Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/976600.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Avengers_(Marvel_Movies)
  Relationship:
      Clint_Barton/Phil_Coulson
  Character:
      Clint_Barton, Phil_Coulson
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Church_Boys, complete_and_utter_sacrilege, First
      Time, Alternate_Universe_-_Teenagers, Peeping, Sneaking_Around,
      Masturbation, and_more!, we_are_going_to_hell, Blow_Jobs, Fingering,
      jerking_off_in_a_confessional, no_seriously_i_think_that_if_there_is_a
      hell_we_are_definitely_going_to_it, Underage_Sex, Teenagers, Anal_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-23 Completed: 2013-10-08 Chapters: 6/6 Words: 26657
****** more than missionary ******
by AdamantSteve, dustbear
Summary
     Clint Barton is fifteen, and he’s just grown into his low voice and
     long limbs, which have in turn outgrown the now-too-tight polyester
     short sleeved shirt that he’s been forced into when following his
     foster brother from door to door to preach the word of Jesus Christ
     as filtered through the eyes of the Church of Latter Day Saints.
     Phil Coulson is newly seventeen, son of the parish priest at the
     Sacred Heart Catholic Church, and a couple boyfriends past being a
     good Catholic boy.
Notes
     Inspired by this_post on Tumblr (Ralkana, lunaris1013 and others), as
     well as AdamantSteve's griping about not wanting to write plot, and
     dustbear's griping about finding porn really difficult to write.
     Warning: Sacrilegious as fuck, really. At least one half of the
     authors (well, the dustbear half) spent her early life immersed in a
     variety of church tradition, and is now an unapologetic heathen.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Clint Barton is fifteen, and he’s just grown into his low voice and long limbs,
which have in turn outgrown the now-too-tight polyester short sleeved shirt
that he’s been forced into. The hot summer sun makes sweat run down his back
and down his cheap shirt, and he grimaces at the uncomfortable fabric, notable
only for its ability to never wrinkle. His arms ache, carrying the small box
full of Bibles, but he steps dutifully behind his foster brother. Before his
foster brother was Elder Collins, he was just Jake, who was nice to Clint and
secretly bought him ice cream on hot days like this, but now Jake is back from
his first year at Brigham Young University, and now he is just Elder Collins,
who is dragging Clint door to door in order to tell the unfriendly and
unreceptive neighbours about a book about Jesus Christ. Clint fidgets at his
black tie, far too tight around his neck, which is logically improbable because
it’s just a clip on. Well, at least he doesn’t have to wear that dopey nametag.
Clint rings the doorbell, his contribution to this awkward pilgrimage through
suburbia.  
“Hi! My name is Elder Collins, and I’m here to talk to you about Jesus Christ.”
Jake says, his voice bright and happy, and Clint rolls his eyes. The door slams
in their face. Jake shrugs, and retreats off the porch.
Clint plods behind Jake - Elder Collins - who is already bouncing along down
the pavement, apparently unfazed by the twenty four houses that they’ve already
made no headway in preaching to. Clint counts them all - eighteen were closed
rudely in their face, two politely declined them, a remaining four were never
opened at all. He hates this process, but he’s been with the Collins for four
years, far longer than any other foster family. The Collins officially adopted
Jake two years ago, and despite everything, Clint hopes desperately that
perhaps they might adopt him too. He’s grateful, even if the house is crowded
with seven other boys, all fosters, and his life is filled with hand-me-downs
and extremely strict curfews and the fear that they’re really just putting up
with him out of a sense of civic duty. But, the Collins have kept him, they’ve
kept him for four years, and that is just the longest he’s ever had any sort of
family to speak of.
Another door. “Hi! My name is Elder Collins, and I’m here to talk to you about
Jesus Christ.”
Clint is already backing off the front porch, a rather nice one that’s shaded
and framed in ivy, with a rustic wooden bench that looks out to the lawn which
is about two weeks past being neatly manicured.
“Well, hello. I’m Patrick Coulson. Why don’t you boys come on in.” Clint jerks
his head up, because a man with thinning hair and a friendly face, tall and
slightly overweight, is holding the door open. “It’s 90 degrees out there. I
have lemonade.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coulson!” Jake says, missionary training kicking in as he
nudges Clint into the house.
“Phil, come say hi to our guests. This is my son, Philip.” Mr. Coulson says,
gesturing to the boy who saunters down the stairs, and Clint stops in his
tracks, because Phil Coulson, Patrick Coulson’s son, has the most gorgeous eyes
he’s ever seen on a man.
“Er, yeah. Hi.” Phil says, raking his hand through his spiky brown hair.
“Sorry, my dad does this all the time. He’s going to talk to you about Jesus
Christ for like, hours. Okay, bye. I’ve gotta mow the lawn.”
“Actually, I am the parish priest at the Sacred Heart Catholic Church, but I
think we could have a very interesting conversation.” Mr Coulson says, walking
out of the kitchen with tall glasses of ice-cold lemonade. Clint thinks that if
the Catholics have ice-cold lemonade, and people that look like Philip Coulson,
he really likes the Catholics.
 
                                      ***
Phil Coulson has never seen anything in the world as lovely as the awkward,
sullen boy shuffling into his living room behind his chirpy older brother. He
beats a hasty escape to the backyard, because his father is standing right
there, and it simply wouldn’t do to stare at the boy, who is pouting the most
beautiful pout while managing to look miserably uncomfortable in his tight
shirt and cheap tie.
Phil tries to push the thought of the boy in his living room out of his mind as
he wrestles with the lawnmower. It is certainly too late for him to be a good
Catholic boy (he’s about two boyfriends past “good Catholic”), but he’s still
trying not to be an utter and complete disappointment to his father, at least
not until he turns eