And because of this, it
made ignoring him that much harder.
It was probably suicide to try to talk him after...everything. Phil hated the
stupid tug of hurt he felt each time he remembered Clint hissing at him that it
was all none of his business, which it wasn’t. Phil didn’t need to get
involved. He didn’t—heshouldn’t give a shit.
He’d make it quick, just ask how Lucky was doing. Something innocent and
unassuming. Clint seemed okay with talking about his dog’s health; it was only
when Phil touched him that he—
Whatever. Phil knew better. It wouldn’t happen again.
He still held his breath as he approached Clint’s locker. “Hey,” he said, low
and careful.
Clint looked up from under his lashes without raising his head. Phil’s heart
pumped faster. “What do you want, Weasel?” he asked. Just as Phil suspected, he
sounded tired as hell, all his sharp edges worn down.
Phil curled both hands around the strap of his backpack. “How’s your—friend
doing?”
“Fine.” Clint rubbed his face against his arm.
“Did you get him to the shelter okay?”
“Yeah.” Up close, Clint’s bruise was much worse. Someone had hit him pretty
hard. Phil’s stomach lurched as he thought about who it could’ve been, and why.
Apparently Phil had been staring at Clint’s fresh black eye for too long. Clint
glared at him and asked, sharper this time, “Seriously, what the fuck do you
want?”
“What happened?” Phil whispered abruptly.
He didn’t expect Clint’s face to crumple before completely shutting down
altogether. He slammed his locker shut and said, “I ran into a door.” Clint
flicked his index finger against Phil’s chest, just hard enough to sting. “Now
beat it, Weasel. Fuck off.”
Phil swallowed and didn’t move. “If—if he hit you, if your—you should tell
someone,” he said.
Something flickered in Clint’s eyes, but Phil couldn’t begin to decipher it.
“Don’t pretend you give a shit. We’re not friends. You don’t know anything.”
“I know enough,” Phil said. He gripped his bag more tightly.
“Yeah? What are you gonna do, huh? Pretend you’re Captain America, give me some
touchy-feely bullshit about how things’ll get better?”
“I…I’m just saying—”
Clint leaned in close until they were almost nose to nose. Phil held his
breath. “You have no idea what it’s like to be me, and you never will.”
He was right, of course; they didn’t have anything in common at all. Phil
didn’t even know why he was bothering to get Clint to talk to him.
And yet, he still heard himself say, “It won’t get better if you don’t let
someone help.”
Clint smirked. “Leave me alone,” he said in a quiet little mean voice. Phil
waited for a shove, a punch to the shoulder, something.
For one split second, Clint’s gaze dropped to Phil’s mouth.
Phil didn’t move, didn’t say a word. His heart had suddenly jumped into his
throat.
Clint squeezed his eyes shut and whispered, “Fuck.” He turned and walked off
down the hall, shoulders hunched, like it was Phil who’d somehow hit him.
~
Two days went by, and Phil tried his best not think about anything pertaining
to Clint Barton. He had a game Wednesday afternoon that would determine the
course of the rest of the season; Phil couldn’t afford to let stupid things
like a jerk with a black eye distract him.
Much to his chagrin, Phil noticed when Clint wasn’t at school on Wednesday. But
he wasn’t going to say a damn thing about it, except he happened to see Natasha
in the library after lunch.
He sat down across from where she was primly reading a giant book on World War
I and said, “Uh, hi, Natasha?”
She blinked slowly, then raised her head, brushing her hair out of her eyes.
“Hello,” she said with polite smile. “What can I do for you, Phil?” Her accent
skittered along each word, graceful and light.
Phil bit his lip. Natasha always seemed far more mature than everyone else in
their grade; Phil tended to feel slightly awkward and young around her. “I was
wondering—have you seen Clint today?”
Natasha tilted her head to the side. “Why? Is he in trouble?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”
“Did you two have another fight?”
“What?” Phil spluttered. “No, no. We’re—no, nothing like that. It’s just…” It
suddenly dawned on him that Natasha probably didn’t know anything about Lucky,
considering how insistent Clint had been on Phil keeping him a secret. But she
was one of Clint’s best friends, and possibly more than that...right? Surely
Clint would have told her something.
Phil sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, have you ever been to
Clint’s house?”
Natasha went very still, carefully lowering her eyes back to her book. “Yes. I
drive him to school most days.”
“Did you pick him up this morning?”
“No. He texted me and said he wanted to walk,” she said. Then, she added
softly, “I know about Terrance, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
The strangest combination of relieved jealousy flared up inside him. He wanted
to know how much she knew, if Clint had told her freely or she’d learned it all
by accident—like him. “Do you know about Lucky?” he asked.
She frowned at him. “Lucky?”
So she didn’t know everything. Phil knew logically that it wasn’t his place to
share Clint’s secrets, but he’d obviously confided in Natasha. She deserved to
know.
Phil told her about the week before, about finding Lucky in the rain, the vet
clinic, and Clint giving up his Saturday meets. He told her his suspicions
about Clint’s black eye.
Natasha’s mouth had formed a tight line by the time Phil was done talking.
“He’d told me his bow had malfunctioned during practice. I wonder what excuse
he gave Kate,” she said.
“Someone needed to know,” Phil said, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders.
“You guys are his friends, I figured—”
“You could be friends with him, too, you know. With Clint, it’s very…” She
trailed off, a sad look in her eyes. “He’s...careful. Sometimes kindness scares
him.”
Phil winced. “I’m hardly kind to him.”
“You’re a naturally kind person. Why would you be here telling me these
things?”
“I’m not, I’m—”
“You helped save his dog.”
“That’s—anyone would have done that.” Phil ducked his head, hating the hot
blush he felt in his cheeks.
Natasha smiled. “Not everyone, believe me.” She leaned across the table and put
a hand on Phil’s arm. “I’ll talk to him. I didn’t know about Lucky, but it
doesn’t surprise me—Clint does so love animals.”
Phil started to thank her, but it felt weird to say out loud. “Don’t tell him I
told you,” he replied instead.
“You mean, don’t mention that you actually care about him,” Natasha said.
Phil huffed and got up from his chair. “I mean, he’ll kick my ass when he finds
out I told his secret.”
She waved her hand. “You’ll learn that Clint is entirely all bark and no bite.”
“Um, he punched me in the face once. Pretty sure that constitutes biting.”
“I’ve punched him in the face before, and yet I adore him with all my heart. As
my mother likes to say, love is all relative.”
No one’s talking about love here, Phil thought as his stomach swooped. He slung
his backpack over his shoulder and gave a dorky little wave. “Anyway, so—see
you around, Natasha.”
“Call me Nat,” she said in her lovely accent, apparently oblivious to Phil
nearly crashing into a cart full of books on his way out of the library.
~
Clint woke up at six in the morning on Wednesday and remembered Terrance was
away on a job and Margo was off at an all-day training session two hours out of
town. The house would be empty until late that evening.
So he’d texted Nat—Gonna walk today, thx—and went back to sleep. And he slept
well into the afternoon. It was the first really sleep he’d had in days.
When he came to at around four-thirty, Clint rolled over and grabbed his phone.
There were five text messages, three of them from Nat.
Call me, they all read. There was also one from Kate, which basically said the
exact same thing.
He felt bad for making them worry, but at least he felt better and not like a
barely functioning zombie. For the past few nights, every time he started to
drift off he got paranoid Terrance would storm into his room and start yelling
about the vet bill again. It hadn’t been brought up since the weekend, but that
didn’t mean the issue wasn’t still festering beneath the surface like an
infection. Clint knew how Terrance held grudges.
Clint’s stomach chose that moment to growl with a vengeance. He stretched and
yawned as he dialed Nat’s number.
“Hey, gorgeous, wanna get some dinner?” Clint asked the second she answered. He
really didn’t have the cash to go out, but fuck it, he deserved some diner food
after the week he’d had.
“Where were you? You told me you were walking to school.” Nat sounded genuinely
upset, and Clint was instantly contrite.
“Sorry, sorry, I was...I slept through my alarm.”
“All day?” He could see her unamused eyebrow quirk in his head.
“Yeah, all day, it’s—been a rough week. The fosters are away, so I figured I’d
take advantage of an empty house, sue me.”
There was a long pause, and finally Nat said, “Speaking of which, we need to
talk.” She said the words very carefully, which wasn’t like her at all. Nat
never pulled punches with him, ever.
Clint sat down on the edge of his bed. “What is it? Did something happen? Are
you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. But...I’m not sure about you.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Nat sighed. “Can I come over? I’ll bring a pizza.”
She was the only person Clint had let into the house, mostly because if Kate
saw how sparse Clint’s room was she’d immediately start trying to buy him shit
from Ikea or something. He also didn’t need Kate getting into a screaming match
with Terrance. Nat never let on about her feelings towards Clint’s fosters, or
the house, but he could always tell that both made her unhappy for him.
The fact that she was voluntarily offering to come over meant something was up.
An hour later Nat arrived with a six pack of Coke and a large cheese pizza. It
made Clint ache for Lucky, who had a weird love for the stuff; Clint had never
seen a dog inhale pepperoni the way his did. “My very own pizza dog,” he’d
murmured to Lucky, who’d happily licked the sauce off his fingers in reply.
He couldn’t tell Nat about any of that, though. Lucky was Clint’s secret, for
him alone.
Well, him and Phil. But that was a whole other problem Clint didn’t want to
think about.
They sat out on the back porch steps with the pizza box open between them,
listening to the early evening crickets chirp. It was one of the things Clint
loved most about Nat; she was willing to sit and say nothing at all if he felt
like it.
Eventually, after Clint had finished off his second piece, he asked, “So what
was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
Nat took a long drink of her Coke, flicking the tab of the can with her thumb.
She didn’t look him in the eyes. “Your bruise isn’t from your bow, is it?” she
finally said.
Clint’s chest seized up. He managed to keep his hands unclenched. “Why would
you ask that? I get fucked up from my bow all the time.”
“Not like this you don’t.” She reached over and skimmed her fingers over the
tender patch under his right eye. It didn’t really hurt all that much anymore,
but Clint still flinched and ducked away.
“It’s no big deal, Nat, seriously.”
“It is a big deal if your foster dad is hitting you,” she hissed fiercely. “He
had no right to lay a hand on you, especially over a dog—”
Clint went very still. “What—h-how’d you know about that?”
Nat huffed out a breath. “It’s not important how I know—”
“Did Coulson tell you?”
“Clint—”
“Did he?”
“It doesn’t matter! I wish you’d told me about Lucky yourself; then maybe I
would have understood why you disappeared for a day after getting such a
massive black eye.”
Clint was torn between wanting to put his arm around Nat and putting his fist
through a wall. Of course Phil told her everything, because that was the kind
of guy he was. Secrets meant shit to him, especially if they belonged to Clint.
“Coulson had no fucking business getting you involved with this,” he said
through gritted teeth.
“I’m your best friend, so yes, I should be involved. And Phil came to me
because he’s worried about you.”
Clint snorted. “You of all people should know Phil Coulson doesn’t give two
shits about me. Even after he promised me, he—” Clint bit the inside of his
lip. Why couldn’t Phil do this one thing for him? Why’d he have to screw
everything up just to fuck with him?
Nat patted the back of Clint’s hair. “You didn’t see his face,” she said
quietly. “If he didn’t give two shits about you, he would have left you alone
with Lucky in the rain instead of coming to me to see if you were all right.”
“Stop making this sound like we’re—” Clint bit off the word friends as he
scrambled to his feet. “He lied to me.”
“He didn’t tell the whole school about Lucky. Just me.”
“He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, and now you’ll have to tell Kate, right?”
Nat folded her arms over her chest. “You’re forgetting the part where Terrance
punched you. Lucky is not the issue here.”
“There’s nothing you can do about it, Nat! You know this! I have less than a
year and half left in foster care; if I rat Terrance out they’ll either ignore
it or put me with another douchebag in another town. This is the only time he’s
hit me, it’s not—”
“You knew this was coming,” Nat said. She stood up and poked Clint’s bicep.
“You knew eventually he’d get angry enough to do something like this.”
Clint shook his head. “I just have to be more careful, ‘s all. And I don’t need
Phil fucking Coulson running around telling the world about it.”
“Stop blaming him for this, you know it’s not his fault.”
“It kind of is,” Clint growled, because without Phil, Nat wouldn’t be wasting
her time being worried about him. Clint didn’t need another dose of guilt
keeping him up at night.
Fuck Coulson. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.
“I gotta go.” Clint grabbed his hoodie off the ground by the forgotten pizza
box and shrugged it on with sharp, angry movements.
Nat pursed her lips. “Where?”
“To have a different talk.”
Her eyes flared. “Clint, you are not going to Phil’s house, you’re not.”
He ignored her and kissed the top of her head, saying, “Thanks for the pizza,
babe.” taking off through the back gate. If he ran, he could make it to Phil’s
house in twenty minutes.
The adrenaline would make it easier for Clint to kick his weasely little ass.
~
Phil got home from his game a little after seven, worn out but filled with an
exhausted vindication. They’d won by the skin of their teeth against an
extremely aggressive, roughhouse team. Phil had abrasions on both knees from
the sheer amount of blocks he’d had, not to mention the moment during the
second half when a particularly hard pass had sent the ball straight at his
head. The guy had claimed it wasn’t on purpose, but Phil’s bruised nose begged
to differ.
He dumped his gear in the foyer with a loud sigh, and then it dawned on him for
like the millionth time that no one else was home. Phil leaned against
staircase banister, his stomach growling pitifully, a reminder that he hadn’t
eaten a thing since lunch. Bucky had invited him out for celebratory burgers,
but Phil could feel himself having the sort of adrenaline crash where all he
wanted was to be alone and decompress. For all the satisfaction he felt from
the win, he could still feel remnants of the stress headache he’d had all day
lingering like a shadow behind his eyes.
He really, really wished his mom was home.
“Just get in the shower and you’ll be fine,” Phil muttered to himself, dragging
his sweaty jersey over his head and tossing it somewhere in the vicinity of the
laundry room on his way to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and rested his
forehead against the door, shivering as the cool air rushed over his bare skin.
There wasn’t much in the way of food except some leftover ravioli and a half
empty gallon of orange juice. Phil remembered there was also a pint of
chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in the freezer.
With one shoulder propped against the fridge, he dug into the pint with a giant
spoon, frost collecting around his fingers. He thought about calling his mom
about his game, but she was on a flight to Toronto and probably hadn’t landed
yet.
“Shower and email,” Phil said to himself around a mouthful of ice cream. If he
sent his mom an update before crashing into bed, he was pretty likely to have
some goofy ecard waiting for him in the morning. Phil secretly kept a file of
all the ecards she’d sent him over the years whenever she was traveling for
work.
His spoon was beginning to scrape the bottom of the pint when Phil heard loud
banging on the front door. No doorbell ring—just heavy, fast pounding. No one
Phil knew knocked like that; Steve and Bucky usually just walked right in, and
Pepper always texted him when she was outside.
Phil’s heart began to race. Something wasn’t right. He set the ice cream on the
counter and took two seconds to consider putting a shirt on. If someone was
trying to kill him, at least he shouldn’t be half-naked?
“Fuck it, it’s my house,” he whispered as he squared his shoulders and went to
the door. He’d watched too many slasher movies with Steve—now wasn’t the time
to be a pussy.
He glanced into the peephole and saw what looked like one very pissed off Clint
Barton pacing around the front steps. Phil’s palms started to sweat. What the
hell was Clint doing? It wasn’t even Thursday night.
Phil took a deep breath and opened the door. In his calmest, most adult voice,
he said, “Barton, what do you want?”
Or at least, that was what he’d planned to say in his calmest, most adult
voice. What he actually got out was, “Barton, what—,” before Clint shoved his
way into the house with both hands on Phil’s chest.
“You fucking asshole,” Clint yelled. He pushed hard enough to send Phil
stumbling back into the bannister. “You little weasel, where the fuck do you
even get off?”
Phil blinked dumbly at him. “Wha—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He
couldn’t think straight through the sharp stab of pain from hitting the hard
edge of the bannister, and suddenly having Clint crowded into his space with
his eyes all flashing, angry blue and his cheeks flushed. He was breathing
hard, and there was a sheen of sweat along his upper lip.
“You’re such a liar!” Clint shoved him again, and this time Phil automatically
struck back. He pushed with all his weight, enough to slip free from where
Clint had him caged against the stairs.
“Tell me what the hell you’re going on about, Barton. You can’t just barge in
here and start screaming at me when I didn’t even—”
Clint’s eyes narrowed, his expression darkening into one of such absolute
contempt, Phil almost shivered. “You told Nat,” he said between clenched teeth.
Phil hated the blush that crept up his neck. “Look, it’s not what you think. I
didn’t do it to, like, fuck with you, or anything, okay?”
“You promised me!” Clint shouted.
“I didn’t promise you anything! Yeah, fine, I said I wouldn’t tell, but that
was before you showed up at school with a black eye from your foster dad!”
Phil’s throat was very tight, and his heart felt like it was ready to crawl its
way out of his chest. He’d never seen Clint this angry before, not even during
their fight. He hoped Clint didn’t try to break his arm in the foyer of his own
house.
Clint advanced on him again, shoving him into the wall by the kitchen. He kept
one hand braced around Phil’s jaw, while the other kept Phil pinned by the
shoulder.
“What fucking part of ‘it’s none of your business’ do you not fucking get,
Weasel?” he hissed, breath hot against Phil’s chin. “You think can just—just
involve my friends in this shit? Like you’re in a Disney Channel sitcom or
something?”
“I thought Natasha could help you,” Phil said. He jerked his head to the side,
trying to get free. Clint tightened his hold. “She wants to help!”
“I don’t need her help! It’s not her problem! It’s no one’s problem, especially
yours.”
“But Lucky—”
Clint slammed Phil’s head back into the wall, making him see stars. “Don’t say
his name! Don’t you ever say his name again, you got me? You don’t deserve to.
You don't deserve anything from me.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” Phil said breathlessly through the pain
behind his eyes. “You’re the one who asked me for help first, remember?”
Clint’s mouth twisted up. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he said.
“No matter what you think, I’m not heartless. I don’t leave animals to die in
the street. And I don’t—” I don’t let people suffer when they shouldn’t have
to, Phil wanted to add, but that wasn’t what Clint wanted to hear. Not from
him.
A nasty grin suddenly spread across Clint’s face. He slid his hand up and
framed Phil’s jaw with his thumb and index finger. “You must think you’re such
hot shit, don’t you? Perfect little Phil Coulson in his perfect rich house. You
just love getting to tell everyone what a pathetic wreck I am, don’t you?”
Phil didn’t like the hold Clint had on him. He struggled, used the quickness
and strength he’d cultivated through hours of practice and managed to flip
their positions. Clint growled as Phil slammed him roughly against the wall,
both hands digging bruises into Clint’s shoulders. Unfortunately, Phil was
barefoot while Clint was in sneakers; Clint was able to do more damage to
Phil’s legs, and what’s more, Clint wasn’t running on low energy reserves after
a long, punishing game. Phil was just too exhausted to keep up. And this
realization came right as Clint tackled him to the floor.
Phil landed flat on his back, legs trapped between Clint’s knees and his wrists
caught above his head. He tried as best he could to fight his way free, but
Clint had the advantage. He was bigger, stronger, like always; Phil might as
well have been back in eighth grade, skinny and scrawny and desperately hating
everything about Clint Barton.
“What the fuck do you want from me?” Phil gasped, too tired to be humiliated by
the catch in his voice. “I just—I just wanted to help you, all right? That’s
all. You can hate me all you want, but I couldn’t—” He squeezed his eyes shut.
Blood roared in his ears.
He felt the pressure around his wrists tighten a fraction. “I don’t need you to
care about me,” he heard Clint say, and his voice sounded strangled and low,
like Phil had punched him in the stomach.
“I don’t,” Phil whispered.
“You’re the last person in the fucking world I need coming to my rescue.”
“I’m not trying to rescue you.”
“I’m not a stray dog. I can take care of myself.”
“I know,” Phil said, because no one survived in foster care for this long on
their own without being self-reliant. Clint was a team captain and got good
grades; he could obviously take care of himself.
Phil waited for Clint’s grip to tighten to the point of pain, grinding his
bones together, but instead Phil felt a ghost touch against his pulse, there
and gone so quickly he almost thought he’d imagined it. He opened his eyes and
held his breath when he found Clint leaning over him, so close he could count
the tiny dusting of freckles over the bridge of Clint’s nose.
“I don’t want anything from you,” Clint said. He was whispering now.
Phil licked his lips convulsively, and Clint’s gaze dropped to his mouth. At
some point something had abruptly changed, but Phil didn’t know when or how.
His heart knocked against his ribs like a startled rabbit; the air around him
was stifling, and all he could hear was Clint’s breath turning shallow and
small. His eyes flicked back up to Phil’s, and they were very dark, nearly all
pupil.
“Perfect little douchebag,” Clint breathed, but it didn’t sound mean at all. He
sounded lost.
Phil opened his mouth to say something, anything, though he had no idea what.
He didn’t know what was going on anymore, why Clint’s grip on his wrists was
still hard and fierce while his words were weirdly gentle. Phil found himself
suddenly transfixed by the soft fringe of Clint’s lashes, the hint of pink
sweeping over the top of his cheeks. He smelled like sweat and soap, and when
Clint swallowed Phil watched the way his throat bobbed, the flex of tendons
that drew his eyes to the shadows disappearing into the neck of Clint’s t-
shirt, tracing the lines of his clavicle.
Phil pulled his teeth in a slow drag over his bottom lip, and all the air left
his lungs in one huge rush when he heard a tiny, tiny sound escape from Clint,
painful and rough. Like a moan.
He couldn’t think about what that sound meant, because in the next moment Clint
crushed his mouth against Phil’s.
Phil had been conditioned to defend himself against physical confrontations
with Clint for years, so his initial response was to go completely still and
wait for the inevitable blow to come. But it wasn’t in the form of a punch or a
vicious barb—it came as Clint’s tongue shoving past Phil’s lips and licking
over his teeth, along with wet heat and suction and Clint’s weight sinking down
on top of him. Phil couldn’t breathe, couldn’t wrap his brain around what was
happening. He soon grew dizzy from the lack of air, and when he gasped
frantically against Clint’s mouth, Clint made a whimpering noise.
Phil didn’t like thinking about the fact that he was almost seventeen and had
never been kissed. But occasionally, when he gave in to idle fantasies about
what it would be like, he never pictured kissing like this—like a battle, a
fight for control, biting and angry. He’d always imagined soft touches and a
certain sweetness that accompanied first kisses. There was nothing sweet here,
only Clint pressing his wrists into the floor as he all but devoured Phil’s
mouth.
It wasn’t at all what Phil wanted from a kiss. Yet when he heard that
vulnerable whimper, Phil felt himself begin to kiss back with small, careful
swipes of his tongue along the slick curve of Clint’s lower lip, the exact
opposite of Clint’s assault. Phil’s mouth felt swollen, bruised, and Clint only
kissed him harder the more Phil continued his tentative exploration. Somewhere
along the way Clint had let go of Phil’s wrists and braced both hands on the
floor above Phil’s shoulders, and Phil was vaguely aware of his own hands
landing somewhere on Clint’s chest, fingers curling into the fabric above his
heart.
Clint groaned and shoved his knee in between Phil’s legs, and that was when
Phil realized with a jolt that he was blindingly hard. The friction was enough
to make Phil break out of the kiss with a startled huh-uh, but Clint was right
there, sucking almost savagely at Phil’s lip, as if he needed the kiss to
breathe. He ground his knee against Phil, and it felt as if Phil had been hard
forever. Distantly, he heard his own voice break on a high, thready moan, and
he became very aware of the fact that he was practically naked.
His hands fumbled at Clint’s shirt; he needed him bare, needed that equal
footing. Phil wouldn’t let himself fall apart like this—Virgin, his mind
screamed as he arched up against Clint’s chest and shuddered—without Clint
there with him. And he was hard, too; Phil could feel him against his leg,
thick and heavy through the cotton of his jeans. Phil raised his knee, let
Clint ride it out for a moment. The breathless noise he gasped into Phil’s
mouth made Phil feel insanely powerful, knowing he could make Clint Barton
sound like that, the same guy who’d had more sex than Phil cared to think
about.
Clint reared back and stripped off his t-shirt. In the dying evening light
shining into the kitchen, his skin looked like burned gold, his hair a soft,
spiky mess. Phil wanted to touch him, all of him, wanted to put his mouth on
the smooth, solid ridges of muscle curving over his hips and into his jeans.
Clint’s eyes skittered over Phil’s chest, his shoulders; Phil tried not to feel
like he was lacking somehow. None of it mattered a second later as Clint
swooped back down and kissed him again, hard enough to knock their teeth
together. They were skin to skin now, heat everywhere, and Phil could hardly
stand it. He wrapped a hand around Clint’s neck, digging his fingertips into
the short hair at his nape, the telltale coiling shimmer starting to bloom deep
in his stomach.
“Gonna come?” Clint said, biting at Phil’s jaw.
“No,” Phil said, because he wasn’t that easy.
Clint laughed and thrust his leg against Phil’s erection. Phil came three
seconds later, teeth clenched so hard they ached.
Luckily, Clint wasn’t far behind. He huffed loudly, his face going soft as his
mouth dropped open. His lashes fanned out over his pink cheeks, and Phil
just...could not look away.
When it was over, Clint let his forehead rest against Phil’s for a moment.
There wasn’t any sound around them except the uneven cadence of their
breathing. Phil let go of Clint and stretched his arms out above his head, back
into their original position. His shorts were already starting to feel
uncomfortably cold and gross.
Fuck, he’d just had an orgasm on his kitchen floor. With Clint Barton.
Like he could read Phil’s thoughts, Clint raised his head and met Phil’s eyes.
They looked at each other silently, Phil’s heart thumping. What was he even
supposed to say? Thanks for not breaking my arm?
“Is your mom coming home soon?” Clint finally asked. His voice was about two
octaves deeper than normal and completely shredded. Phil’s cock gave a half-
hearted jerk.
“She’s out of town until Friday night.”
Clint sat back on his heels, wincing when he glanced down at the mess in his
jeans. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and reached for his t-shirt, tugging
it over his head as he got to his feet. Phil sat up and hugged his knees to his
chest.
“So...I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked awkwardly.
Clint didn’t respond, just walked straight toward the front door without
looking back. Like nothing had ever happened.
As the door slammed shut, Phil dropped his head onto his folded arms and
sighed.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for the wait on this chapter! Life has been nuts lately.
     Thanks as always to sno for the beta work. <3
“Um.” Pepper cleared her throat a little too politely and didn’t finish her
sentence.
Phil glanced up from where he was diligently typing up notes for an upcoming
history test. He loved having his study hall hour with Pepper; she believed in
using every minute of a study hour to actually study, and Phil always got tons
of work done with her around.
Which was why her abrupt pause and sudden doodling made him wary. “What’s up?”
She tapped her notebook with her pencil, clearing her throat again before
leaning over the library desk and the top of Phil’s MacBook, saying in a low,
almost conspiratorial voice, “What is that on your neck?”
Phil frowned. “My neck?” He reached up to take stock, and his nails scraped
over a patch of tender skin just below his jaw. It was warm, like a fresh
bruise.
His eyes went wide. Shit. “I...cut myself shaving,” he said, quickly going back
to his typing. “Hey, so, d’you think we’ll be quizzed over the Treaty of
Versailles this time, or—”
“Phil.” Pepper stood up and dragged her chair around the table until she was
right next to him, an extremely serious look in her eyes. “I know what a hickey
looks like, and that—” She pointed a finger at Phil’s neck. “—is a hickey. When
did it happen? Who the heck are you making out with?”
Phil clenched his jaw. He’d managed to go several hours without thinking about
his kitchen and the ruined pair of practice shorts still sitting in his washing
machine. He couldn’t say the same for the night before, but Phil wasn’t going
to tell a living soul about how he’d laid wide awake with the taste of angry
kisses still in his mouth, rubbing his thumb over his sore lips and imagining
the sounds Clint had made when Phil had kissed him back.
“It’s nothing, just...messed around with someone. Not a big deal.”
Pepper sat back and folded her arms over her chest. “Since when do you ‘mess
around’ with anyone? You haven’t even kissed—”
“Jesus, Pep,” Phil hissed, scrunching down in his chair. “You don’t have to say
it so loud.”
“Oh please, no one cares.”
“I didn’t see you running around telling the world about how you’d never been
kissed before you and Tony started dating.”
At least she was polite enough to look contrite. “This isn’t about me, but nice
play at changing the subject. What I’m trying to say is, you don’t exactly have
the reputation of playing the field. I didn’t even know you had a crush on
someone.”
“It’s not a crush,” Phil muttered, swallowing tightly. He didn’t know what it
was; every time he tried to wrap his head around it all, his chest started to
hurt at the image of Clint staring down at him with dark eyes and mussed hair.
Crushes didn’t make your lungs ache with lack of air.
Pepper swatted his shoulder, but it was playful, affectionate. “So...who is
it?” she asked with a wide smile, ducking her head close like she expected Phil
to whisper the name in her ear.
Phil stared straight ahead at his laptop screen and replied, “It’s no one you
know.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Clint pushing through the
library doors. He had on a raggedy-looking long-sleeved gray t-shirt, the cuffs
all frayed where they hung too low over his hands.
Phil bit the inside of his bottom lip and resolutely kept his eyes on his
history notes. He heard Mrs. Lawson, the school librarian, say, “Can I help
with something, Mr. Barton? I don’t believe you have study period this hour.”
“Uh, yeah, I’m supposed to be making up a chemistry test.” Phil heard rustling
of paper. “Mr. Calls is doing a lab thing with my class, he said I could take
it in here and you could sign off on it?”
“Just be sure to sit at one of the tables in front where I can see you. And no
cell phone funny business,” Mrs. Lawson replied, and that would’ve been that
except the tables in front were also where Phil and Pepper were sitting.
And because Phil apparently liked to torture himself, his eyes flicked up and
met Clint’s for a split second as Clint sat down across from Phil at the
opposite table. Clint looked away, unfazed, but Phil saw a tick in his jaw.
Phil bit his lip harder. Damn it.
“Hey, c’mon,” Pepper hissed, oblivious to Phil’s quiet meltdown. “I know it’s
got to be someone who goes to school with us—unless you hooked up with a soccer
guy from another school?”
Phil wanted the floor to swallow him whole. He could see Clint go very still
for a moment before he pulled a pencil out of his backpack. “Look, I’m not
getting into this right now, it’s seriously not a big deal.”
“Was it a girl or a guy?”
Clint spread his test out on the table, head bowed. There were thumb holes cut
in the cuffs of his shirt, and he toyed with the frayed edges, fingers light
and graceful. It made Phil think of that time in his room when he’d watch Clint
clean his arrows.
“Hello? Earth to Phil?”
Clint blinked slowly, and suddenly he was looking at Phil from under his
lashes, his expression completely unreadable.
“It wasn’t a girl,” Phil said, tearing his eyes away as he typed a stream of
nonsensical words into his history notes. “It was just some guy. It didn’t mean
anything, trust me.”
Pepper snorted. “That’s not like you at all. Tony once told me he’d pegged you
as a one-time true love guy, and I kind of agree with him.”
God, couldn’t she stop talking for five minutes? Phil wanted to throw up.
Clint, meanwhile, was hunched over his chemistry test, like he could care less
that Phil was dying of embarrassment.
“People change,” Phil muttered. “And I don’t like Tony making me out to sound
like a Disney princess.”
“If anyone’s a princess, it’s Tony.” She sighed and held up her hands in
defeat. “Fine, okay, I’ll drop it. But if I see anymore hickeys, I’m not going
to let you off this easy next time.”
“There won’t be a next time,” Phil said tightly.
Clint rubbed his sleeve over the fading bruise on his cheekbone and kept
working on his test. He didn’t look up again.
Phil had never felt so relieved to finally hear the bell ring for end of
period.
“By the way,” Pepper said as they packed up their laptops. “I’m glad to see you
didn’t even blink when Clint sat down over there. It’s about time you two
started learning how to be civilized human beings around each other.”
Phil shrugged. “Sure,” he replied nonchalantly. He glanced over to the spot
where Clint had been, but Clint was already gone.
~
“Tell me what happened.”
Clint very carefully did not meet Nat’s eyes. “Nothing happened. We had a
discussion.”
Nat had a stern tilt to her mouth. She leaned against the locker beside Clint’s
and cocked her hip, which always meant she knew Clint was full of shit. Clint
kept his head down and continued getting his stuff together for practice.
“Phil didn’t come to school with a black eye to match yours, so I’m assuming
there’s a hint of truth in that. But you’re acting strange. What did Phil say
to you?”
He paused, taking a deep breath. There was only so much he could keep from her,
because Nat could read him like a fucking book. It wasn’t like he never shared
his sexual exploits with her, but this was...different. Way different. He
didn’t even know what to call it. Or why the hell he couldn’t stop thinking
about it.
“We just...talked,” Clint said, and for some reason he immediately had a flash
of Phil gasping and shaking underneath him, all pink cheeks and stupidly bright
blue eyes. His stomach clenched in that hot, spiky way Clint usually loved, but
not now. Not when it was associated with Phil Coulson. It didn’t mean anything,
trust me.
Nat’s eyes narrowed. “Did you...you didn’t do anything with him, did you?” she
asked in a low voice.
Clint slammed his locker closed. “Why would you even think that? The guy hates
my guts.”
“That’s decidedly not true, and I don’t know how else to explain why you’re so
distracted. Please tell me you didn’t kiss him just to make a point, or to
teach him a lesson. He’s not like the guys you normally hook up with.”
“And what, exactly, are the guys like that I hook up with, huh?”
Nat rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Clint, does Phil strike you as the type of guy
who would have sex with someone just for fun?”
“For fuck’s sake, we didn’t have sex,” Clint muttered, although strictly
speaking that wasn’t exactly true. He didn’t consider coming in his jeans from
dry humping to be sex, but some people might. Phil probably did. A one-time
true love guy.
Clint suddenly wondered if Phil had ever come with a guy before.
“So you did makeout with him,” Nat hissed, poking Clint hard in the chest with
her index finger. “Clint, don’t do this. It’s not fair.”
“Do what, it’s not like—it’s not like he didn’t kiss me back.” Clint winced as
his voice dropped into a whisper. He remembered how gentle Phil had been, how
he’d kissed almost like he was terrified he’d screw it all up. The guys Clint
had been with didn’t kiss like that. Kissing was always a means to an end.
Nat shook her head and put both hands on Clint’s shoulders. “You need to be
friends first,” she said quietly.
Clint didn’t understand what she was getting at. They couldn’t be friends, and
they definitely would never be...more. Messy kisses on kitchen floors didn’t
mean shit. Phil at least had that right.
He stepped out of her hold, hefting his quiver and backpack onto his shoulder.
“I’m gonna be late to practice,” he said, forcing a smile. He tugged on a
strand of her hair and winked. “I’ll call you later?”
“Aren’t you going to Phil’s this evening?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.
Fuck, he’d tried to forget about that. But he couldn’t afford to miss another
week; they were already behind on the project as it was. “Yeah, yeah, sure, but
we’ll only be a couple hours, tops.”
Nat made an unimpressed noise. “Try not to kiss him again, please,” she
drawled.
Clint beamed obnoxiously. “The thought never crossed my mind, darling.”
Nat smirked, patted his arm, then turned on her heel and sashayed back down the
hallway to her own locker. He heard her mumble something exasperated in
Russian.
~
As much as Clint wanted to act like the...the thing between him and Phil meant
absolutely nothing, he couldn’t help the way his palms began to sweat as he
rang Phil’s doorbell. It was close to impossible to stand there and not think
about the last time he’d been there, shaking with anger and ready to punch Phil
as many times as it took to make the shaking stop.
Funny how, even though the punching never happened, it was something else
entirely that had somehow calmed Clint down.
He chewed the corner of his lip as the door opened and Phil leaned against the
doorway, arms hugged across his chest. He was dressed this time, but his hair
and t-shirt looked slightly damp, like he’d just gotten out of the shower.
“Hey,” Phil said quietly.
“Hey,” Clint replied, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Sorry
I bolted after getting you off wasn’t really all that appropriate, and besides,
it wasn’t as if Phil wanted to talk about it. Clint wasn’t stupid, he’d heard
the conversation with Pepper; Phil wanted to forget everything. Clint wished he
could.
Phil shifted from foot to foot. “Your eye looks better,” he finally said.
“Thanks.” Clint could smell hints of soap and shampoo. The collar of Phil’s
shirt was sticking to his neck, right below a dark smudge of—
Oh. Fuck. Clint hadn’t even realized he’d—marked him.
A flare of heat pooled low in his stomach, making Clint’s teeth clench. God,
what was wrong with him? He didn’t want Phil, he’d never wanted Phil, it was
just—his head was all fucked up over Lucky, and he hadn’t gotten laid in
months, and Phil had suddenly started being nice to him, which was—not
something Clint wanted to be dealing with on top of everything.
Phil cleared his throat and ducked his head, his left hand cupping the side of
his neck, right over the hickey. Clint was staring too much. “So...come on up,
I guess, if you’re staying.”
“Yeah, okay,” Clint said, irritated that he couldn’t stop being stupid about
this. He followed Phil upstairs to his room, telling himself over and over that
he’d had one-time flings with guys all the time and they never tied him into
knots. And those guys had actually wanted Clint to kiss them, to make them
come, to—
He shoved a hand through his hair as he dumped his bag on the floor by Phil’s
bed. “What did Fury say to you last week?” Clint asked, desperate to think
about anything but Phil naked and gasping into his mouth.
Phil shrugged, folding himself onto his desk chair, one knee hugged to his
chest. “Nothing, as usual. Just grunted a lot and told us to keep working on
stuff.”
“Does he even give a shit about what we’re doing?”
“Honestly? I have no clue. Who knows, this might all be, like, a social
experiment he’s conducting and we’re both his lab rats.” Phil gave him a
tentative smile, his damp hair clinging to his forehead.
“It’s not a very creative experiment,” Clint said and looked away to rummage in
his bag for a pen. How did Phil manage to smile like that, all sweet and
secretive? It was unsettling. It made Clint’s skin grow warm.
Phil sighed. “Whatever, I guess we should just keep going. If he totally hated
it, he’d say so. He kind of made a pleased sound when he saw the sketch you
made of the jerseys.”
Clint blinked in surprise. “Yeah? D’you think he’ll go for them?”
“If we can keep the price low, I don’t see why not. It’s unique. Not many camps
have that.” Phil opened his laptop and started typing.
“We should, uh, start narrowing down the team clinics,” Clint said. “See how
many players we’re going to need. The sooner we let everyone know the schedule,
the better.”
“I was just thinking that. I made a spreadsheet of all the varsity teams and
their main players.” Phil turned his laptop around, displaying a perfectly
organized, color-coded index.
Clint frowned. “Why is the archery team in pink?”
Phil rolled his eyes. “Seriously? The soccer team’s in purple. I thought you
were secure in your masculinity.” The second he said the words, he bit his lip
and went back to typing.
“I go for purple myself, actually,” Clint drawled, and for some weird reason,
that made the corner of Phil’s mouth quirk upward.
“Fine, I’ll change it, you big whiner.”
“Kate will definitely want in. You can put a checkmark by her name. She loves
kids.”
“What if she’s busy next summer?”
Clint waved a hand. “I’ll talk her into it. She’s a sucker for me, I know how
to work my charm.”
There was a tick in Phil’s jaw. The half-smile disappeared. “Do you always
flirt to get your way?” he asked softly.
It doesn’t work with you, so no, Clint thought, wondering what the hell Phil
was getting at. He started to make a snarky comment, but the buzzing of his
cell cut him off. Clint dug his phone out of his jeans pocket, read Jamie S. on
the caller ID. Jamie was a college freshman who’d interned at the shelter last
summer; he and Clint had madeout several times in the supply closet behind the
cat kennels, and occasionally he’d call Clint for a quick hook-up whenever he
was in town. The guy was gorgeous and gave fantastic head.
“Heeeeeey there, Santorelli, what’s up?” Clint answered, letting his voice go
all low and sultry. Fuck it, if Phil wanted to accuse him of being a flirt,
he’d show him how it was done.
“Not much, dude, you free tonight? I’m apartment-sitting for a buddy of mine
who’s out of town. He’s got a shitload of beer and a 54-inch flat screen. Wanna
party?” It was Jamie-code for wanna fuck?
Clint knew he shouldn’t. He was treading on thin ice with Terrance and couldn’t
risk sneaking in late for a while, not until he got the Lucky situation under
control. Getting drunk and getting laid were about the last things he should’ve
been concerned about.
He glanced across the room at Phil, who’d moved from his desk chair to the bed,
still clacking away at his laptop like he couldn’t care less that Clint was
getting a booty call. It made Clint’s stomach twist up tight.
“I could probably be persuaded,” Clint drawled, stretching one arm out along
the edge of the bed behind his head. “Are we talking a single condom party, or
do I need to stock up?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Phil lick his lips,
but he didn’t look away from his screen.
Jamie laughed. “I’m horny as fuck, so come prepared. You still got that awesome
lube?”
“Tons of it. I can get cherry-flavored, too, if you want.” He really only had
half a bottle, and he had no clue how to get flavored lube. “But, ah, we’ll
need to be fairly quick about it. I’ve got curfew. Think you can fuck me to
your satisfaction in a couple hours?”
“Oh, you know I can, Barton. Been thinking about that hot little ass of yours
for weeks.”
“Give me a half hour and I’ll be there. Just text me the directions.”
“Done. See you then, gorgeous.”
Clint hung up and waited to feel the usual giddy shiver of anticipation that
came every time Jamie called him something ridiculous—gorgeous was his favorite
endearment—but instead he couldn’t stop staring at Phil and the way he kept
typing without any reaction at all.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Clint said lazily, just to get something out of him.
Phil shrugged, distracted. “I just sent you a copy of the spreadsheet. If
you’ve got a Google account you should be able to—”
“So, like, can we cut this short tonight? In case you didn’t hear, I sort of
have a date.”
Finally, Phil stopped typing. “Yeah, I heard,” he said, quiet but without any
inflection.
“His name’s Jamie. He’s a college guy, so we don’t hang out a lot.” Clint had
no idea why he was telling Phil any of this.
Phil shrugged again. “Okay. Did you want to finalize those jersey designs
before you leave?”
What the hell was Phil’s problem? It was as if he was completely used to guys
planning hook-ups over the phone in his bedroom. What, like he got action all
the time? For being a “one-time true love guy” like Pepper claimed he was, Phil
should be...well, pissed off. Angry. Not all blasé like Clint was talking to
his grandma.
“He gives really, really awesome head,” Clint blurted out. “I mean, it’s
seriously the best I’ve ever had, and I’ve gotten my dick sucked a lot.”
Phil stared at his laptop and didn’t say anything. But he also wasn’t typing
anymore.
“Have you ever had an amazing blowjob, Coulson? Like the kind that just whites
everything out and makes you wanna die, but in a good way?”
He watched as Phil’s throat bobbed. The tops of his ears had gone a little
pink. “That’s none of your business, Barton,” he replied, voice barely louder
than a whisper.
Clint felt a sudden, overwhelming rush of satisfaction. His heart had begun to
race. “If you had, you’d be talking about it. You’d tell everyone about how
amazing your dick felt, and if the guy swallowed, it’s even better.”
Phil’s shoulders twitched. “I don’t need to brag about the notches on my
bedpost.”
“You don’t even have a bedpost. Don’t get all high and mighty on me; you’re
only saying that ‘cause you don’t know. And I bet you’ve never even had your
mouth near a guy’s dick before, yeah?”
“I don’t—”
“Get on your knees? Oh, you don’t always have to.” Clint turned and leaned
against the bed, and yeah, now he had Phil’s attention. Those stupidly pretty
blue eyes were wide now, a little darker than usual, and Clint wasn’t thinking
anymore about Jamie or cherry-flavored lube or an empty apartment. “Sometimes
you can lay on a bed, side by side, or you can even have ‘em kneel over you, as
long as you don’t mind getting your throat fucked.”
Phil’s tongue flicked out over his lips. “Stop it,” he whispered.
“Or, y’know, if blowjobs aren’t your thing, there’s always hands. Hands are
good. I once had a guy come in my hand and we didn’t stop kissing once. He bit
my lip so hard it bled for like an hour.”
“Shut up, Barton.” Phil’s mouth twisted up into a sneer, but his cheeks were
turning red.
“But Jamie, man, Jamie’ll suck your brains out and then just bend you over and
fuck you so hard you don’t even know which way’s up—”
”Shut up!”
Clint didn’t know what he was expecting. Fuck, he didn’t even know what he was
doing, letting all this shit spill out of him just to see Phil’s eyes go dark
and his blush deepen. He didn’t even want Phil; he just wanted to fuck with
him, that was all.
But he hadn’t counted on Phil shoving his laptop aside and tackling Clint to
the floor, pinning him to the carpet much like Clint had pinned him the day
before in Phil’s kitchen. Their hips collided, and holy fuck Phil was hard.
Even worse, Clint was, too, and he hadn’t even realized it until now.
He didn’t want this. He wanted to leave and go see Jamie and have lots of
uncomplicated sex that didn’t mess him up inside, make him wonder about things
that didn’t matter. Clint didn’t want to know what it was like to have Phil’s
weight—solid weight, heavy in the right places—pressing him down while Phil
looked at him with his lips all slick and parted, panting like he’d run a
fucking marathon. He kept staring at Clint’s mouth, a helpless, terrified look
in his eyes, and Clint thought, He wants me to kiss him again.
Something fragile and warm opened up inside Clint, like the feeling he
sometimes got when Lucky pushed his head against Clint’s hand when he was
starved for affection. Only there was an ache to it, an edge of something more
that Clint couldn’t identify, and didn’t want to. He knew one thing, though: he
wouldn’t kiss Phil. Not again. Whatever they were about to do would happen and
Clint would live with it, but without the kissing. Kissing complicated things.
So when Phil’s eyes—unfairly gorgeous, God, Clint hated being this close and
seeing just how blue they really were, how his lashes were long and
delicate—fluttered shut and he started to lean into Clint, Clint whispered,
“No.”
Said gorgeous eyes flew open, startled. “What?” Phil breathed.
Clint swallowed. “Just—I—” Then he bit his lip and rolled his hips up, grinding
into Phil, who gasped loudly, just like he had the day before. It was a high,
shuddery sound that made Clint’s heart pound. He pulled his hands free from
Phil’s hold and rolled them over until Phil was under him again. His pupils
were now almost complete black, and his hips twitched against Clint like he
couldn’t help himself.
Clint stretched out over Phil, mouthed over the fading shadow on Phil’s neck.
It wasn’t kissing, Clint told himself. “Tell me one thing, Weasel,” he
whispered in Phil’s ear. He didn’t know why he chose that moment to use the
stupid nickname, but for some weird reason, it felt like a shared secret
between them. Private.
Phil huffed out a breath and shivered. Clint felt a hand splay tentatively over
his back, fingertips barely curled into his t-shirt. “Okay,” Phil said, deep
and growly. Jesus, when did he learn to sound like that?
Clint scraped his teeth over the line of Phil’s jaw. He smiled when that growl
turned into a moan. “Have you ever had anyone suck your dick?”
“Fuck you,” Phil hissed, his nails digging into Clint’s back.
It sounded like a no to Clint.
He suddenly wanted to ask more questions—Was I your first kiss? Had you gotten
off with a guy before me? How many people have touched you like this?—but it
wasn’t any of Clint’s business. He didn’t care. So what if he got Phil off
again? He wasn’t any different from the all the other guys Clint had been with.
Clint slid down Phil’s body, slowly, waiting for Phil to stop him. But Phil
only made a tight little groaning noise when Clint pushed his hands up under
the edge of Phil’s t-shirt, exposing his stomach and that dark trail
disappearing past Phil’s fly. It made Clint’s mouth water and his thoughts sort
of fuzz out for a second; without thinking, he licked at the baby-fine hair
dusted over Phil’s skin. Phil arched into the touch, a short, strangled noise
caught in his throat. Clint could feel the heat of him pulsing through his
jeans, a stark, thick outline twitching against denim.
With just the tip of his finger, Clint gently traced the curve of Phil’s cock.
Phil jerked against his hand and whimpered, grabbing Clint by the wrist.
“S-Stop, I’m gonna—don’t—”
Clint glanced up the length of Phil’s body. His eyes were squeezed shut, cheeks
flushed dark pink, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it had to almost
hurt. He looked desperate, his fingers trembling slightly against Clint’s
wrist. Clint had barely touched him and Phil was already close. Normally Clint
would’ve rolled his eyes at the lameness of it all—he had no interest in guys
with no stamina, in virgins—but now, here, Clint felt his heart beat double-
time, his blood thrumming straight to his own dick.
He’d done this to Phil. Perfect, straight-laced Phil Coulson was on the verge
of coming from nothing but Clint’s hands on him. Last time, Clint didn’t really
have time to think about what was happening, to think about what it meant to
make Phil come apart so easily.
Clint badly wanted to make him come again.
Ignoring Phil’s hold, Clint carefully pulled the button free from its hole on
the fly of Phil’s jeans, slid the zipper down in slow, incremental movements.
Phil made another sharp moan, but he didn’t tell Clint to stop. Instead, he
dropped his hand onto the carpet and held perfectly still, his chest rising and
falling in shallow bursts. Clint parted his jeans and—fuck, Phil was wet, the
whole front of his boxer briefs dark with precome, sticking to the thick head
of his cock.
It was—it was possibly the hottest thing Clint had ever seen. He swallowed,
suddenly a little dizzy. Phil was...big. Really big. Long, round, and fat, and
even through Phil’s briefs Clint could see the large, heavy outline of his
balls. Clint had never considered himself to be much of a size queen, but just
looking at Phil was making him salivate. God, what the hell was the matter with
him?
Clint didn’t want to think anymore. He licked his lips, peeled back the
waistband of Phil’s briefs, and bit his tongue when Phil’s cock bobbed free,
bouncing against his stomach. The head was slick-shiny, dark red, and all Clint
wanted to do in that moment was taste it.
He took Phil into his mouth in one quick, wet slide. Phil made a harsh growl,
deep and feral-sounding, and Clint felt a hand shove into his hair, holding on.
Clint sucked hard, swiped his tongue over the slit, and that was enough make
Phil splinter and come.
“Oh—fuck.” Phil’s voice broke, his hips spasming as his whole body shook. Clint
shut his eyes and swallowed everything, even as he told himself he never did
this, never took a guy’s come all the way in. The hand in Clint’s hair twitched
and eventually fell away, and when Clint finally pulled off and wiped the back
of his hand across his lips, he looked up and found Phil kind of wrecked and
soft-looking, sweat shining on his upper lip. His eyes were closed, and he was
panting softly.
Clint was still rock hard, but that didn’t seem to matter. He tucked Phil back
into his briefs, which made Phil whimper and try to curl away from him. Clint’s
chest clenched tight, and he found himself crawling back up Phil’s body to
nuzzle at his cheek.
“Hey,” he whispered—and since when did Clint ever whisper after blowing a guy?
“You okay?”
Phil gave a weak, breathless laugh. “Not really,” he whispered back. “I...can’t
really form words right now.”
For some reason, Clint grinned against Phil’s temple. He could still feel small
tremors shivering through Phil’s body; Clint sunk his weight down against
Phil’s side, letting his arm drape across Phil’s stomach, their legs tangled
together. For several long, quiet moments they laid there while Phil’s
breathing evened out.
“Don’t you have to get to Jamie’s?” Phil asked softly, his eyes still closed.
Clint didn’t really want to go anywhere right now. The thought kind of scared
him a little. “Yeah. Soon,” he said.
Phil shifted against him, rolling his hip along Clint’s erection. Clint bit
back a groan, so instantly on edge he gasped, and suddenly he was on his back
again with Phil leaning over him. His eyes were open now, still a dark, intense
blue, but there was a flicker of something else there now, a fierceness Clint
had never seen before.
“Can you...stay for ten more minutes?” Phil asked in a rumbly, sex-drenched
voice, like he was deliberately trying to turn Clint on even more. It didn’t
help that he punctuated his words with tugging at Clint’s fly. He got his hand
around Clint’s cock before Clint could barely comprehend what was happening,
and all it took was seeing the head of his dick push through Phil’s long,
graceful fingers and Clint was gone. There was come all over his shirt and
Phil’s hand, and Clint couldn’t find the words to tell Phil that he wouldn’t be
going to Jamie’s tonight.
Downstairs, the front door slammed. “Phil, are you there?” a female voice
called.
“Shit! My mom’s home early.” Phil scrambled to his feet, wiping one hand off on
a random pair of socks as he zipped his fly with the other. Clint, still hazy
from his orgasm, sat up and ran both hands through his hair. He glanced down at
his shirt and laughed.
“Fuck, dude,” he snorted. “Think she’ll notice?”
Phil made a face, wrinkling his nose all primly. “Jesus, yes, she’s not—here.”
He grabbed a t-shirt off the back of his desk chair and threw it at Clint. “At
least you won’t be obvious.”
Clint held the shirt in his hands. It was really soft, frayed along the
sleeves. The front said something about a soccer clinic. “Thanks,” he said.
Phil shrugged as he paused at the door to his room. “I’m just gonna—” He waved
toward the stairs. “I haven’t seen her since Monday, so…”
“Sure. Whatever.” Once Phil disappeared, Clint stripped out of his ruined shirt
and stuffed it into his backpack. He pulled on Phil’s t-shirt; it was a little
too small in the shoulders, and it smelled like Phil’s aftershave. Clint rubbed
a hand over his chest. He could still feel his pulse thumping low around his
cock, his heartbeat not quite steady.
When he came downstairs, Phil’s mom was petting his hair and smiling at him
like he was the sun. Clint stopped on the bottom stair, tugging at the strap of
his backpack.
“Oh, Clint! I didn’t realize you were here, too!” She turned that same
brilliant smile toward him, and Clint felt himself flush with a weird,
embarrassed pleasure.
“I was just leaving,” Clint said awkwardly, hoping his hair wasn’t a complete
disaster. It was bad enough he was wearing her son’s shirt.
“No, no, stick around! I’ll order you boys some pizza.”
“Clint can’t stay,” Phil said. “He’s got a date.” He stuffed his hands in the
back pockets of his jeans and didn’t meet Clint’s eyes.
“Yeah, sorry. Thanks, though.” He gave her a stupid little wave as he slipped
past Phil, careful not to touch him. “Have a good night, Ms. Coulson.”
“You, too, Clint.” Just as he was out the door, he heard her say to Phil, “I’m
seriously so pleased you two are friends now. He really does seem like a sweet
guy.”
Sweet. Sure. He still had the taste of come in his mouth.
Clint went straight home and immediately took off Phil’s t-shirt, leaving it in
a heap on the floor of his room by his running shoes. But then he pictured
Margo putting the thing in the wash, or scooping it up to be put in the trash,
like it was just another random, useless thing of Clint’s; he grabbed the shirt
and shoved it under his pillow. He’d give it back to Phil tomorrow.
He eventually went to bed with an old battered copy of The Shining and read
late into the night. His phone buzzed with three separate texts, all of them
from Jamie.
Clint never answered them.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Phil’s mom wanted to make a big deal out of him now being friends with Clint,
and Phil played along with it. What else was he supposed to say? He couldn’t
keep insisting that they were only working on a project with Fury in an attempt
to keep playing their respective sports, and oh hey, by the way, in the
meantime they’d sort of...started...something. Something that still didn’t mean
they were friends. Phil couldn’t begin to explain that to his mom; he couldn’t
even explain it to himself.
And yet, for all intents and purposes, they’d somehow started acting like
friends. Phil fully expected Clint to ignore him completely the day after the
thing in Phil’s room, but Clint was practically shy around him during English
class, which was the one class they had together. Phil had smiled carefully at
Clint when their eyes had met, and Clint had smiled back awkwardly. Phil had
sat down in the desk beside him, murmured, “Hey,” and Clint had nodded back,
his knee suddenly bouncing.
“I forgot your shirt,” he’d mumbled.
Phil had paused. “Oh. It’s cool. That thing’s like a billion years old. I only
sleep in it, mostly.”
Clint had made a weird little grunting sound, his mouth twisting to one side.
“Anyway. Thanks. And your mom’s really nice, too. I hope I didn’t sound like a
dick.”
It was the second time Clint had thanked him for the shirt. Phil hadn’t known
what to say. “No, no, you were fine. She likes you. Keeps talking about how
awesome it is that we’re friends.” He’d laughed, a sharp, huffy little dorky
snort, and waited for Clint to make a snide comment.
Instead, Clint had met his eyes and said in a low voice, “Are we?”
“Are we what?”
“Friends.”
Phil had swallowed, hating the way his palms had started to sweat. He couldn’t
even look at Clint’s mouth without remembering the feel of—
“Sure, why not,” he’d replied, and flipped open his lit book like it really
didn’t matter to him that Clint was watching him with those stormy blue eyes of
his. Phil could already feel his dick twitching.
He’d thought he’d heard Clint murmur, “Friends,” again under his breath as the
first period bell rang. Phil had glanced over and saw Clint drag his hand
through his hair, his thumb skimming absently over the shell of his ear. Phil’s
stomach had bottomed out for a moment as he remembered Clint’s harsh breath
against his neck, asking, Have you ever had anyone suck your dick?
Phil had spent the rest of class hard in his jeans. He didn’t dare look at
Clint again.
So they were friends now. Phil wondered if he should tell someone to make it
official; the whole school was aware of their supposed hatred, and now things
were different. Maybe. Sort of. He was pretty sure friends didn’t spend entire
weekends obsessing about the feel of their other friends’ dicks in their hands.
“I have an idea,” his mom said on Sunday evening. “You should invite Clint back
for dinner. I’ll cook for you guys, make a whole spread. Maybe get out the good
dishes.”
Phil stared at her. “You’ve never told me to invite Steve and Bucky for
dinner,” he said.
“You don’t need to be told to invite them over. I want to celebrate the
progress you two have made! Besides, correct me if I’m wrong, but I get the
feeling Clint doesn’t get very many home-cooked meals.”
He remembered Clint sitting in his room with a plate of pizza rolls, mumbling,
We don’t do dinner a lot where I live. “I guess not,” Phil said.
His mom smiled. “I’ll let you pick the date.”
Phil didn’t want to think of anything involving Clint as a date. That was never
happening. Ever. He wasn’t dumb enough to think having sex—and that was what
they’d done, that was definitely sex, Phil wasn’t naïve—meant anything to
someone like Clint. A couple of orgasms with a virgin probably barely ranked on
Clint’s radar.
Phil wouldn’t let himself count the blowjob. Clint had just been making a
point, that’s all.
Too bad he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not just the blowjob itself, but
everything that had been involved with it; had Phil made too much noise? Did he
come too fast? Had he looked like a complete freak when he came? Had he sounded
sexy at all?
He kept picturing Clint showing up at that college guy’s place, all loose-
limbed and his hair mussed and wearing Phil’s stupid soccer camp shirt. The
guy, Jamie, would smirk and ask where the hell Clint had gotten the shirt, and
Clint would say something like, “Some dude gave it to me after a handjob in his
room.” And they’d laugh and then Jamie would maybe kiss Clint all filthy and
slow, like the guy in the parking lot that one time, and—
“Jesus,” Phil muttered to himself just as a ball flew straight past his head.
He blinked hard.
“Hey, you okay?” Bucky called from across the field, giving Phil a concerned
frown. “You’re super out of it today.”
“I’m fine.” He gritted his teeth and told himself practice was the absolute
worst time to be spacing out over something as stupid as Clint Barton’s sex
life. They had a tournament coming up; everyone was counting on Phil to be at
his best.
He got through the rest of practice with only a slightly weird look from his
coach, and in the locker rooms later Bucky asked again, in a low voice, “Dude,
you’re sure? Did something happen?”
Phil huffed, “I’ve got a lot on my mind. It was just an off day.”
Bucky didn’t look convinced, but he held up both hands. “Fair enough. I’m gonna
head home and change, then go to Steve’s to hang out. You should come.”
“Thanks.” Phil glanced over Bucky’s shoulder and caught sight of Clint pushing
through the main locker room doors, shirtless and sweating. He was wearing
weight-lifting gloves. “I’ll, um, think about it.”
“Cool.” Bucky clapped Phil on the arm. “And hey, I’m not trying to make you
feel like shit or anything. It’s just that the team needs you in top form,
y’know?”
Phil winced, even as he couldn’t quite keep from tracking Clint’s movements out
of the corner of his eye. “I know,” he said, and gave Bucky a grin.
Bucky grinned back before he turned to leave, and suddenly it was only Phil and
Clint alone in the locker rooms.
He hadn’t really spoken to Clint in several days; the only real interactions
they’d had were the polite, tentative smiles in English class. Phil had this
irrational need to make Clint speak to him first, which was so pathetic. And
yet he could feel his heart drum a little faster as he covertly watched Clint
strip off his gloves and flex his hands. His shorts sat very low on his hips,
his stomach muscles shiny with sweat. Phil was abruptly hit by the memory of
Clint stretched out beneath him, all hard and shivering and staring at Phil
with dark, dark eyes, his mouth all wet and parted...
“What do you need, Weasel?” Clint asked. He looked up at Phil with a tiny
smirk. It didn’t look mean at all.
Phil swallowed. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask—I mean, my mom wanted me to
ask—about dinner. Um, you coming over for dinner.” He folded his arms over his
chest, conscious of his sweaty practice jersey.
Clint tossed his gloves aside. “Like, at your house?”
“Yeah. My mom wants to cook for you.”
“Really?” His smirk melted into a real smile, one that made a stupid curl of
warmth unfold in Phil’s chest.
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to—”
“No, I’ll do it.” Clint paused, ducking his head. “No one’s ever invited me for
dinner before,” he added quietly.
“Not even Natasha?” Phil couldn’t stop himself from asking.
Clint laughed. “Her family doesn’t cook.”
Phil nodded like that made sense, when in reality all he could think of was how
much he really, really wanted to push Clint up against the lockers and put his
hands all over him.
“What time should I come over?” Clint asked, completely unaware that Phil was
trying desperately to calm his erection.
“Uh.” Phil cleared his throat. “Next week? We could do it Thursday night, after
we’re done with our project work.”
“Okay. I’ll tell my assistant to put it on my calendar,” Clint drawled, and
there a mischievous glint his eyes as his voice dipped low and smooth, almost
as if—
—as if he were flirting with Phil.
Phil’s stomach swooped, his heart racing with frantic urgency. Is this what it
was like to be on the receiving end of Clint’s affections? Is this how all
those other guys felt? God, Phil was too easy; he was better than this, he
wasn’t the kind of guy to go to pieces over some stupid blowjob.
He realized a beat too late that he was staring at Clint’s mouth.
“Phil,” Clint said carefully. It sounded like both a question and a warning.
“Are you seeing Jamie again?” Phil asked.
For some weird reason, Clint blushed. “No. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Just making sure dinner doesn’t interfere with your...other stuff.” What the
hell was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just let things go?
“Other stuff?” Clint tilted his head to one side. He leaned a little closer to
Phil, who bit the inside of his lower lip.
“You know what I mean.”
“Maybe I don’t. Be more specific.”
Phil looked away. “I won’t force to you be at my house when you could be
getting off somewhere else.” He hated how jealous he sounded, which was
ridiculous, since he wasn’t at all, he wasn’t. Clint was right, it was none of
Phil’s business who he fucked. He didn’t care.
He still didn’t care when Clint said, “I don’t think your house is so bad.”
“That’s a ringing endorsement,” Phil mumbled. He wasn’t prepared for Clint to
move even closer to him, until he could feel Clint’s warm breath brush against
his cheek.
“What I’m saying is...maybe I don’t need to get off somewhere else,” Clint
whispered.
Phil went very still, holding his breath. He made the mistake of turning his
head enough to where his lips skimmed over Clint’s jaw. His mouth went wet with
the overwhelming urge to kiss him.
“Oh,” Phil managed to huff. Would Clint care if Phil kissed him? Was that part
of what they were doing here? He’d refused to kiss him last time, so it stood
to reason that it probably wasn’t the best idea.
But Phil couldn’t think of a reason why at the moment. All the blood in his
brain had rushed to his dick.
Later, he’d use that as an excuse for why he kissed Clint.
It was fast and sloppy, his tongue barely slipping over the edge of Clint’s
teeth. He put one hand against Clint’s chest, more to balance himself than
anything, only the second he swore he felt Clint start move into him, Clint
jerked away.
“Wait,” Clint gasped. His eyes were wide and dark, lips slick-shiny.
Phil wanted to moan. “Sorry,” he breathed, even though he wasn’t.
“No, just—” Clint tangled his hand in the front of Phil’s jersey and tugged him
forward, until their foreheads pressed together; it felt strangely sweet. Phil
didn’t know where to put his hands, so he let them rest on Clint’s hips, the
tips of his fingers curled into the dips and valleys of Clint’s lower back.
“We do this without the kissing. Got it?” Clint said.
“Do what?” Phil wanted to hear him say it out loud. If he couldn’t define what
was happening, maybe Clint could.
Clint groaned low in his throat. “This,” he said, and rolled his hips up into
Phil. There was barely anything between them but the slick material of their
practice shorts, and Phil was already on edge. The friction was almost too
much.
“God, not here,” Phil moaned when he started to feel the first hints of orgasm
creeping up on him. “Don’t make me come here, please.” It came out more
breathless than he intended.
Clint snaked an arm around Phil’s waist, held him tight as he gave another
slow, hard thrust. “Where do you want me to make you come, huh?” he whispered
in Phil’s ear, and that alone about did Phil in.
“My house. My mom won’t be home until late, we can—we can do this there. No
kissing,” he added belatedly, mindless enough that he’d pretty much promise
Clint anything just as long as he’d keep touching him.
Clint let him go, but not before he nipped at line of Phil’s jaw. “You drive.
Don’t jerk off in the car, okay?”
“Fuck off,” Phil said, and on a whim, he scraped his teeth over Clint’s
earlobe. He felt ridiculous pride when Clint shivered violently.
Somehow, they both managed to make themselves halfway presentable before they
ran from the locker rooms to Phil’s car. He’d never driven with a full-on,
raging boner before, but Clint wasn’t any better off. He pressed himself
against the passenger side door and let his knee bounce, arms hugged around his
chest. Clint’s cheeks were still bright pink, and his hair was still damp with
sweat. Clint didn’t say a word, but Phil could feel his eyes on him.
Phil’s heartbeat sounded way too loud in the closeness of the car.
It felt like hours later when they were finally through the front door of the
house, up the stairs and safely locked in Phil’s bedroom. All the breath left
Phil’s lungs when Clint stripped his shirt own off and shoved Phil back onto
the bed, crawling over Phil’s body. He slid his hands under Phil’s shirt,
smirking when Phil arched into his touch and moaned.
“Sensitive,” Clint whispered.
“Horny,” Phil hissed back, wishing Clint wasn’t so perceptive.
“Yeah, I can see that.” Clint cupped his hand over the front of Phil’s shorts
and hummed his approval when Phil’s dick jerked under his palm. “I could get
you off without even touching you.”
“Where’s the fun in that, asshole?”
Clint squinted down at him for a second, then slowly, obscenely, drew his
tongue over his bottom lip. “Wanna bet?”
Phil didn’t want to wager anything. He knew damn well he was capable of coming
just from staring at Clint’s mouth. “Shut up and blow me or something, I don’t
have all night.” His voice wavered slightly.
“Hmm, I got a better idea.” Clint sat back on his heels and skimmed Phil’s t-
shirt off, leaving it tangled around Phil’s wrists. He pinned Phil with a light
hold before sliding back down and abruptly sucking one of Phil’s nipples into
his mouth.
Phil came with an embarrassingly loud shout.
“That’s what I thought,” he heard Clint murmur in a thick, husky voice that was
so damn hot, Phil felt himself twitch painfully even through the aftershocks of
his orgasm.
He couldn’t get enough air back into his lungs; everything was starbursts
behind his eyes, just like the time he’d come from Clint blowing him. Phil felt
wrecked, shattered, a blur of too many emotions flooding through him with
bright, overwhelming intensity.
He swallowed tightly, his hands shaking where they gripped his tangled shirt.
Phil opened his eyes and found Clint watching him with dark blue eyes, his
mouth parted and his breathing shallow.
Phil suddenly wondered why the hell he was good enough for Clint to fuck, but
not to kiss.
He needed to be kissed.
But that wasn’t what they were doing. This wasn’t about tender things and
feelings Phil couldn’t put into words. This was getting off, and convincing
Clint that Phil could be just as good as all those other guys.
Phil never did anything half-assed.
“You okay?” Clint whispered into the curve of Phil’s neck.
Phil’s response was to roll Clint onto his back and wrangle his dick out of his
shorts. Clint was a little longer than Phil, but not as wide (a fact Phil took
a lot of secret pleasure in), and he curved to the left. The head was wet, and
it pulsed when Phil rubbed his thumb over it.
“You—ah, shit.” Clint’s eyes went wide, pupils totally blown. Phil didn’t look
away as he leaned down and took a long, careful lick.
Clint made a strangled sound, his hips snapping off the bed.
Whose the sensitive one now, huh? Phil thought, and licked him again. He’d
never done this before, and never gave it much thought until recently. There
were a lot of things Phil hadn’t thought about much until the last few weeks,
like being around Clint Barton suddenly made him obsessed with sex. Not that
Phil never thought about sex, but it was never with this itch under his skin,
or a low thrum of anticipation deep in his belly. He’d never thought about sex
in terms of actually having it, or having someone.
He had Clint, here and now. Whatever their friendship was, or whatever was
happening between them, Phil could have this. This was his.
He braced his hands on Clint’s thighs and let his mouth go slack, sucking Clint
in as far as he could.
Clint’s moan was filthy and loud. Phil sucked him harder, and Clint growled,
“Oh, fuck, that’s—you’re—”
Phil fumbled his hand around the base of Clint’s cock. He could do this; he
knew what he liked, and he remembered everything Clint had done to him. He
squeezed Clint, flicking the tip of his tongue over bitter-salt slit. Clint
huffed out a breath, mumbled something that sounded like Phil’s name, and
Phil’s mouth was abruptly flooded with come.
It happened too fast for Phil to swallow. He startled, and his hands flailed
out to brace himself as he pulled off. Clint’s dick gave one last pulse, a
burst of white spurting down the shaft, and Phil realized belatedly that he
might be getting hard again.
“Jesus fuck, Coulson,” Clint gasped. “You’ve got—you’ve got come all over your
face.”
Phil blinked, the back of his hand swiping at his mouth. It came back slick and
sticky. He was too breathless to really say anything, so he scrambled off the
bed. He grabbed a couple of washcloths from the linen closet, sparing a moment
to glance at himself in the bathroom mirror.
His hair was a disaster, the flush in his cheeks so bright it made his stupid
freckles stand out in stark relief. He was pink all over, actually, right down
to his bellybutton. And the slick-shiny mess all over his right cheek and
trailing down his chin—combined with the obvious drying tackiness in his
shorts—just made it worse.
God, did Clint actually think he was sexy? Phil blanched and shut the bathroom
light off as he scrubbed his face clean.
When he got back to his room, Clint was sprawled starfish-like over Phil’s bed,
gazing up at the ceiling. Phil tossed a cloth at him.
“When did you get that?” Clint asked. He jerked his chin up.
Phil grit his teeth. He didn’t need to blush more. “My mom got it for me in New
York when I was a kid.” It was the first Captain America poster he’d ever had,
and it had stayed thumb-tacked to his bedroom ceiling ever since.
“It’s pretty cool.”
“Seriously?”
Clint shrugged. “Yeah. Kinda vintage, y’know? ‘s probably worth something if
you sold it on eBay.”
Phil couldn’t believe Clint was lying on his bed, cock still hanging out, and
complimenting Phil’s Captain America memorabilia. “Um. Thanks.”
Clint sat up carefully and wiped at the come drying on his stomach. “So...d’you
think, maybe—”
Naturally, Phil’s cell chose that moment to ring. He nearly tripped getting to
his backpack.
“Hey, Phil!” Steve said cheerily. “Bucky just told me you had a crap practice.
You should totally come over, we’re playing Brownie Halo.” It was a game of
Steve’s making: whoever made the first killshot of a round got first dibs on
his grandma’s brownies.
“Oh, yeah, um, about that...I’m not, uh. I’ve got a lot of homework.” Phil
paced by the foot of the bed, uncomfortably aware of Clint’s eyes on him.
“Aw, c’mon. These are chocolate chunk, okay. Also, Bucky’s getting his butt
kicked.”
Phil shoved a hand through his hair. “That does sound pretty awesome.”
Steve paused. “You do sound kind of…weird. Are things okay with your mom?”
"Sure, yeah, everything’s fine. Look, I’ll call you guys later. Keep handing
Bucky’s ass to him, yeah?”
“I’ll bring you a brownie tomorrow.”
At that, Phil smiled. Steve was a great guy. “Thanks, Rogers. See you
tomorrow.” He hung up, a weird ball of guilt settling low in his stomach.
Clint was watching him with narrowed eyes.
“What?” Phil asked.
Clint shook his head. “Nothing. I should go. You’ve got all that homework,
after all,” he drawled.
Phil didn’t say anything as Clint tugged his shirt back on. But just as Clint
got to the door of his room, Phil said, “So is this, like, a thing? You and
me?”
Clint paused with his hand on the door knob. He glance back at Phil over his
shoulder. “Sure. A thing.”
Phil swallowed. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Clint shrugged. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter to me.”
How many other ‘things’ do you have going? Phil thought, but what he said was,
“Yeah. Me, neither.”
~
It happened in fits and starts. Clint avoided Phil’s eyes during class, but he
still sat in the desk beside him, legs sprawled out and his left knee angled
just enough that it nearly touched Phil’s. It wasn’t on purpose, Phil knew, yet
he still obsessed over it through an entire lecture on Steinbeck.
When the bell for the end of the hour rang, Clint stood up and slung his bag
over his shoulder. Phil stayed seated and kept his head down, uncomfortably
aware that he was half-hard.
“Goin’ to the locker rooms for a while,” he heard Clint say.
Phil jerked his head up. “Huh?”
Clint looked bored. “Locker room. For stuff.”
“Okay…?”
“You’ve got study hall this period, right?”
Phil nodded. “So?”
“So...I’m going to the locker rooms.”
Phil couldn’t wrap his head around why the hell Clint would tell him any of
this, until Clint finally looked up at him from under his lashes. His eyes were
very, very dark.
“Okay,” Phil breathed. “Got it.” He shifted in his chair, but he noticed at the
last second, just as Clint left the room, that Clint was flushed.
Phil’s study hall hour was always in the library, where he normally met Pepper
for their usual studying time. This time he took a seat at one of the tables
closest to the doors, waiting until the final bell rang before slipping out
into the halls undetected.
He didn’t know how he instinctively knew Clint would be in the locker rooms
reserved for away teams. Maybe it was because no one used them during the
school day. The place was dark and quiet, and Phil’s heart was racing by the
time he set his bag down and called out, “Barton?”
He came out of nowhere, pushing Phil against the closest bank of lockers and
shoving his thigh between Phil’s legs.
“You’re so dense sometimes,” Clint growled, right before he pulled the neck of
Phil’s t-shirt aside and sunk his teeth into Phil’s shoulder.
Phil had a response for that, he really did. He’d think of it later when he
wasn’t ten seconds away from coming in his jeans.
It all happened in a rush so fast, Phil was dizzy when it was all over. His
arms had somehow ended up wrapped tight around Clint’s neck, their foreheads
pressed together as Clint had jacked them off. Phil watched as Clint ran a
thumb slowly over the head of Phil’s spent cock.
“Are you skipping class right now?” Phil managed to ask.
Clint made a low, contented sound in his throat. It was sexy as hell. “I do
teacher’s aide shit for Mrs. Schafer. She lets me do whatever I want. I usually
go shoot for an hour.” He gave Phil’s dick one last squeezed and dropped his
hand, but he didn’t pull away. Phil didn’t lower his arms, either. He drew the
tip of his finger along the back of Clint’s neck, over the soft edge of Clint’s
hairline.
“This is better than studying for my History quiz,” Phil said.
“You actually study in study hall? God, Weasel, you’re such a dork.” Clint
rolled his forehead against Phil’s, his left hand—the one not covered in
come—sliding up under Phil’s shirt to pinch his side. Phil yelped and laughed
in spite of himself as he shoved at Clint’s shoulders.
“Not a dork, just smarter than you.”
“My ass you’re smarter. I know ways to get laid during a school day.”
Phil’s heart gave a hard twitch. He pictured some random guy in this very
position, clinging to Clint and smiling all post-coital and dopey at him.
He dropped his arms.
“I should…,” Phil started, interrupted by his phone buzzing with a text from
Pepper: Where are you?? You disappeared.
Went to my car for something brb, he texted back one-handed as he zipped his
fly, even though he knew Pepper totally wouldn’t buy it.
“Later, Coulson,” Clint said, and Phil would’ve casually waved him off had
Clint not leaned in and practically purred the words right against Phil’s
cheek. Phil huffed out a loud breath, wishing he could turn his head and push
into a messy kiss that would make Clint shiver and feel as off-kilter as he
did.
“You should give me your number,” Phil said in a rush. “I mean, I should have
it anyway for our project stuff. It’d make things easier, y’know?”
Clint made that gorgeous humming sound again. He looked blissed-out and sex-
hazy, eyes at sleepy half-mast. Phil wanted that look all to himself, to know
he was the only person who made Clint look like that.
He took Phil’s phone and typed in a text, the corner of his lower lip caught
between his teeth. When Clint was done, he handed the phone back and said,
“There you go.”
“Thanks,” Phil croaked. His mouth was too wet.
“I’m all about making things easy.” The smile Clint gave him was lopsided and
deliberately sexual.
Phil mumbled something indecipherable and fumbled for his backpack, every inch
of his skin hot to the touch.
~
He slid into the seat beside Pepper’s as quietly as possible. Pepper wasn’t
amused.
“What the hell is going on?” she whispered loudly, smacking Phil on the arm. “I
thought you’d been kidnapped or something.”
“Kidnapped from class, really? What, like school pirates?” Phil snorted at his
own joke.
“I’m being serious, and what is up with you lately?”
Phil busied himself with digging out his history book. “Nothing. Like I said, I
had to go out to my car.”
“I’m not talking about just now. You’ve been acting super spacey lately. Even
Tony’s noticed.”
“I’ve got a lot going on. Games and stuff.”
She shook her head. “No, this is different. It’s almost like…” Pepper leaned
closer and squinted, like she was inspecting Phil. “This has been going on
since you had that hickey.”
Phil swallowed. “I told you, that was a one-time thing.” The bruise on his
shoulder suddenly felt as if a spotlight was shining on it.
“Yeah, you said that, but I think you’re full of it. You’re still messing
around with this guy, aren’t you? Or I guess I should say, you like him.”
“All this from me being a little out of it? I’m stressed out, end of story. I’m
not fucking anyone,” he added in a low voice, head bowed as he scribbled
furiously in his notebook.
“Why can’t you just tell me?” Pepper asked earnestly. “Is it really that bad?
I’m sure the guy’s special if you’re so into him—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Phil said abruptly, heart racing.
She snapped her mouth shut, looking hurt, which immediately made Phil contrite.
“Sorry, but it’s under control, all right? Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I
swear.”
Pepper sniffed, obviously unconvinced, but didn’t say anything more.
~
It wasn’t a habit. Habits were things you couldn’t keep yourself from doing.
Sex with Coulson wasn’t like chewing your nails; Clint could give it up
whenever he wanted to. It was just a really nice a distraction. Lately, when
he’d come home after a late practice to Terrance being in a bad mood, Clint
wasn’t even phased. He’d nod along when Margo’d remind him to take out the
trash and do the dishes, and Terrance’s grumbles about how Clint had yet to get
the Harley working barely registered.
Basically, getting laid on a regular basis mellowed Clint out a lot.
He hadn’t planned on it becoming a regular thing. That first meet-up in the
locker rooms was on a whim, more of a curiosity on Clint’s part to see how far
Phil was willing to go with this. He’d let Clint blow him in the privacy of his
bedroom, but on school property? Clint hadn’t thought squeaky-clean Star Goalie
had it in him. But he’d been wrong—really wrong.
Phil went to pieces for Clint so, so easily; most of the time he was hard as a
rock and leaking everywhere by the time Clint got his hands on him, and he’d
make that soft, pleading little whimper, like he wanted to beg but couldn’t say
it out loud. He’d look at Clint with those ridiculously pretty eyes all dark
and blown wide, and it never took much after that.
Clint had never been with someone so goddamn sensitive. The fact that he could
get Phil off without using his hands was—yeah. Clint thought about that time in
Phil’s bedroom more than he’d like to admit, about how it felt to suck Phil’s
nipple between his teeth and have him completely fall apart. It was almost as
if Phil hadn’t ever…
Well. So what if Phil had been a virgin? It made for short hook-ups; Phil was
always ready to go, no matter what. All Clint had to do was pass him in the
halls in the morning, coast his thumb covertly down the inside of Phil’s arm
and murmur, “Third period,” which was when Phil had study hall. Sometimes Phil
would give a bored shrug, or pretend he hadn’t heard Clint. But there was
always that tiny, imperceptible shiver whenever Clint touched him.
And like clockwork, Phil was always there in the locker rooms.
Late at night, alone in his bed, Clint would think about how he was slowly
debauching innocent Phil Coulson as he tugged at his dick and bit his lip to
keep from moaning out loud. He’d come imagining the sight of Phil’s perfect
mouth wrapped around him, sucking him like it was the best thing in the world,
his freckled cheeks all blotchy pink.
They’d been fucking around for a few weeks now. It made their project sessions
more interesting, not that they got any real work done anymore. But the whole
point was to make him and Coulson get along, right? They may not have been
planning camp stuff, but Clint figured getting Phil spread out on his bed with
his jeans tangled around his legs and his dick in Clint’s mouth was close
enough. Fury probably hadn’t pictured it like this, but whatever.
The disturbing part was how much Clint enjoyed Phil after he’d come his brains
out. He’d shudder and cling to Clint, eventually curling into him until his
face was tucked into the curve of Clint’s neck. He’d stopped opening his eyes
immediately after the tremors ended, his lips parted and tilted up toward
Clint, begging to be kissed. Now he ducked his head and let his breathing even
out against Clint’s skin as his mouth skimmed back and forth over Clint’s
collarbone in a ghost of a kiss.
Clint never called him on it. He liked the swell of protectiveness that
unfurled in his chest whenever Phil melted into him, knowing he was stronger
than Phil. Besides, cuddling was nice. Clint could see why people enjoyed it.
So for a couple weeks or so, things seemed good. Clint won a weekday tournament
for the first time in months, Lucky was nearly back in pizza-eating form, and
he was getting off on the regular. While his life was far from perfect, Clint
hadn’t felt content in a long time.
Then his boss at the shelter dropped a bomb on him, and everything went back to
shit.
“I need the kennel space, Clint,” Laurie said gently as she laid a hand on
Clint’s shoulder. “Besides, Lucky’s been fully recovered for a while now. Don’t
you want him to be at home with you?”
No, Clint thought frantically. He’d been slowly but surely paying off the vet
bill without a word to Terrance, and in the meantime Terrance had left him
alone. One look at Lucky would ruin any sort of tentative truce they had. “I
think he needs to stay here a little longer. To be safe.”
Laurie smiled. “He misses you. And I can’t keep turning away other dogs who
don’t have homes. If I had the room, I’d let him stay, but I really think he
needs to be with you now.”
Clint’s chest felt too tight. Fuck, what was he supposed to do? He couldn’t
turn Lucky out into the streets right after he’d recovered from being hit by a
goddamn car. But there was no way he’d convince Terrance to let Lucky live with
them, not after everything that had happened.
“Can I wait until tomorrow?” he asked in a small voice. “I-I’ve gotta make
arrangements with my mom for, uh, Lucky’s food. And bed.”
“Sure. If you want, I could drop Lucky off at your house?”
“No, that’s okay,” Clint said, the multitude of reasons why that was a horrible
idea racing through his head. “I’ll come by for him.”
He went home and curled up on his bed facing the wall, wondering what the fuck
happened now. Clint shoved one hand under his pillow, and his fingers brushed
soft cotton.
He’d yet to give Coulson his shirt back.
Coulson. Maybe he’d know someone who could—maybe he’d think of something—
“Stop it,” Clint hissed. Phil couldn’t help him with this. Clint wasn’t some
damsel in distress. He’d deal with it, just like he’d dealt with everything
else.
His one concession was texting Nat. The shelter can’t hold Lucky anymore, he
wrote.
It was late, but she still wrote back almost immediately, Where will he go??
I don’t know. I’ll think of something.
I’d take him, but my dad is allergic. :(
Clint smiled wearily. I wouldn’t ask you to do that. Lucky’s my problem.
He’s not a problem, he’s your dog. He deserves a home.
Lucky deserved a lot of things that Clint couldn’t give him. Like I said, I’ll
think of something.
Have you talked to Phil about it?
Clint went very still. He knew Nat suspected things were going on between them,
but she’d never said so out loud. Why would I do that? he finally typed back.
Never mind. You’re obviously not thinking straight. Sleep on it and we’ll talk
tmrw, ok? <3
He huffed out a long breath as he wrote, Ok, and dumped his phone on the floor.
With his left hand still curled around Phil’s shirt, he forced himself to fall
asleep.
~
There was a stupid, childish part of his brain that had always secretly hoped
bad shit would disappear after a long sleep. Unfortunately, Clint woke up the
next morning without any idea of how to handle the Lucky situation. He thought
about biting the bullet and telling Kate about everything; her parents weren’t
big on animals, but she’d probably be able to take Lucky for a week or so, just
long enough for Clint to think of a plan. Then he remembered the Bishops’
family vacation was that coming weekend, and there was no way they’d be taking
Lucky on a Disney World cruise.
Which left Clint back at square one. There was nothing to be done; Lucky was
just going to have manage on his own again, with Clint covertly seeing him when
he could.
It made Clint’s chest hurt to think about it.
~
He didn’t realize it was Thursday until he got to school and found Coulson
pacing awkwardly around Clint’s locker. He kept his head down, fidgeting with
the straps of his backpack. There was something sweet in the anxious movements
of Phil’s hands. Clint suddenly remembered how gentle Phil had been with
Cupcake, how being faced with a big, goofy dog hadn’t phased him in the least.
Clint swallowed.
No. He couldn’t keep asking Phil for help. The one time was bad enough. He took
a deep breath and forced a lazy smirk, saying, “Stalking me, Weasel?”
Phil startled, then laughed sheepishly. “Sorry, I was, uh. I was gonna text you
but I thought…” He trailed off as he met Clint’s eyes. “Wait, what’s wrong?”
Jesus, was Clint that obvious? “Nothing,” Clint said, grinning wider. “Were you
just trying to booty call me?” He leered at Phil, who immediately, predictably
blushed.
“I was going to remind you about dinner tonight. My mom’s cooking for us.”
Clint had completely forgotten. “Oh. Right.” Shit, he’d never find time to get
Lucky. Why couldn’t something work in his favor for once?
Phil leaned a little closer. “Is that still okay?”
“Sure, yeah, whatever. Food’s good.” He could handle this, he could. Maybe he
could talk Coach into letting him bail early, or he could come down with a
mysterious flu bug in seventh period, or—
“Clint.”
He froze in the middle of slamming his books into his locker. Clint took a
long, deep breath, gently setting his Psych text on the top shelve. His
knuckles were white from gripping it too tightly.
Phil was watching him with those stupidly pretty eyes, worrying bottom lip
between his teeth. Clint waited for the inevitable Tell me what happened or Let
me help you, fully prepared to keep his fake smile on and insist everything was
fine.
Phil opened his mouth, shut it, tried again, his shoulders hunched like he
expected a blow.
All he said was, “I’ll see you tonight.”
Clint stared at him. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Phil rubbed at his neck as he rocked back on his heels. He huffed
something under his breath before heading off in the opposite direction down
the hallway. It sounded a lot like, “Fuck it.”
Clint suddenly wanted to tell him everything.
~
Phil did not, under any circumstances, think about Clint’s shaking hands from
that morning. It wasn’t worth thinking about; he’d learned his lesson. Worrying
about Clint always ended in bruises.
You’re friends now, though, whispered a little voice in his head. But Phil
wasn’t even sure what that meant. He could acknowledge that they
were...something. There was the sex—lots and lots of sex. Sex without any
kissing, or any discussion about it afterward.
Sometimes Phil would covertly watch Clint walk through the halls, the lazy sway
of his hips making Phil’s heart pound. He’d come up behind Kate and kiss the
back of her head, making her roll her eyes and elbow him affectionately in the
chest. Clint would laugh and just sort of ease into her personal space like it
was nothing.
With Natasha, it was much worse. There was a reason half the school thought
they were a thing.
But so what if Clint only smiled at him like that when they were alone behind
closed doors, and only when he’d just gotten off? Knowing what Clint looked
like after he’d come didn’t mean Phil had the right to offer his help. It
wasn’t like the guys Clint fucked on the weekends were rushing to his aid
whenever Clint had a problem.
Phil didn’t know if Clint was still fucking other guys. He didn’t want to know.
He thought about it too much already, and his stress headaches were getting
worse.
He wasn’t expecting to see Natasha walk right up to his table during lunch,
smile politely at everyone, and ask, “Phil, do you have a moment?”
“Um. Sure.” He could feel Pepper’s stare boring into him, and Tony made a loud
hum of curiosity while Bucky’s eye’s went wide and Steve cocked his head to one
side. Phil set his sandwich down and carefully got up from his seat to follow
Natasha into the empty gym nearby.
“So what’s up?” he asked tentatively.
Natasha sighed. “Clint needs a home for Lucky,” she said without preamble.
Phil blinked. “But I thought—”
“The shelter won’t hold him anymore, they don’t have the room. But you know
Clint can’t take him back to his house.” Her voice dropped into whisper.
In the weeks they’d been fucking around, Phil had dared to ask about Lucky
once. It had happened after they’d come in each other’s hands; Clint had
groaned happily as he’d nuzzled his face against Phil’s jaw, pressing their
weight against the locker room wall.
“That was nice,” he’d drawled. “Wish we had enough time to go again.”
“We’re not that lucky,” Phil had replied, drowsy and sated. He’d licked at the
soft spot behind Clint’s ear, where he’d learned Clint was the most sensitive,
and grinned when Clint shivered. “Hey, how’s, ah, your friend?”
“Hmm, Lucky?” Clint had said, apparently too blissed out to bother censoring
himself. “He’s good. Really good. Fully healed and everything.”
“Good,” Phil had parroted back, hiding his smile against the nape of Clint’s
neck.
And that had been that. Or so Phil had thought.
“What do you expect me to do about it?” he asked. “I think you know what
happened last time I tried to—help.”
Natasha shook her head and sat down on the closest row of bleachers. She pushed
her hair back, genuine desperation in her eyes. “He can’t lose Lucky. It’ll
wreck him.”
“Clint’s dealt with worse, hasn’t he?”
“That’s just it. Lucky helps him cope. He needs something decent in his life.”
Phil licked his lips, remembering how broken Clint had been that day in the
rain, begging Phil to help save his dog. He also remembered the black eye Clint
had shown up with days later. “I still don’t understand where I come in.”
“Look, I know what’s going between the two of you.”
Phil’s stomach swooped. “It’s not what you think.”
“Of course it is. Clint’s a terrible liar.” She smiled and patted Phil’s hand,
pulling him down to sit beside her. “You care about him.”
Phil noticed she didn’t add, And he cares about you. “We’re friends,” he
mumbled.
“In case you didn’t know, Clint doesn’t have a lot of those.”
“So I’m supposed to talk one of my friends into taking Lucky? Yeah, Clint’ll
love that.”
“Or,” Natasha said slowly, “you could take him. Temporarily. Until Clint is old
enough to be legally on his own.”
Phil stared down at his hands. He couldn’t picture Clint agreeing to let him
take his dog, not in a million years. “That’s probably not a good idea.”
“Do you want Lucky back out on the streets?”
He shook his head.
“Do you want Clint getting hurt again?” Natasha asked, softer.
It was incredibly disconcerting how quickly and violently his stomach lurched
at the thought. Phil shut his eyes and whispered, “No.”
“Then do this for him. He’ll thank you for it, I promise.” She stood up, still
holding Phil’s hand.
He looked up at her and forced a weak smile. “Hope you’re right.”
“I’m always right. Clint will tell you that any day.”
~
Phil tried his best to come back to the lunch table as nonchalantly as
possible, but everyone was staring at him.
“Uh, what the hell was that?” Bucky asked. “If I’d known you were on speaking
terms with Natasha Romanov, I’d be asking you for her number.”
“Bucky, geez, you don’t have know about all Phil’s friends,” Steve said, but he
looked thoroughly confused. Maybe even a touch hurt.
Phil felt like an ass. “We just talk sometimes. She’s a friend.”
“Does she have something to do with your mystery hook-up guy?” Pepper asked.
“Whoa, whoa, back the train up!” Tony blurted out, holding up both hands.
“Since when do you of all people have a hook-up?”
Phil wanted the floor to swallow him whole. “I don’t have a hook-up.”.
“You disappear during study hall for at least twenty minutes practically every
day,” Pepper said pointedly. “And you never focus anymore!”
“Oh my god, this makes total sense,” Bucky said, eyes going wide again. “That’s
why you’ve been so out of it in practice—you’re getting laid.”
“I don’t—”
“What happened to waiting for marriage?” Tony said in high-pitched anguish.
Pepper had the decency to punch his arm.
“Coulson, dude, why didn’t you say anything! We could’ve done shots or
something, celebrated the punching of your V-Card!” Bucky proclaimed loudly as
he leaned over and shook Phil’s shoulder.
Thank God Clint never ate lunch in the cafeteria.
“Guys, c’mon, leave him alone, he’s obviously embarrassed about it. Phil’s sex
life is his own business,” Steve said. He gave Phil a reassuring smile, but
there was definitely a flicker of hurt in his eyes.
Bucky sighed. “Fine, fine, whatever, but you’re totally getting me Romanov’s
number, right?”
Steve shoved him, which made Bucky laugh. Tony made a comment about Phil’s
tainted virtue, to which Pepper replied dryly, “It’s cleaner than yours.”
“Touché, my darling,” Tony said, and kissed her cheek.
Phil pinched the bridge of his nose, a dull ache beginning to throb at the back
of his head.
~
Clint’s sweaty palms had made Lucky’s leash damp by the time he got to Phil’s
house. The sun was sinking into the horizon, and Clint kept telling himself,
over and over, that all he was asking for was just an evening, just a few hours
with Lucky in Phil’s big, open backyard while Clint had dinner. He’d make up an
excuse about Margo having guests over who were allergic to dogs; Phil wouldn’t
buy it, but his mom probably would.
He still had no fucking idea what he was going to do with Lucky once he left
the Coulsons’ house. Clint did, however, have Nat’s voice in his head saying,
“Let Phil help you, please. Trust him.”
“I can do this,” he whispered to himself, and rang the doorbell.
Phil’s mom answered, wearing one of those frilly aprons Clint associated with
old 1950’s black and white TV sitcoms. She was also wearing jeans and sneakers.
“Clint, hello! Come on in, dinner’s almost...” Her eyes landed on Lucky. “Oh.
You brought a friend?”
Clint flushed all the way down his neck. “Yeah, uh, it’s kind of a long story,
Mrs. Coulson—”
“It’s okay, Mom.” Phil suddenly ran down the stairs and came to a skidding stop
in the doorway. His hair was wet, and he was wearing a blue polo with the
collar sticking up on one side. “That’s Lucky,” he added breathlessly as he
dropped to one knee and reached out with both hands to scratch Lucky’s ears.
Lucky immediately groaned and all but melted into Phil.
“Hey, boy, how’s it going?” Phil murmured. Lucky butted his nose against Phil’s
cheek.
Clint’s heart was beating really hard. He shifted the bag of dog food Laurie
had given him under his arm. It crunched loudly. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t going to
bring him here, I just...”
“It’s fine.” Phil looked up at him. “Lucky can stay, right, Mom?”
“Sure, I don’t see why not. He’s housetrained, I take it?”
Clint had no idea. He’d never given it much thought, seeing as how Lucky was
never indoors. “Um…”
“Yeah, he’s good. Lucky’s really well-behaved.” Phil glanced at Clint out of
the corner of his eye. Clint swallowed and nodded, praying to any god that
would listen that Lucky didn’t shit all over one of Mrs. Coulson’s expensive
rugs.
“Well, the more the merrier, I guess.” She held her hand out for Lucky’s dog
food. “I’ll put this out for him in the kitchen with a bowl of water, how’s
that sound?”
“Thanks, Mrs. Coulson.”
“Call me Alice. Coulson was my married name,” she replied with a smirk that
made Phil roll his eyes. “Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes if you
boys want to go freshen up.”
She left them alone in the foyer with Lucky standing between them. Eventually
Phil got to his feet and hugged his arms across his chest. “You should know
that Natasha told me everything,” he said very softly, not looking at Clint.
Every bone in Clint’s body tensed. Damn it, he knew she’d do something like
that. It wasn’t just a coincidence that she’d cornered him at the end of the
day and begged him to trust Coulson. Let him help you.
“So?” Clint whispered.
“So...I’m gonna ask my mom tonight if Lucky can stay here. With us. Until you
can take him again.” Phil licked his lips. “I mean, if you want me to. If you
don’t, I won’t say anything. I promise.”
Clint wanted to point out that Phil had made promises like that before, but he
didn’t have the heart to say it. This was different. Phil sounded completely
earnest, like he genuinely wanted to help Clint and his ridiculous dog who
would probably pee all over the kitchen floor at any moment.
After all the shit Clint had put him through, Phil still wanted to help him.
Something twisted up tight in Clint’s chest, making it hard to breathe.
“Doesn’t your mom travel a lot?” he asked.
Phil shrugged. “Yeah, but she’s been talking about getting a dog for a while
now, to keep me company while she’s gone.”
Clint didn’t know why it hurt to imagine Phil all alone in his big, empty
house. “You’ve got games and shit.”
“I’ll come home at lunch and check on him.” Phil ducked his head. “Or, y’know,
I can give you the combination to the garage and you can do it. Whatever.”
“You’d just let me into your house like that?”
“Why not, you’re over here every week as it is. And my mom likes you.”
Lucky watched them solemnly, as if he knew they were debating his future. He
tucked his head up over Clint’s hand, tail thumping gently against the floor.
“If you’re gonna promise me something, all I want is—just—give him back to me
when I’m eighteen. Got it?” Clint said. For a horrible moment, he thought he’d
cry. He curled his hand around Lucky’s muzzle and bit down hard on his lower
lip.
“He’s your dog,” Phil whispered. “He’ll always be your dog.”
Clint nodded jerkily. His vision was starting to blur.
Thankfully, Phil’s mom called, “Boys, dinner’s on!” Clint blinked hard, fumbled
with the leash latch on Lucky’s collar until it opened, and mumbled, “Go on,
you big lug, go check out your new digs.”
Lucky gave him a big, sloppy grin and trotted off. Clint waited until Phil
followed after him before swiping the sleeve of his t-shirt over his eyes.
~
Dinner was some of the best food Clint had ever had. Alice had made spaghetti
with homemade meatballs, and even though she and Phil kept making jokes about
her lackluster cooking, Clint didn’t have a clue what the fuck they were
talking about. He might as well have been at a five star restaurant.
When he’d polished off his second helping—along with his fourth or fifth slice
of amazing garlic bread—Alice smiled at him and said, “It’s nice not to have a
picky eater in the house.”
“Hey!” Phil cried. “I’m not picky, I have discerning tastes.”
“I seem to remember a certain ten-year-old trying to convince me Flintstone
vitamins were a meal.”
“I thought I was being healthy.” Phil turned bright pink as he glared at her
from across the table.
Alice shook her head. She leaned over to Clint and stage-whispered, “Here’s a
secret about Phil: He’s really not as clever as he lets on.”
“And a secret about my mom is that she’s full of lies,” Phil drawled, and Alice
laughed.
Clint kind of really liked watching them together. It reminded him that not all
families were bullshit.
“Well, since I’m such a liar, I’ll just say that there is definitely not
chocolate pie for dessert,” Alice replied, raising an eyebrow at Phil, whose
eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas for a split second. He looked conflicted,
like he couldn’t decide between a snappy comeback or flat-out asking for pie.
Instead, they were interrupted by a phone ringing.
Alice sighed loudly. “Sorry, sorry, forgot to put it on vibrate. I’m just going
to check to make sure it isn’t the office calling to—oh.” She sighed again as
she checked the screen. “Phil, it’s your father. I’ll be right back.” She got
up from the table and quickly disappeared into a side room, quietly shutting
the door behind her.
Beside him, Phil said, “Fuck,” under his breath.
Clint fidgeted with his empty plate. Lucky was sprawled out in the corner of
the dining room, chewing happily on an old tennis ball Alice had found for him,
completely oblivious to the sudden mood change. Clint knew it wasn’t any of his
business, that he shouldn’t say a word; he was just a guest.
A guest whose dog was staying behind with the hosts.
“Does your dad call a lot?” Clint asked carefully.
“No,” Phil replied. “Only when he wants something.” He sounded angry, yet
resigned, and they sat in silence punctuated by the erratic tapping of Phil’s
fork against his plate.
Finally, Alice came back to the table, but her smile seemed forced. “Sorry
about that, Clint.”
“No problem,” he said, wishing he could get the happy atmosphere back.
“What did he want?” Phil’s voice was sharp.
Alice took a sip of her wine. “Where were we? Oh! Pie. Clint, you like pie,
don’t you? I didn’t bake this one, thank God, it’s from that bakery over on—”
“Mom.” Phil slammed his fork down. “Tell me. Right now.”
“Phil, we can talk about this later—”
“No. I want to know. Is this about Christmas?”
His mom’s shoulders sagged.
Phil dropped his head into his hands. “Goddamn it.”
“Honey...”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him it was your decision.”
“You know what my decision is,” Phil hissed, then tossed his napkin on the
table and abruptly stood up. “C’mon, Clint, we need to get some project work
done.”
Clint was at a loss. He didn’t want to be rude, but Alice waved them on. “It’s
all right, I’ll bring the pie up to you later.” She sounded very tired.
He followed Phil up to his room, anxious and uncomfortable and feeling as if
he’d witnessed something he had no right to. Phil’s back was almost painfully
straight, and when they were both inside Phil’s room, Phil slammed the door,
locked it, and said, “Take your jeans off.”
Clint nearly choked. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah, right now. Got something better to do than letting me suck your dick?”
Phil practically spat the words out, his eyes a little too bright.
Funny how Phil talking dirty to him wasn’t nearly as hot as Clint had secretly
imagined. He slowly unbuttoned his fly, even though he was barely hard. “You
really wanna do this?”
“Jesus, Barton, since when do you of all people not want to fuck?” He pushed
Clint’s hands away and started yanking Clint’s fly open, grinding the heel of
his palm against Clint’s cock.
This was all wrong. Clint didn’t want an angry blowjob. Not tonight. If
anything, he owed Phil an orgasm or two.
He grabbed Phil’s wrists. Ignoring his protests, Clint manhandled Phil back
toward the bed, shoving him down onto the edge as he wedged himself between
Phil’s spread knees. He managed to strip that stupid blue polo off, and the
protests quickly died off the second Clint licked a wet stripe over Phil’s
happy trail. Clint slid a couple of knuckles over the front of Phil’s jeans,
and just like that, Phil was arching into his touch and moaning breathlessly.
“Fuck yeah, make me come,” Phil gasped.
God, he was so gorgeous. Clint wanted a recording of Phil begging like that to
play on a loop in his brain forever. But he couldn’t stop thinking about what
had happened at dinner, or hearing the catch in Phil’s voice.
“So what’s so bad about Christmas?” Clint whispered against Phil’s stomach,
scattering small kisses over his skin.
“Not fucking talking about it,” Phil groaned.
“I didn’t want to talk about Lucky, but here we are.” He scraped his teeth just
above Phil’s waistband.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“The hell it’s not. Does your dad want you to stay with him?”
Phil huffed, his hands curled tight into the comforter on the bed. “He...wants
to take me skiing in Vancouver.”
Clint snorted. “That’s real rough, Weasel.”
“No, fuck you.” Phil shoved Clint hard enough to send him sprawling back on the
carpet. Clint’s knee-jerk response was to shove back, only the look on Phil’s
face stopped him.
He looked on the verge of tears.
“My dad left us when I was twelve,” Phil said in a terribly broken voice Clint
never wanted to hear again. “I barely see him, and now he thinks he can offer
up this goddamn ski trip to make me forget everything. I’m letting him know
that’s it’s way too fucking late for that.”
Clint’s mouth had gone dry. He stared up at Phil, watching his shoulders heave
with each breath.
“You have your own shit. I get that,” Phil whispered. “But that doesn’t mean I
don’t have mine, too.” He pushed a shaky hand through his hair, still flushed
and sporting wood in his jeans, but Clint didn’t think it was a good idea to
touch him again.
He suddenly remembered the day of their fight, and eavesdropping on Phil and
his mom. “Does your dad ever come to your games?” Clint asked.
Phil shook his head. “Not once.”
“‘Cause he doesn’t live around here?”
“Because he’s a self-absorbed dick who cares more about his career,” Phil said.
Clint thought about how good Phil was at soccer, good enough to make varsity as
a sophomore and then captain the following year. Not a lot of guys accomplished
things like that on top of pulling really good grades. Clint didn’t have a lot
of experiences with great parenting, but he knew Phil’s dad was a douchebag for
not respecting that.
“Then fuck him,” Clint said softly.
Phil blinked at him, startled. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah?”
“At least he doesn’t punch you in the face when you kinda accidentally rack up
a giant vet bill.” Clint tried to laugh, but Phil looked stricken.
“I know. Dads are crap. We should start a club or something.”
Clint did grin a little at that. “That’d be a really shitty club.”
Phil shrugged. “Probably. No one wants to admit their dads suck.” He folded his
hands between his knees and sighed. “I’m sorry you got in the middle of this.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know, but you don’t have to—”
A soft tap at the door stopped Phil. Clint wanted make him finish. I don’t have
to what?
“Hey guys, I have pie if you want it,” Alice called.
Phil turned an even darker shade of red as he scrambled to pull his polo back
on. Clint rolled to his feet and buttoned his fly, hoping like hell he didn’t
look guilty as fuck.
“Thanks,” Phil said when he let her in.
“Everything all right?” she asked, and Clint could tell she was trying very
hard to be casual. She held two plates of chocolate pie in her hands, complete
with whipped cream.
Phil took one plate and kissed her cheek. “Everything’s fine.”
“Well, good. Can’t have you angsting over pie.” She handed Clint his plate and
winked at him. Clint couldn’t help smiling back.
Phil cleared his throat. “Actually, there’s something I need to ask you.”
Immediately, Clint’s pulse started to race. He focused on his pie, the tips of
his ears heating up.
“Okay, shoot.” Alice took a seat in Phil’s desk chair.
Clint kept his head down.
“Can Lucky stay with us? Just for a year or so.”
Fuck, when Phil said it like that, it sounded like forever.
She frowned thoughtfully. “But, why? Can’t you keep him, Clint?”
“It’s...complicated,” Clint mumbled down at his pie.
“Clint’s dad is—allergic. So they can’t have in the house anymore,” Phil said
in a rush. “And Lucky’s recovering from an injury, so he shouldn’t be outdoors
all the time.”
“What about practice, Phil? You’ve got games, and Lord knows how much I
travel.”
“I’ll make it work. Clint can help, too, right?”
“I swear. Scout’s honor,” Clint said, knowing Phil would never call him out on
the Scouts bullshit in front of his mom.
Alice rolled the desk chair closer to the bed, until she could reach out and
lay her hand on Clint’s knee. “Is this what you really want?” she asked.
The warmth seeping through his jeans from her touch made Clint’s throat grow
tight. “Yeah, yes. I don’t want to get rid of him. He’s...special.”
“And your parents are okay with this?”
Clint swallowed. “They don’t care what I do with him,” he whispered, which was
mostly the truth.
Alice’s hand stayed on Clint’s knee for a long, quiet moment, until Clint
thought his lungs would burst from holding his breath. Finally, she sat back
and huffed.
“You two have really come a long way in a few months,” she said.
“Is that a yes?” Phil asked.
She smiled. “Would it break your heart if I said no?”
Phil’s blush, which had mostly faded, came rushing back with a vengeance.
“I...”
“I’m kidding, of course Lucky can stay. But you’re responsible for his food.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Clint said, wanting to fling his arms around her in
relief. He also felt a nagging, urgent need to kiss that dumb blush off Phil’s
cheeks. He did neither; instead, he inhaled the rest of his pie while he
watched Phil hug his mom and murmur, “Thank you.”
“We’ll talk more about this later,” he heard Alice say. Phil bit his lip and
nodded.
Clint wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and handed Alice his empty
plate when she held her hand out. “Thanks,” he said awkwardly, for both the pie
and keeping his dog safe. Clint stood up, hands behind his back, and said the
word again, stronger this time.
Something sad flashed in Alice’s eyes. “You’re very welcome, Clint,” she said,
and put her arm around Clint’s shoulders in a light hug. He let himself lean
into her for a moment; it’d been a long time since an adult had hugged him.
When she was gone and the bedroom door clicked softly behind her, Phil blew out
a long breath. “She’s gonna want to know more details,” he said.
“Are you secretly in trouble?” Clint asked.
Phil shook his head as he sat down on the bed beside him. “No, not really. But
she knows we’re keeping something from her. I can tell.”
Clint’s heart thumped harder. “Like what?”
“Like the real reason Lucky can’t stay with you.” Their knees were barely
touching. Phil toyed with the folds of his jeans.
“What about...the other stuff?”
Phil’s hand stilled. “I don’t think she suspects anything. And if she does, she
wouldn’t care.”
“Has she said anything about your boyfriends before?” Clint said without
thinking. An instant later, he felt a hot rush of humiliation. What the hell
was that even supposed to mean?
Phil kept his head bowed, but Clint could see his throat bob. “I’ve never had a
boyfriend,” he finally whispered before abruptly getting to his feet and
stripping his polo off as he locked his bedroom door.
Clint pretended he wasn’t stunned, that he wasn’t thinking over and over, God,
you really were a virgin.
“Look, what I was going to say before—about that shit with my dad—you don’t
have to act like you care. I’m not an idiot, and I’m not—I don’t pretend this
is something it’s not.” Phil threw his shirt aside and climbed onto the bed,
straddling Clint’s hips. He looped his arms around Clint’s neck, his body
giving a languid, slow roll against Clint, like he’d been doing it for years.
Clint looked up into blue eyes that were dark and full of secrets he’d never
know—didn’t need know. At this angle, it would be so easy to tilt Phil’s chin
and kiss him. He slid his hands up Phil’s bare sides, all warm, smooth skin
that shivered under Clint’s touch.
“I don’t do boyfriends,” Clint said a little too roughly.
“I know,” Phil said, and pushed Clint down onto the bed, until he was braced
above him, chest to hip. He bit lightly at Clint’s neck, making Clint gasp and
arch into him. “The other guys—I don’t care. You can do what you want with
them. I won’t say anything.”
There weren’t any other guys, but Clint kept his mouth shut. Phil was right:
Clint could do whatever and whomever the fuck he wanted. He didn’t need Phil’s
permission.
He tried to picture Phil with someone else. An image of that big blond Rogers
guy he always saw Phil hanging out with popped into Clint’s head. “You don’t
have to tell me this,” Clint said. “I do this shit all the time, y’know.” He
tightened his grip on Phil’s hips, hard enough to bruise.
Phil gasped into Clint’s neck. “I know,” he said again, so quiet Clint could
barely hear him.
“Just ‘cause you’ve got my dog now doesn’t mean you’re—that I’m—”
“Yeah.” Phil’s mouth touched his jaw, too soft and careful. Fuck, why did Clint
still want to kiss him so badly?
“We’re friends, Weasel. Anything else is bullshit.”
“So shut up already,” Phil growled before he slid down Clint’s body and
proceeded to give Clint the best goddamn blowjob he’d ever had.
As Clint laid there gasping and trying to rope his thoughts back together, Phil
kicked his jeans and underwear off and said in a low, throaty voice, “Do that
thing with your fingers again.” He wrapped his hand around his thick cock,
squeezing hard. Clint had learned the signs, and knew Phil was really close.
Clint grinned lazily, his brain still foggy from orgasm. “Just say you wanna
get finger-fucked, Coulson, it’s simpler,” he drawled.
Phil whimpered, and his hand tightened. “Whatever, just—”
“You still have that lube?” Clint couldn’t remember when he’d decided to bring
it over, but the tiny bottle of K-Y had turned out to be a fantastic idea. Phil
was apparently learning he really liked fingers in his ass.
Clint hadn’t brought up actual fucking yet. He didn’t really want to think
about that right now..
Phil begging Clint to come was one thing, but Phil begging with Clint’s fingers
buried in his ass was another. He spread his legs wide, braced on all fours,
his face tucked into a pillow. Clint used a little too much lube, making
everything messy and slick, but Phil’s ass clenched around him perfectly,
making Clint imagine what Phil would feel like around his dick. He added a
third finger at the last second—the first time he’d ever done so—and at the
first initial push inside, Phil tensed and groaned into his pillow, shoulders
shaking.
“Fuck, fuck, that’s—that’s a lot, that’s too much, shit, Barton—”
“‘s okay, I got you,” Clint murmured, and he kissed the top of Phil’s spine,
twisting his fingers as his free hand curled around Phil’s wet cock.
Phil gave a muffled yelp and came with a sharp, jerking pulse into Clint’s
hand. It felt like it went on forever; when Clint eventually rolled Phil onto
his back, there was come splattered all the way up Phil’s chest, nearly
reaching his collarbone.
He was a sloppy, rumpled, flushed mess, and Clint had never seen anything more
gorgeous.
“I need a nap,” Phil slurred through a sleepy smile.
Clint finally gave in to the urge to kiss his cheek, over all those ridiculous
freckles. “You should probably shower.”
“Should probably change my sheets, too, but there’s only so much hand-eye
coordination I have going on at the moment.” He glanced down at the come all
over his chest and winced.
A bark came from downstairs. Lucky didn’t sound upset, but Clint went on alert.
“I better go check on him. He’s probably wondering where the hell I went.”
Phil hummed absently, still spread-eagle across the tangled sheets. Clint got
up and started to dress, deliberately putting his back toward the bed so he
couldn’t stare at all that naked skin.
“Clint?” Phil suddenly asked in a soft voice.
He turned around once his jeans were buttoned. “Yeah?”
“I was thinking...you could…” Phil propped himself up on his elbows, his hair
all sticking up every which way. “You could fuck me. If you want to.”
Clint’s mouth went dry, and his dick gave a hard twitch. “Do you want that?”
“You’ve got condoms, right?”
Clint had condoms. Shitloads of them. But the thought of bringing them over
here was...huge. Overwhelming.
Not to mention the fact that it wasn’t usually Clint who normally did the
fucking.
He must’ve made some weird face, because Phil’s expression kind of crumpled.
“Never mind, it was just a thought. Forget about it.”
Clint didn’t know what to say to that. Was Phil trying to make this more
complicated than it already was? Like it wasn’t bad enough that simple handjobs
tied Clint up into knots all the time? As far as Clint was concerned, fucking
was right up there with kissing. It was too much.
“I don’t think that’s such a great idea, Weasel,” Clint said, suddenly angry at
everything and hating how much he couldn’t look away from Phil’s painfully open
face. Which was probably why he added with a smirk, “I mean, you’re still
mostly a virgin, anyway, right?”
Phil’s whole body blushed. “We’ve done everything else.”
“I don’t fuck virgins.”
“What if I fucked you?”
The liquid rush of heat Clint felt at hearing Phil say the words just made him
angrier. “If I want to get fucked, I know where to go. With you I just get
off.”
Phil shut his eyes, but they both knew he couldn’t say shit; he’d already said
he didn’t care about the other guys Clint messed around with.
That didn’t stop Clint from wanting him to say something, anyway.
“You should go see Lucky,” Phil finally said as he slowly got his feet and
started cleaning himself off with a Kleenex. With his head bowed and sloped
shoulders, he looked so…defeated.
Whatever. Phil knew who and what Clint was coming into this. Clint wasn’t going
to apologize, or feel sorry for him.
If Phil wanted a boyfriend, maybe he could ask Rogers.
***** Chapter 7 *****
A year earlier, Clint had met a guy named Brayden at a tournament. Until that
moment, no one had ever come close to beating Clint. Brayden, however, had
given Clint a run for his money, enough to make Clint sweat a little.
It hadn’t hurt that he’d been hot as shit, all tall and lanky with freckles
everywhere.
After the match, Brayden had asked Clint if he could bum a smoke.
“I won. You should be giving me a smoke,” Clint had drawled.
Brayden had given him a long, slow smile and replied, “Raincheck?”
Ten minutes later, Brayden had had Clint pressed up against the locked door of
the men’s room with Clint’s jeans down around his knees. Clint had kept
Brayden’s number in his phone ever since.
The night after he left Lucky at Phil’s house, Clint called Brayden. It was
Friday, Margo and Terrance were visiting Margo’s sister, and Clint had the
evening to himself. But what he’d hoped would be just hanging out on the couch
with a pizza box and bad cable TV turned into him thinking about his dog and
wondering if he should stop by to see him. Which then immediately lead to
thoughts of Phil and the soft little sounds he’d make when he begged Clint to
make him come.
“Fuck this,” Clint growled and pulled Brayden’s number up in his phone. He
needed to get laid—really laid, not this part-time handjob bullshit. He’d spent
too much time getting wrapped up in this crap with Coulson.
What Clint needed was a reality check.
“Barton?” Brayden answered with a laugh. “Jesus, it’s been a while. What’s up?
Haven’t seen you on the tournament circuit lately.”
“Yeah, I’ve been, uh. Busy.” Clint closed his eyes and pictured Brayden’s broad
shoulders and wide hands. “Listen, what are you doin’ tonight?”
Brayden laughed again. “Why, you got something planned?”
“Maybe. If you don’t mind driving into town to pick me up.”
“That’s a forty minute drive.”
“You’ve done it before. I’ve made it worth your while.” Clint licked his lips.
Brayden hummed, his voice dropping into a low purr. “Yeah, you have,” he said.
“Your old man got some beer to steal?”
“I’ll see what I can find.”
Clint was waiting for him on the front porch when Brayden pulled up in his
Jeep. The six-pack of Bud Light sitting at his hip wasn’t Terrance’s, because
Clint would rather pilfer beer from the next door neighbor’s cooler than touch
his foster dad’s stash.
“You’re a pain in my ass,” Brayden said as Clint climbed into the car. But he
was grinning, especially when Clint dug his hand into the front of Brayden’s
shirt and reeled him into a hard, biting kiss.
This Clint could do. He could kiss Brayden forever and it wouldn’t mean a damn
thing. He wouldn’t be thinking about it in the morning, or wondering what the
fuck it all meant. He wouldn’t be picturing pretty blue eyes staring up at him,
asking for things Clint didn’t want to think about.
Brayden drove them to a parking lot of an abandoned furniture store on the edge
of town, a place they’d gone before that was dark and quiet. They shotgunned a
couple beers, then Clint crawled into Brayden’s lap and proceeded to make quick
work of their clothes.
“Goddamn, you’re fine,” Brayden breathed against Clint’s collarbone, teeth
scraping against skin, and Clint wanted to say something snappy, but he was
focused on keeping his eyes open. Brayden’s hands were everywhere, and Clint
wanted to see him, wanted to remind himself that he could have that gut-
clenching rush of overwhelming sensation with anyone, because sex was sex.
And yet...it wasn’t. Brayden touched him with confident assurance, not
tentativeness. He kissed Clint like it was a game, not something he needed
desperately. He didn’t leave marks on Clint’s skin and then trace his
fingertips over them like they were works of art. Brayden didn’t say Clint’s
name like it was a secret just between the two of them.
Brayden was everything Phil wasn’t. Clint grit his teeth and made himself
believe it was exactly what he wanted.
When it was over and the Jeep’s windows were fogged up, Brayden yawned as he
rolled off the condom and stuffed it into an old McDonald’s bag. “Wanna hang
out until you’re up for another round?” he asked, leaning across the gear shift
to nip at Clint’s mouth.
Clint forced a smile. He needed to see his dog. Too bad said dog was currently
residing in the last place Clint wanted to be. “Nah, that was my last condom. I
could go for a burger, though.” The former was a lie, but the latter was true.
Brayden snorted. “I would’ve worn a clean shirt if I’d know we were going on a
date.”
“I don’t date,” Clint replied, wiping the condensation off the passenger
window.
~
“You look terrible.”
Phil glanced up from where he’d laid his head against his locker to find Pepper
giving him a worried look. “I’m fine,” he mumbled.
“You don’t even sound decent enough to make that lie convincing. Is it your
head again?” she asked quietly.
He winced. Pepper always spotted his migraines. But unfortunately, there wasn’t
enough time for him to go home for his meds. He had a midterm in his History
class, and a game that evening that pretty much determined the fate of the rest
of the season.
“I’ve survived worse,” he said, thinking of his pain meds sitting in the
bathroom cabinet.
“Can you call your mom?”
“She’s in San Diego until tomorrow.”
Pepper shook her head. “I’ll go by your house, or get Tony to—”
“No, Pep, I said I was fine. Seriously.” Phil made himself smile as he patted
her shoulder. “I appreciate the concern, though.”
“Your mystery boyfriend could grab your meds, maybe?” she asked, one eyebrow
raised.
Phil gave a weak laugh. “Yeah, sure.” Clint hadn’t looked at him since Thursday
night, had been actively avoiding Phil since the whole talk about...things Phil
should’ve never, ever have brought up. The horrified look in Clint’s eyes at
the mere mention of—
He scrubbed a hand over his face. God, Phil hated that he couldn’t keep himself
from getting all soppy and earnest after sex. He was a fucking idiot, and now
Clint didn’t even want to be in the same room with him, let alone touch him.
Why did Phil have to say anything at all? Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth
shut and take what Clint gave him?
“So stupid,” Phil muttered under his breath as he slammed his locker shut.
“What?” Pepper frowned at him.
“Nothing. I’ve got a midterm to take.” He turned away before Pepper could fuss
at him anymore.
But Phil didn’t pay attention to where he was going, and he ran straight into
Clint. The force of the collision jarred Phil’s head, and he hissed in pain
before he gasped, “Sorry.” He waited for Clint to disappear, ignore him like
he’d been doing since Friday.
Instead, he heard Clint ask, “You okay?”
Phil slowly raised his eyes to meet Clint’s. “I’m...it’s just a headache.”
Clint leaned closer, close enough that Phil could smell hints of soap and
aftershave. His mouth went wet. Fuck, he was so, so lame. “Just a headache?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Phil replied a little too harshly. He watched
Clint’s throat bob as he swallowed, and in the process Phil’s gaze skimmed over
the curve of Clint’s neck where it connected to his shoulder, right above his
collarbone.
Flaring out from the edge of Clint’s t-shirt was a bruise. A dark, round purple
smudge. Mouth-shaped. It looked fresh, only a few days old.
Phil knew—he’d been careful not to bite Clint the last time in his room, in
case his mom saw anything—the bruise wasn’t his.
A cold fist curled up in his stomach, and for a moment his headache was
forgotten. All Phil could think about was the nameless guy who’d marked Clint,
who’d touched him and kissed him all he wanted, because Clint only gave Phil
stipulations. Phil wasn’t good enough to kiss.
With you I just get off. Clint’s words pounded through Phil’s brain, blaring
and stark. Phil wanted to punch something, or someone. Mostly the guy—all the
guys—who’d had Clint in ways Phil never would.
And yet now Clint was crowding into Phil’s space, squinting at Phil like he was
concerned about him, like he actually gave a shit about Phil.
“I could...I dunno, steal you some Advil?” Clint said, and the little crooked,
shy smile he gave Phil made Phil’s throat tighten.
He didn’t want anything from Clint. Phil was done being stupid.
“I didn’t ask for your help,” Phil growled, hating how rough his voice sounded,
like he was close to tears. His migraine suddenly came rushing back.
The smile immediately slid right off Clint’s face. Something flickered in his
eyes, and if Phil were still being a hopeless idiot, he would’ve thought it was
hurt. “Hey, fuck you, Weasel, I’m just being nice.”
“I don’t need you to be nice,” Phil sneered. “I’m not in the mood to blow you,
if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Clint’s expression darkened. “I didn’t say that,” he said, almost in a whisper.
“You didn’t have to.” The warning bell rang, making the pain scream in Phil’s
head. He shut his eyes, grit his teeth, and with his head bowed he shoved his
way past Clint and ran the rest of the way to class.
~
Clint didn’t work on Monday afternoons, so he threw himself into practice,
attacking targets with a vengeance. He figured if he concentrated hard enough
he wouldn’t think about Phil’s face all scrunched up in pain, or the way he
more or less told Clint to fuck off.
The thing was, Clint had been thinking about Phil nonstop since the night in
Brayden’s car, which was the exact opposite of what was supposed to have
happened. Brayden should’ve fucked all thoughts of Phil right out of Clint’s
head.
“D’you know anything about migraines?” he asked Kate, who was shooting at the
target beside his.
She lowered her bow and stared at him. “Uh, not really? My mom gets them
sometimes, I guess—why?”
Clint shrugged. “No reason.”
“Are you sick or something? You have been acting really weird lately…”
“Don’t worry about it.” Nat could read him like a book, but Kate tended to be a
bit more oblivious. Sometimes Clint thought she did it on purpose.
“By the way, Nat and I are going to the game tonight. Since you and Coulson are
buddies now, you should give soccer another chance.” There was a sing-song lilt
to her voice. Clint wondered if maybe she wasn’t so oblivious after all.
His blush deepened. “Naw, I’m good. Need the practice.” Phil wouldn’t want him
there, anyway. Not that it mattered, not that Phil had ever asked Clint to be
at one of his games…
Shit, since when did he ever care about this crap? Clint glowered at the target
and released another arrow.
He heard her sigh loudly and then felt a hand on his arm, forcing him to lower
his bow. “Phil’s really good, y’know,” Kate said. “Like, really good. He’s
gonna get a full ride somewhere, maybe even go pro.”
Clint shrugged off her hand. “So?”
“So, you should come see him in action. I think you’d enjoy it.” She waggled
her eyebrows.
“Katie—”
“No, Nat already told me you’re in denial. I don’t have time for that.”
He spluttered. “I’m not in denial about anything!”
“Uh-huh.” Kate squinted at him. “What if I told you there was a rumor that
Coulson and Steve Rogers were a thing?”
Clint felt his stomach immediately drop, and his heart started pounding.
“That’s not—he’s never even had—who told you that?”
She threw both arms up in the air. “I knew it!” Kate whooped. “God, Nat wasn’t
kidding. Holy crap.”
“Seriously, who told you Coulson was—with someone?” Clint fought hard to keep
his voice even, to not picture Phil smiling sweetly at that big blond Boy
Scout.
“No one told me, I made it up. Although I once heard Coulson had a crush on
Steve, but that was years ago.” She beamed at Clint and poked him in the chest.
“You’re not denying anything, though.”
“There’s nothing to deny. We’re friends. We’re doing a project together for
Fury. End of story.” Phil had had a crush on Rogers? For how long? Did he still
have a thing for him?
“All the more reason you should come to the game with us.” Kate looped her arm
around Clint’s. “C’mon, I’ll buy you popcorn and promise not to scream too
loudly for your hot goalie boyfriend.”
“Never call him that,” Clint hissed, which only made Kate snort with laughter.
He couldn’t put up much of a fight after that.
~
Phil had played a lot of games in his life, but none of them had ever compared
to the absolute misery of that night’s regional qualifier. Winning meant his
team would go on to play for a district title and then go on to state
competition. Everything was riding on Phil performing at his best.
So even with his vision blurry and pain screaming in his head, Phil played as
hard as he possibly could. And by the skin of their teeth, his team won by one
point, thanks to Phil blocking what would’ve been a tying goal with seconds
left on the clock.
While the whole field went nuts and teammates shouted his name, Phil sunk to
his knees and tried to breathe past the nausea all the noise caused. The tips
of his fingers felt numb.
“Coulson, hey, you all right?” Bucky asked, dropping down beside him. He
grasped Phil’s shoulder and shook him good-naturedly. Phil bit back a moan.
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” he managed to say as he struggled to his feet.
Bucky didn’t look convinced, but Phil could tell he was trying hard not to
smile. The rest of the guys ran up to Phil and started congratulating him,
hugging his shoulders and ruffling his hair. Phil just wanted to curl into a
ball and hide until the pain stopped.
“You’re the hero of the night, dude!” someone yelled, and Bucky grinned.
“C’mon, we need to celebrate,” he said.
Phil grimaced. “I—I can’t.” It was taking a lot of effort just to walk to the
locker rooms.
Bucky frowned. “Seriously, did you jack up your knee or something? I can get
Coach to—”
“No, it’s cool, I just—just need to go home, that’s all.” He’d done what he
needed to do, and now all he wanted in the world was to get to his meds and
sleep for a million years.
He changed slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. The locker room
was an absolute chaos of cheers and yelling. Phil shut his eyes and put his
head in his heads, telling himself he could make it just twenty more minutes
until he was home. If only his mom wasn’t out of town.
He forced a smile when his coach congratulated him—”Couldn’t have done it
without you, Coulson”—and dragged his duffel bag onto his shoulder. All he had
to do was make it to his car, drive twelve blocks to his house, and then climb
ten steps to his room. He waited another half hour until the locker room was
quiet and empty and slowly made his way out to his car.
Phil didn’t plan on a couple rival team players to be waiting for him, however.
“Hey, asswipe, you think you’re such a hot shot?” the first guy said. Phil
vaguely recognized him as the other team’s goalie.
The second guy, who was taller and stockier, shoved Phil’s shoulder. “Bet we
could beat the shit out of you right now and you wouldn’t even do anything
about it.”
They were right. Phil wouldn’t do anything about it, but not for the reasons
they thought. Every last bit of strength he had left was being used to keep
himself upright. He could barely keep his eyes open.
“Let it go, guys,” he said, hating how weak his voice sounded. Of course this
would happen after the rest of his team had cleared out, eager to go drink
somewhere and celebrate. No one was around.
“We will, as soon as we fuck you up,” the taller guy said. He grabbed Phil by
the front of his t-shirt and slammed him back against the side of the building.
Pain screamed through every inch of Phil’s body, making him grit his teeth and
moan against his will.
“D’you hear that? This’ll be sweet,” the shorter guy drawled with a laugh as he
grabbed Phil’s chin and hauled his fist back.
Phil held his breath and waited for the punch.
“Hey!” a familiar voice yelled. “Douchebags! Lookin’ for a real fight?” It was
almost funny, because Phil could swear it sounded like Clint. How pathetic that
Phil was desperate enough to hallucinate Clint coming to his rescue.
Only the next thing Phil knew, Tall Guy had suddenly released his hold and was
being thrown onto the ground by someone who looked just like Clint. Phil
blinked hard and watched as said Clint look-a-like kicked him straight in the
stomach.
“Dude, this doesn’t concern you!” Shorter Guy said and made an attempt to pull
Clint Look-a-Like off his teammate.
“I think it does, fuckwad. My school, my team, my goalie.” And the way he said
it, the way he smirked at the end of the sentence right before he tackled the
second guy set off alarm bells in Phil’s head.
Clint.
Phil slid down the wall, exhausted and speechless. Clint punched Shorter Guy in
the nose, and his knuckles came back bloody. Tall Guy tried to grab Clint
around the ankles, but Clint had quick reflexes—Phil knew first-hand—and he
easily slid out of the guy’s reach. The three of them wrestled on the ground in
a blur of fists and knees until Phil heard his coach call out, “What the hell’s
going on here?”
The brawl separated immediately. Clint stayed sprawled on the ground, panting
and sweaty but looking very satisfied. Shorter Guy held his nose as blood
seeped through his fingers, and his teammate had the makings of a fierce black
eye.
Phil’s heart was racing so fast he could feel it in his throat.
Coach pointed at the two rival teammates. “Aren’t you boys supposed to be on
your bus home?”
Tall Guy mumbled, “Yes, sir.”
“I should get your coach, have you both suspended. But from the looks of it,
he’ll see the damage you caused and do it himself.” He raised an eyebrow at
Clint. “Barton, care to tell me what happened?”
Clint sat up and licked the corner of his mouth where his lip was split. “These
two were attacking Coulson, sir. In case you didn’t notice, he’s not exactly up
for defending himself.”
Coach looked at Phil. The angry pinch between his eyes melted into concern. “Is
that true, Coulson?”
“I’m fine,” Phil heard himself say for the millionth time. He couldn’t stop
staring at Clint, who hadn’t looked at him once since the fight started.
“You don’t look it. Barton, take Coulson home. You two—” He glared at the
rivals. “—get back to your damn bus. I’ll be calling your AD in the morning.”
They scurried off without comment. Clint sighed heavily and flopped back on the
ground.
Coach asked, “You sure you don’t need anything, Phil?”
He shook his head slowly. “Just need to get home.”
“I’ll take care of it, sir,” he heard Clint say.
Coach laid a gentle hand on Phil’s shoulder. “Take tomorrow off,” he said
quietly. “I’ll clear it with Principal Xavier. All right?”
Phil’s throat felt tight. He nodded, afraid to say anything.
When they were alone, Clint rolled to his feet, rubbing the back of his hand
over his mouth. Then he crouched down in front of Phil and finally met his
eyes.
“C’mon,” he whispered, and held out his hand.
Phil took it, leaning all his weight against Clint’s chest. He was beyond
caring about his pride; it just felt good to be taken care of. Clint’s arm was
heavy and firm around his shoulders as he half-carried Phil to his car.
“Jesus, Coulson, why’d you do this to yourself?” Clint muttered. He propped
Phil up against the door as he dug the keys out of Phil’s pocket.
“Had to. People were counting on me. Can’t let ‘em down.” Phil’s words were
beginning to slur together. He couldn’t keep his eyes open, the lights of the
parking lot were too bright.
“No one wants you to kill yourself, dumbass.” The passenger door clicked open
and Phil let himself be manhandled into the seat. He tipped his head against
the window and whimpered at the steady throbbing behind his eyes.
“Why’d you really fight them?” Phil asked when he heard Clint climb into the
driver’s side and start the car. “Didn’t even...know you were at the...at my
game.”
Clint didn’t say anything for several long moments. Phil could heard the car
pull onto the side street, the quiet ping of a turn signal.
“Wanted to see you in action,” Clint eventually replied. He never answered the
first part of Phil’s question.
~
Clint’s hands were still shaking when he pulled into Phil’s driveway. The last
twenty minutes were a blur, and his knuckles hurt from punching that asshole in
the nose. His lip was bleeding, but nothing too terrible. Clint had had worse.
He was so damn lucky Phil’s coach hadn’t suspended him. Clint wouldn’t have
protested, though; he’d known, in the back of his mind, that he shouldn’t have
gone after those guys. He already had one fight to his name on school grounds.
But the image of Phil all pale and slumped against the wall, looking utterly
beaten as that dickbag had jerked him around—Clint only remembered everything
in his brain sort of fuzzing out and turning red. He’d been on his way back
home from the game, having turned down Kate’s offer to drive him. Clint had
wanted to be alone for a while to think about how graceful Phil had been out on
the field, and how much it hurt to watch him be so perfect. He’d noticed Phil’s
stiff movements at times, and the way he’d grimaced each time he blocked a
ball, but Clint would never have guessed Phil was as bad off as he was.
Seeing how fragile Phil had looked in the face of that rival goalie made Clint
want to burn the world down. It was a terrifying, overwhelming thought.
Phil made a soft sound of protest when Clint opened the passenger side door.
“Almost there,” Clint said, looping Phil’s arm around his neck. “Is your mom
home?”
“No, not ‘til tomorrow,” Phil murmured. He turned his face into Clint’s neck.
“My house key’s on—”
“Yeah, got it.” Clint fumbled with Phil’s key ring, picking one at random. He
was in luck; the front opened easily, and with steady hands Clint guided Phil
through the foyer to the stairs. Lucky was there almost immediately. He came to
a stop at Clint’s side and woofed.
“Not right now, dude, okay?” Clint said, giving Lucky one quick, cursory pat.
“He can come upstairs. He sleeps with me sometimes,” Phil said, words slightly
muffled into Clint’s neck.
Clint swallowed, imagining Lucky curled up on Phil’s bed. “Tryin’ to make me
jealous, Weasel?” He tried to laugh as he carefully walked Phil up the stairs.
Phil clung tightly to him, his shoulders hunched. He smelled like sweat and
grass.
“He’ll sleep with you someday.” Phil’s words were getting progressively more
slurred. Clint nudged Phil’s bedroom door open with his foot, and for once he
was happy to know the layout of the room so well. He avoided turning the light
on and all but carried Phil the rest of the way to his bed, where he pulled
back the covers and did his best to lay Phil down as gently as possible. Phil
moaned the second his head hit the pillow, but it didn’t sound painful.
Clint went to work untying Phil’s sneakers. “Where’s your meds?” Lucky sat at
Clint’s feet, eyes solemn and watchful.
“In the—the bathroom cabinet. In the hall. ‘s got my name on it.” Phil buried
his face in his pillow.
Sure enough, there was a bottle of codeine in the cabinet, half full. How often
did Phil get migraines like this to warrant a doctor’s prescription? Clint
checked the recommended dosage, then grabbed a glass of water.
Phil managed to sit up long enough to swallow his pills and drink all the water
before immediately burrowing back under the covers.
Clint just stood there holding an empty glass. He didn’t know what to do next.
“I owe you,” he heard Phil say, small and almost too soft to hear.
Clint shook his head. “You’re an idiot if you think that.” Lucky butted his
head against Clint’s leg, reminding him once again that if it weren’t for Phil,
Lucky’d probably be dead.
“I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
“Shut up and go to sleep,” Clint said roughly. Then he said to Lucky, “C’mon,
Pizza Dog, you need a trip outside.” Lucky woofed, immediately heading
downstairs. Clint followed after him and let him out the front door. As if he’d
been housebroken for years, Lucky did his job without even being asked. Clint
wondered if Phil had been training him.
When Lucky was finished, Clint said, “I’ll see you later, okay?”
Lucky cocked his head.
“I’m not staying, dude.”
Lucky blinked at him and gave a low woof. He turned around trotted back to the
door, glancing over his shoulder at Clint like he fully expected him to follow.
The house was eerily quiet and dark. Clint thought of Phil curled up in his
bed, in pain and alone. Lucky was hardly a guard dog.
Maybe he was the idiot, or maybe he was a masochist at heart. Either way, he
couldn’t make himself leave. Instead, he went back inside, locked the door
behind him, and climbed the stairs to Phil’s room. Phil was right where Clint
had left him, the top of his head barely visible from underneath the blankets.
Clint rubbed both hands over his face. “Screw it,” he whispered to himself.
He crawled onto the bed on the opposite side and laid down on top of the
comforter, his chest up against Phil’s back as he settled his right arm into
the curve of Phil’s hip. A second later, the bed shifted as Lucky jumped up on
the mattress, curling up at Clint’s feet.
Clint closed his eyes as his lips skimmed feather-soft over Phil’s nape. Phil
sighed, long and deep, but didn’t push Clint away.
He’d just stay until Phil fell asleep. Then he’d leave.
~
Phil woke slowly, the light in his room an unfocused gray. The clock on his
nightstand read 8:24 in the morning. And his head, thankfully, blissfully,
didn’t hurt anymore.
He rubbed his face against his pillow and took stock of himself. Everything
inch of him was still bone-tired, but he wasn’t in pain. The tips of his
fingers were no longer numb, and he could open his eyes completely and take in
the early morning light without flinching. Phil remembered his coach’s promise
to tell Principal Xavier that Phil wouldn’t be at school that day. Phil felt a
little guilty, but his tests were taken and practice that afternoon would be
light following a big game.
He could let himself take a break.
The rest of last night’s events started to come back to him, though they were a
bit fuzzy in spots. Phil remembered Clint practically carrying him up the
stairs to his room and giving him meds, but everything else faded to black
after that. He vaguely recalled Clint demanding he go to sleep…
Phil heard a soft snuffling sound behind him. It didn’t sound like Lucky; most
mornings he’d already trotted off to get breakfast. Soon Phil would need to go
down to the kitchen and refill Lucky’s food bowl and let him outside. He
stretched slowly and rolled onto his side toward the center of the bed.
He came face to face with a slightly rumpled Clint who was fully dressed and
dead to the world. His face was smashed into the spare pillow, and Phil could
see the remains of a red, ugly cut at the corner of Clint’s mouth where he’d
gotten punched. His eyelashes were almost a pale blond, long and delicate in
the early morning light, all spread out over his sleep-flushed cheeks.
Clint’s arm was stretched toward Phil, his right hand splayed against the
comforter. Like he’d spent the night reaching for Phil—or holding onto him.
Phil’s heart thumped hard. Clint had really, honestly spent the night in his
bed. And absolutely no sex had been involved.
They’d never had a moment like this where things were just...quiet and easy.
Phil never got to simply lie next to Clint and take him in, memorize the tiny
scar above his eyebrow or way his day-old stubble was splotchy blond and brown.
He wondered if anyone else had ever watched Clint sleep, or noticed how young
he really looked without all his hard edges.
He stayed with me, Phil thought in amazement. It didn’t seem possible. Maybe
Phil was high on his pain meds and dreaming it all.
Because, yes, in his room, in the hushed morning light, Phil could admit that
he would dream up something like this. He’d thought about Clint curling up next
to him, around him, tucking Phil tight against his chest while the two of them
whispered to each other in dark as they fell asleep. And when Phil would wake
the next day, he’d pictured Clint just like this: soft, vulnerable but not
weak, and so intimately beautiful he made Phil’s chest ache.
Phil swallowed tightly as he reached out and traced his finger over the curve
of Clint’s bottom lip. Clint gave a sleepy little moan, pushing into Phil’s
touch like a cat. Phil’s thumb skidded over warm, smooth skin.
If this were still Phil’s dream, he’d kiss Clint awake. Clint would open his
eyes and smile and kiss Phil back, whispering, “Morning, Weasel,” against
Phil’s mouth.
But it wasn’t a dream at all. In the reality, Clint frowned sleepily, grunted
low in his throat, and suddenly bolted upright in bed.
“Oh fuck, what time is it?”
Phil rolled onto his back and shoved a hand through his hair. “Nearly nine,” he
said.
“Fuck, I’m gonna miss first period.” Clint scrambled off the bed, gangly and
uncoordinated in his half-awake state, his hair an absolute wreck. There was a
pink pillow crease across his cheek.
Then, as if finally coming to full consciousness, Clint came to a stop at the
foot of the bed and blinked at Phil. “Um...how’re you feeling?” he asked.
“Better. A lot better. Thanks,” Phil said with as much casualness as possible.
He hoped Clint couldn’t take one look at him and tell that he’d just spent the
last ten minutes fantasizing about fucking cuddling.
Clint nodded, his blue eyes still a bit sleep-fogged. “Good, that’s—good.” He
folded his arms across his chest. “I gotta run. Sorry I fell asleep on you.”
Phil didn’t know if he should say he didn’t mind, that he’d rather wake up with
Clint beside him than alone, or that he didn’t care. Neither option seemed like
a good idea, not with his head still a bit fuzzy and the urge to kiss Clint
nearly overwhelming. So instead, he swallowed hard and mumbled, “It happens.”
Clint paused, his expression unreadable. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened
it again and said, softly, “Last night, at the game—you were amazing.”
Before Phil could wrap his head around that statement, Clint was gone, down the
stairs and out the front door.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Summary
     Something had changed, but Phil was afraid to bring it up. Talking
     about stuff never lead to anything good.
After the night in Phil’s room, Clint knew something had changed. He didn’t
know how or why, only that Phil smiled a little bit more at him and
Clint...liked it. A lot.
They still messed around in the locker rooms, and they didn’t talk about doing
the other stuff. But sometimes Clint just wanted to watch the slow blush creep
over Phil’s cheeks when Clint touched him in little, simple ways. The
breathless sounds Phil would make whenever Clint kissed the soft spot behind
Phil’s ear were so damn hot, Clint would think about them for the rest of the
day.
He’d think about Phil all day, regardless of whether or not the sex happened.
It didn’t help that Phil would catch Clint looking at him during English class
and duck his head, grinning as he kicked his foot playfully against Clint’s
under his desk. He wouldn’t look at Clint again for the rest of class, but
Clint would have an anxious little flutter in his belly as he waited for the
bell to ring. Especially if it was a Thursday, because Thursdays meant Clint
was allowed to have Phil alone in Phil’s room, free to do whatever they wanted.
Whatever Clint wanted.
He thought about Phil all the time, and that was a big problem. It was
dangerous, and Clint knew better.
He reminded himself of this when he saw Phil walking through the halls at
school with Steve Rogers, smiling that same smile Clint thought was reserved
just for him. Rogers made some joke and Phil laughed, nose all scrunched up and
his cheeks pink as he knocked his shoulder into Rogers’.
Clint bit the inside of his lip and abruptly thought, Fuck you, Boy Scout, he’s
mine.
The bottom dropped out of his stomach. Clint felt light-headed, a little
nauseous. Without thinking, Clint ran out of the building and around the corner
to the closest alcove where the smoker kids hung out. Thankfully, the spot was
deserted. Clint let his backpack drop to the ground with a loud thump as he dug
out his cigarettes with shaking hands, muttering, “Get your shit together,
Barton.”
He was so fucked. So, so utterly fucked. And to make matters worse, his lighter
was broken.
”Damn it,” Clint growled as he threw the thing against the closest wall. The
lighter bounced harmlessly off the bricks, which did nothing to calm Clint’s
racing heart.
He should’ve let this thing with him and Phil die out weeks ago. And earlier
that day, he definitely shouldn’t have let Phil—all post-orgasm hazy and
beaming at Clint like he’d done something amazing—wrap his arms around Clint’s
neck and place a tiny, gentle kiss against the side of Clint’s jaw.
“Your shirt’s on inside out,” he’d whispered into Clint’s ear, and they’d both
giggled like they were drunk, Clint’s hands splayed over Phil’s hips, the tips
of his fingers pushed under the hem of Phil’s t-shirt.
“Thanks,” Clint had murmured lazily, and for a moment he’d almost—almost—pulled
back just enough to let their mouths slide together.
Now, three hours later, Clint was thinking of Phil as his.
He slammed his knuckles into the brick. The pain was sharp, biting, and Clint
appreciated the hell out of it.
With his right hand stinging, Clint typed out a quick text to Phil with his
left: Can’t meet tonight, something came up.
Screw their stupid Fury project. Clint was gonna get his shit together.
~
Phil was standing outside the door to his Psychology class with Steve when his
phone buzzed. Steve was in the middle of ranting about the unknown plot of the
new Jurassic Park movie, which was always entertaining. Steve was very serious
about his dinosaurs.
“I’m just saying, we have new evidence now!” he said earnestly as Phil took out
his phone. “There should at least be feathered velociraptors at some point,
y’know? It’s a new movie, and we have new science.”
Phil wished Bucky was around—he never failed to get Steve all riled up by
insisting that birds weren’t reptiles. Steve fell for it every time. “Maybe you
should write Spielberg an angry letter.”
“Quit trying to sound like Bucky,” Steve said with a very exasperated eye roll.
“You’re both jerks.”
“Barnes would take that as a compliment,” Phil replied with a smirk, but his
good mood faded when he read the text waiting for him from Clint.
Can’t meet tonight, something came up.
What the hell did that mean? Clint never canceled their meetings—unless
something bad had happened. Phil thought back to earlier that morning in the
locker rooms. Clint had been loose and relaxed, even happy, if the pleased hums
he’d made after he’d come in Phil’s hand had meant anything. He’d gotten a lot
more tactile with Phil since that night he’d taken Phil home from the game; he
touched Phil almost constantly the second they were alone, hands sliding over
Phil’s stomach, the small of his back, his nape. Even after they’d both come,
Clint seemed reluctant to let any space come between them. Sometimes he’d pull
Phil in close and nuzzle his face into the curve of Phil’s jaw, like he just
wanted to breathe Phil in.
Something had changed, but Phil was afraid to bring it up. Talking about stuff
never lead to anything good.
“Hey, are you okay?” Steve asked.
Phil blinked at him, unaware he’d been glaring at his phone. “What? Um, yeah.
Sure.” But what if Clint had problems at home again? If he was in trouble, Phil
would figure something out, he’d talk his mom into letting Clint stay over, or
maybe—
“I wish you’d tell me what was really going on.” Steve was watching him with a
worried look in his eyes.
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Everyone’s noticed how distracted you’ve been lately. You might think you’re
being subtle, but you’re not.”
Steve had always been scarily perceptive. Between him and Pepper, Phil rarely
hid anything. It was hard lying to them.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Phil said quietly, shoving his phone back into his
bag, but not before he texted back, If it’s bad, tell me.
“Wouldn’t understand what? Why don’t you tell me first and see for yourself.”
Phil sighed. He couldn’t even explain this thing with Clint to himself, let
alone his friends. “Can you just drop it, Steve? I appreciate you guys being
worried, but—”
“Are you dating someone you don’t think we’d approve of?” Steve asked. He
suddenly looked so hurt, Phil wanted to hug him. “We’d never judge you like
that—I’d never judge you like that.”
“I’m not dating anyone,” Phil said tightly. At least it was the truth. “It’s
complicated. That’s all I’ll say.”
Steve shook his head. “Look, promise that when it stops being complicated
you’ll tell me? Or Bucky?” He laughed weakly, since they both knew Bucky was
the worst at keeping secrets.
Clint Barton was about as complicated as they came, and Phil didn’t think that
was going to change anytime soon. But Steve’s sad puppy eyes were hard to take
for long, so Phil forced a smile and replied, “Yeah, I promise.”
Steve didn’t look thoroughly convinced—he and Pepper shared the same ‘I-know-
you’re-hiding-something’ expression—but he didn’t press Phil any further. “I’m
gonna be late for Chemistry. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Phil wanted to feel like a dick for keeping things from Steve, but the
unanswered text to Clint kept tugging at his mind. He spent all of class
waiting for his phone to buzz with a response.
He never got one.
~
It didn’t use to be all that hard to avoid Phil at school. Ignoring Phil had
been easy, effortless. It never left a dull ache in his chest.
Clint hadn’t seen Lucky in several days, and he desperately missed his dog.
Occasionally Phil would text him pictures of Lucky curled up on his dog bed, or
sitting at Phil’s feet. Clint secretly cherished every one of them, and kept
them in a special folder on his phone.
Thursday night, after he’d refused to go to Phil’s house, Phil sent him a text
at ten o’clock. It was a selfie with his face smushed up against Lucky’s, who
was panting happily at the camera. Phil was smiling crookedly.
Lucky misses you & hopes everything’s okay, the following text read.
As Clint stared at the photo, that same dull ache swept through him. He’d
ignored Phil all day, hadn’t answered his previous texts, and yet Phil had
still taken the time to send him a picture of Lucky.
”He cares about you,” Nat’s words echoed in his head. Clint traced his thumb
over the screen, along the edge of Phil’s smile. His heart beat a little
faster.
He was about to do something really stupid, like text Phil back that he was all
right, when he heard Margo’s raised voice down the hall from his room.
“I really wish you’d told me first, Terry,” she said. There was angry worry in
her tone. “This is a huge deal. What happens if they say yes?”
“It’s a huge deal and that’s the whole point. D’you know how much the starting
salary is for loading managers up there? More money than we’d ever see around
here.”
“It’s Minnesota. It snows a million days a year! You hate snow!”
“I hate my job here more. Okay, yeah, I should’ve told you I was interviewing,
but it just sorta happened. I couldn’t pass the opportunity up.”
Clint stood tucked against the doorway by the kitchen. He could see Margo
sitting at the dining table, still dressed in her work uniform. Terrance leaned
on the refrigerator as he opened a fresh beer bottle and tossed the cap onto
the counter.
Margo sighed heavily. “We’d have to put the house up for sale.”
Terrance shrugged. “We’ll rent in Minneapolis until it sells.”
“What about Clint?”
A long pause. Clint held his breath.
Terrance said, “The paperwork for moving him out of state’ll be a bitch.”
Clint slumped against the wall, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him.
“It’s three months into the school year. We can’t expect him to—”
“I’m not doing this for Clint, Margo. As far as I’m concerned, he can manage
whatever we tell him. Hell, maybe Minneapolis will help get his ass in line for
a change.”
“What if we can’t get through all the red tape?”
“Then he can be another family’s problem.”
Clint’s cheeks felt too hot. He curled his hands into fists to keep them from
shaking before slipping silently back down the hallway to his room.
Once the door shut behind him, lock firmly in place, Clint collapsed on his bed
and let out a loud, broken sigh that sounded a lot like a sob. He covered his
face with his hands, bit down hard on his lower lip.
He could handle this. He could. It wasn’t like he’d never started over in a
strange town, or went months without friends. Clint knew how to survive. And in
a year he’d be eighteen and on his own for good. Whatever happened, he just had
to tough it out for a year.
“One year,” he whispered into his palms.
He wanted to scream. Mostly, though, Clint wanted to cry over how easily
everything in his life could go to shit.
He thought of the picture of Lucky and Phil on his phone. Wherever Clint ended
up, Lucky was going to be miles and miles away from him. He’d probably never
see him again.
He’d probably never see Phil again.
Clint curled up on his bed, his spare pillow clutched to his chest as he dialed
a number he’d never called before tonight.
On the third ring, he heard Phil say, “Clint?”
He opened his mouth to say something, anything.
“Clint, is that you? Are you okay?”
I don’t want to leave you. He couldn’t form the words without breaking down.
“Clint—”
He hung up and shut his phone off, pushing it under the mattress. He wondered
how long it would take Phil to forget about him. Clint wagered three months,
maybe five. He’d be taking care of Clint’s dog, after all.
Clint rolled onto his stomach, buried his face in his pillow, and quietly fell
apart.
~
Phil stared at his laptop screen and reread the same line of his lit notes for
the millionth time. He knew there would be a quiz over The Great Gatsby the
next day, but a dumb quiz meant nothing when he couldn’t stop thinking about
the phone call from Clint not ten minutes ago. Clint had never called him
before, and Phil knew, he knew from the silence on the other end of the line
that something was very, very wrong.
His mom was home for the rest of the week, which meant she’d be up late at the
dining room table with her laptop and work files. Phil rarely heard her go to
bed before midnight.
He considered sneaking out the back door, but Phil knew, eventually, his mom
would notice he was gone. He’d once tried sneaking out to go to Bucky’s house
when he was twelve and grounded—he’d been caught in less than twenty minutes.
Besides, Phil didn’t like lying to his mom.
He snapped his laptop shut, huffing out a loud breath. No, he wouldn’t second-
guess this. Phil needed to get to Clint, end of story. He grabbed a hoodie and
shoved his sneakers on, tucking his phone into the back pocket of his jeans as
he ran down the stairs.
Sure enough, his mom was camped out at the dinner table, lost in a sea of
paperwork, the glow from her MacBook reflecting off of her reading glasses. She
glanced up when Phil came to a stop in the doorway.
“You look like you’re going out,” she said with a knowing smile. “It’s a bit
late for that, don’t you think?”
Phil swallowed. “It’s an emergency.”
His mom frowned. “Can I help?”
“No, I—” He winced and pushed a hand through his hair. Phil wished his heart
wasn’t beating so hard. “It’s Clint. I...I have to go see him.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah. Right now.” Phil felt his cheeks go warm, but he held his mom’s gaze and
squared his shoulders.
She sat back in her chair and folded both arms over her chest. “Clint doesn’t
have the best home life, does he.” It wasn’t a question.
Phil shook his head.
“That’s why Lucky’s with us.” Again, not a question.
“Lucky is all he has,” Phil said softly. “His foster dad tried to—you didn’t
see the bruise.” He took a step forward and gripped the back of the closest
dining chair. Everything went a bit blurry as he pictured Clint sitting alone
in his room, nursing another black eye, or worse.
He didn’t notice that his mom was standing beside him until she cupped his chin
and forced him to meet her eyes.
“He’s special to you, isn’t he?” she whispered.
Phil couldn’t lie to her. He was tired of lying to himself. “Yeah,” he said in
a tiny voice, and that one word felt both impossibly huge and incredibly
freeing.
His mom gave him a slow, careful smile. “I wondered. You’re always watching
him, like you can’t take your eyes away. I’ve never seen you like that with
anyone else before.”
“I’ve looked at people,” Phil said, trying to duck away from her hold. She held
on.
“Not like you look at Clint.”
“I…” He didn’t know what to say to that. “Are you saying you’ll let me go?”
She sighed. “Yes, but don’t stay out too late. And if it’s truly an emergency,
you will tell me and not try to fix things yourself. Right?”
Phil nodded, his heart in his throat.
From his dog bed in the living room, Lucky woofed.
“You should take him with you,” his mom said.
Phil pictured Clint’s foster dad going ballistic at seeing Lucky near his
house. “That’s probably not a good idea.” But if worse came to worse, he’d
bring Clint to Lucky.
~
Though he’d only been there once, Phil still remembered Clint’s address. It was
almost scary, how easily he made the various turns without any thought, until
he eventually found himself parked across the street from the same shabby two-
story he remembered from that rainy, horrible day he’d met Lucky.
The house was dark except for a dim light in a downstairs window. Having never
actually been inside Clint’s house, Phil didn’t begin to know which room was
his. He held his breath as he dialed Clint’s number.
It went straight to voicemail.
“Damn it,” Phil muttered, slamming his hand against the steering wheel. Then
again, what was he expecting? Just walk into Clint’s house and make small talk
with his fosters? He leaned back in his seat and stared helplessly at the
house.
Curtains shifted against the single light; that downstairs window was open,
Phil noticed. The curtains parted for a moment, and suddenly he could just make
out the shape of a person lying on a bed.
Phil fumbled the car door open, heart jammed in his throat. He nearly tripped
over his feet rushing to get to that window, to make sure Clint was okay. More
horrible, ugly images of Clint bruised and battered flashed through Phil’s
mind, making his stomach cramp.
As he got closer, Phil could see Clint clearly through the flimsy curtains,
curled up on his side facing the wall. He looked small and very young. Phil
could see the line of Clint’s spine through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.
Phil’s mouth went dry. Did someone hurt you again? he thought. His hands were
shaking.
He couldn’t stand out there all night staring through Clint’s bedroom window
like a creeper. Phil had to do something.
Swallowing hard, he said in a rough voice, “Hey.”
Clint startled badly. The pillow clutched in his arms fell to the floor as he
jolted upright on the bed. He looked around wildly until his gaze landed on
Phil.
“What—” Clint blinked. “What the fuck, Coulson?” His voice sounded like it was
scrapped raw.
And that’s when Phil saw the shirt Clint was wearing.
He pushed back the curtains with both hands and hefted himself through the
window. “Is that my soccer camp shirt?”
Clint stood up and plucked absently at the hem. “I guess,” he mumbled.
Phil had forgotten that Clint still had it. That afternoon in his room seemed
like a lifetime ago. So much had happened since then.
He glanced around the room and took in the bare walls, the single bed in the
corner with the worn quilt and pale blue sheets. Nothing gave the impression
that a high school kid lived there except the dirty laundry on the floor and an
empty Doritos bag on the nightstand. Taped above a small dresser was a picture
of a hawk—it looked like a page torn from an ancient issue of Zoobooks. Clint’s
bow and quiver sat by the closet door, but there didn’t seem to be any other
personal items around.
Phil looked back at Clint, who was slowly curling in on himself again, arms
hugged tight around his chest. His eyes were very red and puffy, but they
weren’t bruised.
“What happened?” Phil whispered, because he couldn’t make himself say the words
any louder. He could barely breathe.
Clint kept his head bowed and didn’t say anything. Silence ticked by, until
Clint sniffed softly and jerked the back of his hand over his nose.
Phil had never wanted to touch someone so badly. He wanted to wrap himself
around Clint, sink into him, take whatever hurt he was feeling as his own. He
wanted to find whoever had made Clint look like this and make them pay.
He didn’t touch Clint. But he did move closer, close enough that he could feel
the heat coming off Clint. He could hear Clint’s breathing, the way it was
stuttered, shallow, like he was desperately trying not to cry.
“Clint—”
“You didn’t have to come here.”
“You needed me to. You wouldn’t have called if you didn’t.”
Clint shook his head. Phil waited for him to tell him to get out, or leave him
alone, or shut the fuck up.
The very last thing Phil expected was for Clint to give a tiny, devastating sob
and reach out to curl his hand into the front of Phil’s hoodie. He tugged Phil
close until their foreheads pressed together.
“You didn’t have to come,” Clint whispered again, and Phil felt Clint’s fingers
tighten against his chest. Like he was afraid Phil would leave.
Phil had spent many years learning how to take care of himself, or at the very
least, how to adapt when things seemed to be falling apart around him. He had a
mom who loved him dearly, and that went a long way. But Clint didn’t have
anyone. If the world fell apart, Clint just held on and hoped he’d come out in
one piece when it was all over.
Maybe it was the helplessness that washed over Phil at knowing he couldn’t save
Clint from all the shit in his life that made him do it. Maybe it was just the
need to do something instead of watching Clint shiver on the verge of tears.
Phil would look back on it later and never really know why.
He simply leaned back, cupped Clint’s face with both hands, and kissed him like
it was the last thing left for him to do.
Phil held his breath, mouth barely parted. Clint’s lips were chapped, but they
were warm, warmer that his scruffy cheeks. He heard Clint gasp softly as he
held very still and didn’t kiss back.
Don’t push me away, Phil thought. Please let me, just this once.
Very slowly, Clint’s grip on Phil’s hoodie relaxed, and Phil’s heart sank.
Then Clint tilted his head slightly and sighed against Phil’s mouth, the tip of
his tongue sliding softly over Phil’s lower lip.
Phil thought about the first kiss between them, how it was fueled by anger and
desperation and hurt. He remembered thinking it was nothing like how he’d
envisioned his first kiss.
This was nothing like that moment on Phil’s kitchen floor. This kiss was
careful, gentle like a first touch, an initial discovery, as if they’d never
kissed before. Clint felt fragile under Phil’s hands, and Clint kissed with an
edge of nervous sweetness. Phil felt as if the whole world had ground to a
halt, time silently waiting on the two of them to figure out how to be together
like this, like they’re…
Like we fit, Phil thought, and he opened his mouth a little wider, made the
kiss a little deeper. He wished he could crawl inside Clint and know all his
secrets, all his dreams, everything, good and bad, Phil didn’t care. He wanted
all of Clint, not just the parts that were allowed.
His hands slid back into Clint’s hair, thumbs tracing the downy edges of
Clint’s ears. Clint shivered against him, gave a soft, gorgeous whimper that
made Phil wrap his arms around Clint’s neck and hold him tighter. The kiss grew
wetter, faster, and God, this was how Phil had imagined his first time:
breathless, dizzy, heart beating so hard he thought it might burst, and never
wanting to stop.
Which is why Phil nearly cried when Clint suddenly jerked back and gasped,
“Wait.”
Phil gritted his teeth, unable to paw through the mountain of emotions roaring
in his head. “Don’t,” he started, because if Clint made him leave now—
“We can’t do this here,” Clint said, and his ragged voice was every single one
of Phil’s filthiest fantasies. He didn’t stop staring at Phil’s mouth.
“Do you.” Phil stopped, swallowed to make his voice work. He noticed,
belatedly, that Clint’s right hand had worked its way up under Phil’s hoodie
and was splayed over his lower back. “Do you wanna go somewhere?”
Clint’s left hand finally released its death grip over Phil’s heart to reach up
and touch Phil’s cheek. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s get out of here,” he said, thumb
tracing the corner of Phil’s mouth before he leaned into another kiss, this one
slow and messy. The small logical part of Phil’s brain that was still
functioning knew that Clint didn’t want to get caught making out by his foster
dad, but leaving meant letting go of Clint, which also meant he’d have to stop
kissing Clint. It seemed like a lot, especially when he was melting into the
circle of Clint’s arms around him.
He didn’t know who broke away first. He only remembered eventually climbing out
the window after Clint, heart pounding and hands shaking. They got into Phil’s
car and Phil asked, “Where do you want to go?”
Clint leaned back in his seat. He was still breathing hard, and his mouth
looked very wet and swollen in the bluish glow of the streetlights. Phil wanted
to bury his face in Clint’s neck and breathe him in forever.
“Wherever you wanna go, Weasel. Surprise me.” Clint gave him a lopsided grin.
Phil pushed across the center console and kissed him.
~
They drove to a Waffle House on the edge of town. It bordered a truck stop,
which meant the clientele wasn’t all that reputable, but most kids from school
didn’t hang out there. Phil liked to go there sometimes to be by himself while
still being around people who didn’t know him or give a shit who he was.
They tucked themselves into a tiny two-man booth in the corner of the
restaurant. Phil told himself it was for privacy and not for the opportunity to
have his legs fit between Clint’s under the table.
Under the garish fluorescent lights, Phil could see the dark circles under
Clint’s eyes. He seemed to shrink into himself again once they were in public,
curling into his purple hoodie like a shell. But he smiled politely at the
waitress and ordered coffee and a massive plate of hash browns with cheese.
“Didn’t really eat anything today,” he said sheepishly, pulling at his sleeves.
Phil bit back the urge to ask what had happened. He waited for the waitress to
pour their coffee, and as Clint dumped an obscene amount of sugar into his cup,
he said, “Just tell me, yes or no—are you okay?”
Clint held his coffee with both hands, staring into his cup like it held the
secrets of the universe. “No,” he replied.
Beneath the table, Phil felt Clint’s knee press up against his leg.
“Can I help?” Phil whispered.
Clint took a long sip. “No.”
“If it’s about Lucky, you know I can—”
“It’s not Lucky.”
Phil scrubbed his hands over his face. “Then what? Is Xavier kicking you out of
school for the fight? Did Fury say something to you about our project, because
fuck that, he hasn’t talked to us in weeks about what the hell we’re—”
“I’m leaving.”
The words just sort of hung in the air for a moment. Phil blinked at him.
“You’re what?”
Clint slammed his coffee cup down on the table, and they both sat silence as
coffee sloshed everywhere, dripping off the end of the table. Clint pinched the
bridge of his nose and muttered, ”Fuck.”
“Why...why are you leaving?” Phil could hear the panic in his voice.
Naturally, the waitress showed up with their food, giving Clint an excuse to
avoid the question. He dug into his hash browns, eyes downcast.
Phil didn’t touch his burger. “You can’t just...leave Natasha like this.”
Clint finally met his eyes. “I can’t leave Nat, huh?” He stabbed his fork at a
pile of cheese.
“Not without a reason, she’ll wanna know why you want to—”
“You think I want this?”
“I don’t know what you want! You’re not telling me anything!” Phil hissed. An
elderly couple a few booths over gave him dirty looks.
Clint’s jaw flexed as he glared at his mostly-empty plate. “Terrance
interviewed for a job in Minnesota,” he said through clenched teeth. “If he
gets it, they’re moving and taking me with them. Or, more likely—” Clint
laughed, ugly and sharp “—they throw me back into the system and I end up who-
the-fuck-knows-where. Probably with a couple who make Terrance look like
fucking Santa Claus.” He tossed his fork down and shoved his plate away.
A cold stone settled in Phil’s stomach. “They can’t do that. You’re seventeen,
you’ve only got a year before you’re an independent.”
“Yeah. A year. Still counts.” Clint shut his eyes and folded his arms on the
table, dropping his head onto them with a heavy sigh.
Since they were sitting in a Waffle House surrounded by people, Phil couldn’t
exactly crawl into Clint’s side of the booth and kiss him until they couldn’t
breathe. But he could reach across the table and push his hand into Clint’s
hair.
“We’ll figure something out,” Phil whispered. “You said Terrance hadn’t
actually gotten the job yet, right?”
Clint grunted something unintelligible.
“You’re not going anywhere. If they decide to put you back in the system,
I’ll—I’ll have my mom look into it. She knows some people who practice family
law, they’d probably know some loopholes. Hell, if I told her tonight what was
going on, she’d probably drop everything to help.”
Clint lifted his head, making Phil’s hand slip down to cup the side of his
face. “She’d really do that?”
Phil smiled. “‘Course she would, she knows what you mean to me.” The words sort
of slipped out without Phil’s consent. He froze, heart in his throat and his
thumb grazing Clint’s temple.
After a moment, Clint pushed gently into Phil’s touch like a cat. “You got a
crush on me, Weasel?” he asked softly, grinning up at Phil from under his
lashes.
If the urge to kiss Clint had been strong in the past, it was totally
overwhelming now that Phil knew it was allowed, that he could. His mouth went
wet at the thought of sliding across the table and sucking Clint’s plush lower
lip.
“Shut up,” he said with a laugh as he dropped his hand. He didn’t miss the
split second where Clint turned his head, as if he’d meant to kiss Phil’s palm.
They sat for another hour, Clint drinking coffee while Phil told dumb stories
about Lucky and the blue jay that lived behind his house. Clint’s shoulders
gradually relaxed and he started to smile more; at one point Phil curled his
index finger around Clint’s in a loose hold. Clint didn’t pull his hand away,
not even when the waitress came by to ask if they needed anything.
“You should take me back,” Clint said. “It’s almost midnight. Your mom’s
probably freaking out.”
Phil hadn’t paid a bit attention to the time, which was a problem. “She was
knee-deep in files when I left, she might not even—”
Right on cue, his phone rang. His mother’s number flashed on screen. Phil
grimaced.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m coming straight home,” he answered quickly.
“Everything all right?” she asked. She didn’t sound angry.
“We were just...talking. At Waffle House.”
“Waffle House, hmm?” She chuckled, and Phil figured he was in the clear. “Well,
when you’re done ingesting all that grease, you should both go to bed. It’s a
school night.”
“Clint just said as much. You’re psychic.”
“I wish.” She paused, then asked in a softer voice, “Does Clint need a place to
stay tonight?”
Phil glanced across the table, took in Clint’s tired eyes and rumpled hair. The
thought of leaving him alone in his empty room made Phil’s chest ache.
“It probably wouldn’t hurt,” he said. He looked away when Clint frowned
quizzically at him.
“Well, then bring him home. I’m sure Lucky will be thrilled to see him.”
He sighed in relief. “Thanks.”
“But—and I mean this, Phil—Clint sleeps in the guest room. Downstairs. Got it?”
Phil absolutely did not blush. He hadn’t even admitted to anything physical
with Clint, but he was right: his mom was psychic. “Right, sure, got it,” he
mumbled. It was pointless to argue with her when he was getting what he wanted,
anyway.
“I’ll see you both in twenty minutes?”
“Yup. Bye.” Phil hung up and pretended Clint wasn’t watching him with narrow,
curious eyes.
“What’d she say to you?” he asked.
Phil scrunched his mouth to one side. “Nothing. You’re staying the night with
me.”
Clint’s eyes flared. “Seriously?”
“In the downstairs guest room,” Phil added quickly and cleared his throat.
Clint burst out laughing. He leaned over the table until he was nearly nose to
nose with Phil.
“D’you know you’re fucking adorable when you’re embarrassed as hell?”
Phil wanted to glare at him, he really did. “You’re an asshole when you’re
smug, did you know that?” he shot back, but his eyes never left Clint’s mouth.
“I did, actually.” Clint swooped in, giving Phil a quick, featherlight kiss.
“C’mon. I wanna see this guest bed of yours.”
~
His mom was waiting for them when Phil and Clint walked through the front door.
She smiled at Clint and asked, “Can I get you anything?”
Clint curled into his hoodie. “No, thanks. You’ve done enough already,” he
replied quietly, and he looked so shy and relieved that Phil wanted to wrap his
arms around him. There was a foot of space between them that felt like miles.
Phil didn’t want to leave Clint’s side.
“Well, your room’s down the hall to the left. There’s fresh towels in the
bathroom if you need a shower. Breakfast is at seven-thirty—and we’ll talk more
then,” she added with a firm look at Phil.
He gave her a quick hug in reply. “Thank you,” he whispered in her ear.
She kissed his cheek and murmured, “He’s lucky to have you for a boyfriend.”
Phil was too exhausted to correct her. Eventually he’d tell her everything and
she’d understand, but right now he just wanted to make sure Clint slept through
the night, happy and safe.
As if on cue, Lucky appeared and promptly flung himself at Clint, nearly
toppling him to the ground. The sound of Clint’s open, honest laughter as he
wrestled with his dog made all sorts of emotions bloom in Phil’s chest. For a
moment, he could barely breathe.
“You’re staring,” his mom said, poking him in the chest. “Now go to bed. That
seven-thirty breakfast call is non-negotiable.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Phil mumbled. Fortunately, Clint was too occupied with Lucky to
notice his blush.
~
Phil wasn’t sure how to proceed once his mom went to bed. He’d never really had
someone other than Steve or Bucky stay over, and this wasn’t a typical guy’s
night of XBox marathons and pizza.
Once Lucky settled down, Clint got to his feet and glanced over his shoulder
toward his room. “So, uh. I guess I’ll just...hit the sack.”
“I’ll show you where the bathroom is,” Phil said, even though he knew Clint
could find it on his own. Lucky trailed after them down the hall as Phil
gestured to the shower on his right before coming to a stop in the doorway of
the guest room. His mom had already turned down the blankets on the bed.
“She’s really great,” Clint said. “Your mom, I mean.”
“I know.” Phil hugged his arms to his chest. He desperately wanted to kiss
Clint, or just touch him in some small way, but now that they were back in his
house, it felt weird to be so...casual. Affectionate.
“Hey.” Clint nudged his sneaker against Phil’s. “You okay?”
Phil tried not to concentrate on how close Clint was standing, how easy it
would be to fall into him. “I should be asking you that,” he replied with a
small laugh.
“I’ve got my pizza dog and a swanky bed. I think I’m good.”
“That bed’s hardly swanky. It’s not like this is a hotel.”
“It might as well be. You got all the best stuff, Coulson.”
“You used to hate coming to my house.” Phil couldn’t help himself; he reached
out and tugged playfully on the zipper of Clint’s hoodie.
Clint took a step closer. “You used to hate having me in your house.”
“Only because I thought you’d make fun of me.”
“For having nice digs?”
“For...all the nerd shit in my room. I don’t know.” They were both whispering
for some reason. It wasn’t necessary; his mom’s bedroom was on the other side
of the house. She’d never hear them.
Clint licked his mouth slowly. His lips were all shiny and Phil could hear his
pulse pounding in his ears. “I like your room. Like your house.”
“Because of Lucky?” They were so, so close now. He could feel the warm puff of
Clint’s words against his chin.
“Maybe. He’s here ‘cause of you.” Clint swallowed, and Phil watched the slow,
smooth bob of his throat. “And I like you, too.”
And suddenly it was Phil’s turned to be kissed as Clint’s callused hand cradled
the side of his face while the other pushed up under Phil’s own hoodie. Cold
fingertips skimmed over his belly, traced lines over the edge of his jeans, and
that was when Phil realized he couldn’t go back to his own room.
“I’m gonna stay here,” he gasped.
“Yeah,” Clint growled, nipping sharply at Phil’s lower lip. “What about your
mom—”
“We’ll have to be quiet.” It was a risk and he was breaking a promise, but
there was no going back. Phil wanted this.
He forced himself to let go of Clint long enough to shut the guest room door.
Lucky made a sad whimpering noise as Phil shooed him into the hallway. “I
promise we’ll make it up to you, buddy,” Phil said before turning the lock.
Clint was on him in a heartbeat, pulling him back into the kiss like they’d
never stopped. They stumbled back toward the bed, hands everywhere as their
legs tangled together. Phil laughed breathlessly as Clint yelped in surprise
when the back of his knees hit the end of the mattress and the two of them went
sprawling. Phil ended up braced over Clint, his thighs on either side of
Clint’s hips.
“Real funny, Weasel,” Clint grumbled, but he was smiling as he yanked Phil’s
hoodie off with one smooth glide of his hands. “Not my fault I don’t know my
way around here.”
Phil had a snappy comeback for that, only it was forgotten the second Clint sat
up and licked, slow and dirty, into Phil’s mouth, one hand cupped around the
back of Phil’s neck while the other trailed down his stomach to tease over the
front of Phil’s jeans.
“I…” Phil couldn’t form words at the moment. He was lost in the sensation of
tasting Clint while simultaneously pushing against Clint’s hand, friction and
wet heat swirling together in his head. Phil desperately needed Clint bare,
needed to know what their skin felt like sliding together as Phil kissed the
last of his breath away.
“Wanna to feel you,” he panted, and the words sounded needier than Phil
intended. But Clint didn’t seem to mind, just nodded jerkily and wiggled out of
his hoodie and t-shirt, both getting caught at his wrists in his rush. Clint
glared at his hands, mumbled, “Aw, c’mon,” as he tried to free himself.
Phil buried his face against Clint’s neck and laughed. “Need some help?”
“You should be too horny to be laughing at me, jerkwad,” Clint said in an
adorably disgruntled voice.
“I can want to fuck you and still think you’re hilarious.” Phil licked over the
spot behind Clint’s ear that never failed to make him shiver.
Clint abruptly went still underneath him with his hands pinned above his head.
Phil sat back, afraid he’d said something wrong.
“What? I didn’t mean—”
“You can, you know,” Clint whispered. His eyes were wide and very blue in the
low light.
Phil bit his lip. “I can what?”
“Fuck me. Right now.”
His stomach swooped so quickly Phil was dizzy with it. He hadn’t meant it
literally when they’d been joking around—honestly, Phil had simply pictured
them jerking each other off and then falling asleep on each other. The usual.
Now, though...everything was suddenly more.
“I-I don’t have anything on me,” Phil stammered. He couldn’t tell if his heart
was racing out of anticipation or fear—or both. “Everything’s upstairs, in my
room.”
Clint sat up and rolled to the side of the bed. He finally yanked his tangled
shirt and hoodie off his wrists and tossed them aside. “I’ve got, um. Stuff in
my wallet.” He ran a hand through his hair, glancing tentatively over his
shoulder at Phil.
Oh. Right. Of course Clint carried condoms with him. He was always prepared for
the random hook-up. Phil swallowed against the ugly cold jealousy that curled
up in his chest, reminding him of the bruise on Clint’s neck.
“Look, it’s no big deal, we can just mess around like before,” he said. Phil
could hear his voice shake slightly. He kept his head bowed as he picked at the
comforter.
He wasn’t expecting Clint to push him back against the bed and crawl on top of
him, hands pressed against Phil’s shoulders. “Is that what you want?” he asked.
“Sure.” Phil turned his head, avoided Clint’s eyes. After everything that had
happened between them, he couldn’t bear the thought of being just another notch
in Clint’s bedpost.
You already are, a little voice in his head hissed, but Phil had always
convinced himself that wasn’t true. Not completely.
“Hey.” Clint swept his mouth over Phil’s. Their noses bumped together. “Hey,
look at me. Coulson.”
Phil took a deep breath and looked up at him.
“If we did this...it wouldn’t be…” Clint winced, like he was fighting to find
words. “You’re not—them. Other guys.”
“I know that,” Phil said a little too harshly. Damn it, what did Clint want to
him say? He was lying half-naked under Clint with his taste in his mouth—being
told he wasn’t going to be as good a fuck as the others was the last thing in
the world he needed to hear.
“What I’m trying to say is. Just.” Clint shut his eyes, murmured fuck under his
breath.
“With me you just get off,” Phil whispered. “I get it.”
“No, you don’t.” His hands slid along Phil’s shoulders until his thumbs framed
Phil’s jaw. Clint held him steady as he slowly, gently kissed him, like Phil
was made of glass.
Against Phil’s mouth, Clint breathed, “With you, I belong somewhere.”
For a second, Phil nearly panicked, thinking he’d accidentally taken his pain
meds and was hallucinating again. But then he reached up and splayed his hands
against warm, bare skin, took in the way Clint sighed and kissed him a little
deeper. He could feel Clint’s heart pounding under his palm, and that—that was
real. It had to be. He couldn’t be imagining this.
He wanted to wrap Clint up in his arms, keep him safe, melt into him until he
couldn’t tell where he ended and Clint began. Phil wouldn’t be those other
guys, because none of them had been smart enough to realize that Clint was
precious. Clint was his.
Phil had never once given any thought to what being in love would feel like. It
was always an abstract concept, something distant that happened to other
people. He’d heard Pepper say she was in love with Tony, but what did that even
mean? Who actually thought they were in love in high school?
But if needing to be with someone more than your next breath, or wanting to
protect someone with every fiber of your being was anything like love, well.
Maybe Phil knew what Pepper meant after all.
He couldn’t say the words out loud. It was too much, and Clint was kissing him
like he never planned to stop. Phil eventually managed to break away and gasp,
“I-I don’t know where to start. Should I get the condom or—”
“Here.” Clint rolled off him and pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of
his jeans. He flicked a blue condom and a thin silver packet of what Phil
assumed was lube onto the bed before quickly shedding his pants and underwear.
Phil’s mouth went dry. He’d seen Clint’s cock dozens of times, but never when
Clint was fully naked. He’d never gotten to take in the gorgeous lines of
Clint’s body, how solid and compact he was. His dick was hard and flushed pink,
curling slightly to the left, but Phil couldn’t stop staring at the lovely
smooth planes of his stomach, or the curve of his hipbones.
Clint noticed him staring and actually ducked his head. He gave Phil a shy
smile; Phil instinctively knew it was genuine, not just a tease. “I figured I
could, ah...ride you. Y’know, be on top,” he said as he gave his dick an absent
tug.
All the breath wooshed out of Phil’s lungs. “Um. Okay. Yeah.” His own dick
jerked hard in his jeans at the mere thought of Clint...sitting on top of
him...sinking down onto him...oh, fuck, Phil was not going to last through
this.
“Just— Don’t laugh if I don’t, uh.”
“Last?” Clint grinned, and it was so fucking sexy Phil wanted to moan. “There’s
always round two, right?”
Phil whimpered.
Clint seemed to take that as a good sign. His grin turned wicked. “Gotta get
you naked first,” he drawled, kneeling up on the bed and attacking the fly of
Phil’s jeans. He wasn’t gentle with Phil anymore, and Phil was fine with that.
He lifted his hips, desperate to get his cock free, and was only a little self-
conscious when Clint sat back on his heels and huffed softly, “Damn.”
“‘s not like it’s changed,” Phil said with a broken laugh. He was leaking
everywhere, but he didn’t dare touch himself.
“Don’t let this go to your head, Weasel, but...you’re not exactly small.” Clint
licked his mouth. His eyes were nearly all pupil.
“You don’t think I’ll fit?”
“Oh, you’ll fit,” Clint growled. He held up the lube packet. “Let’s just hope I
got enough of this.”
Phil started to ask if he needed to use some on the condom—he’d seen that done
enough in porn—but he lost all capacity for words when Clint climbed up onto
the bed, straddled Phil’s legs, and poured nearly all the lube into the palm of
his left hand.
Then he slicked his fingers and promptly began stretching himself.
Phil’s mouth fell open.
Clint’s wicked grin returned with a flicker of raw pleasure. “What, you never
seen a guy prep himself?” He bit off the last of the sentence on a soft moan,
tilting his head back.
Phil had been wrong. He’d never actually watched porn. This was porn. Jealousy
curled up in his stomach once more at the thought of someone else getting to
see Clint like this.
Mine, he thought again with hazy red want as he palmed Clint’s thighs.
“I can trust you to get the condom on, right?” Clint’s voice was getting
progressively rougher, deeper.
Phil was slightly terrified he’d come in five seconds if he touched himself.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, even though he’d never put on a condom in his life; a
banana during eighth grade sex ed didn’t count. He managed to get the foil open
without too much fumbling, and after a few deep breaths, he quickly rolled the
condom down his cock.
“You ready?”
“I—” Phil was gasping and they hadn’t even started yet. “Don’t you need more,
like, time?”
Clint hummed and leaned down to lick into Phil’s mouth. “I think I’m good.
‘sides, you’re not the only one who’d kinda like to get this show on the road
before he blows his load.”
He couldn’t help grinning. “Promise I won’t laugh.”
“If you’re laughing I’m not doing something right.” Clint straightened, his
face serious again as he glanced down at Phil’s cock. With his wet hand, he
stroked Phil once, which nearly made Phil lose it completely. He held his
breath and tried to picture his seventy-year-old history teacher naked on a
cold day.
“God, Clint,” he moaned.
“Yeah,” Clint breathed, and with his lower lip caught between his teeth, he
lifted up onto his knees, held Phil steady, then lowered himself down with
agonizing slowness.
The feel of sliding into Clint’s tight, hot body was overwhelming, breath-
stealing. The pressure of orgasm was already beginning to build low in Phil’s
balls, but he wouldn’t come, he wouldn’t, not until Clint was ready.
Above him, Clint whimpered, “Oh, god,” and shifted his hips. He sunk the rest
of the way down.
“Shit, shit, I-I can’t—” Phil dug his fingers into Clint’s thighs, desperate to
thrust yet desperate to keep it together. They hadn’t even moved yet.
“Fuck,” Clint said in a rush, eyes still tightly shut. He looked torn between
pleasure and pain. “Jesus, you’re bigger than I thought, god—”
“I don’t wanna hurt you—”
“No, no, just...give me a sec.” Clint gradually opened his eyes, and he gave
Phil a small, lopsided smile. His cheeks were flushed bright pink. “Try
moving,” he whispered.
Phil swallowed hard before he finally gave his body what it was screaming for.
He pushed up, a tiny thrust, and Clint had to tuck his face against his arm to
muffle his shout.
“Is it...okay?” Phil gasped.
“You have no idea,” Clint said. He swooped down to kiss Phil, all messy and a
bit frantic. “You feel fucking incredible,” he added breathlessly.
“Good, ‘cause— I’m gonna come soon.” Phil’s hips had a mind of their own, and
they were thrusting in a consistent rhythm now, faster and sharper. The bloom
of orgasm grew hotter.
Clint moaned again, louder. Distantly, Phil knew he should be worried about his
mom hearing, but nothing else existed at the moment beyond the bed. And he very
much needed Clint to come with him.
Phil spit into his hand, wrapped his fingers tight around Clint’s neglected
cock and pressed his thumb against the slit. He was wet, so wet, and Phil knew
he had to be close.
As if reading his thoughts, Clint groaned, “Please,” and thrust into Phil’s
hand. Phil pumped him, hard, and at the same time he felt Clint clench around
him. Everything happened in a roaring rush: Clint’s cock spurted over Phil’s
fingers, his stomach and his chest, while Phil felt like his own orgasm went on
for hours.
When Phil came back to himself, he was covered in Clint’s come, and Clint was
staring down at him like he’d had a religious experience.
“Is it...always like that?” Phil managed to ask. His voice was shredded.
Clint reached out and drew his finger through the come painting Phil’s chest.
“No,” he whispered.
Phil sat up carefully, slipping out Clint’s body with a wince, and pulled Clint
into his lap. They were a mess, but he didn’t care; he wrapped his arms around
Clint’s waist and kissed him. His exhausted, post-coital heart thumped happily
when Clint gave his familiar contented purr and curled into Phil’s embrace.
~
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Phil had had every intention of wiping himself
off and getting rid of the condom and then sneaking back upstairs to his room.
But Clint had gone all boneless and pliant after coming; he kept nuzzling his
face into Phil’s neck as Phil tried as best to clean them up with handfuls of
tissues.
“C’mon,” Phil laughed, gently pushing Clint onto his back. “You’ll be fucking
disgusting in the morning if you don’t get this off.”
“‘s what showers are for,” Clint yawned. He stretched, long and languid, his
body one gorgeous arc of skin and muscle. Phil’s dick gave a halfhearted twitch
and round two echoed in his head.
No, damn it, he had to get back to his own room.
It didn’t matter that Clint had yet to put his boxers back on and was sprawled
naked on the sheets. Or that he had one hand loosely curled around Phil’s
wrist.
“I can’t stay,” Phil whispered, but he was already crawling under the blankets.
“Just five minutes,” Clint mumbled in a sleepy slur as he tugged Phil’s arm
around him, their fingers tangled together. “You’re all warm. Kinda cold in
here.”
“You’ve got blankets.” They fit together so perfectly like this. Phil skimmed
his lips over the soft hair on Clint’s neck, smiling when Clint sighed and
tucked himself tighter against Phil’s chest. He’d never pictured Clint as the
snuggling type; maybe he never had been. Maybe he was a snuggler for Phil.
Phil was too worn out to think about it too deeply. He couldn’t snuggle for
long, anyway. He had to get up in a few hours and have a long talk with his
mom; that conversation would be off to an awkward start if she caught him
sneaking shirtless out of the guest room.
He’d just close his eyes and wait until Clint was asleep.
~
Three and a half hours later, Phil finally managed to force himself upstairs.
Lucky quickly took Phil’s spot on the bed at Clint’s side.
Phil told himself not be jealous of a dog.
  Works inspired by this one
      My_Insides_Are_Copper by Pyracantha
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!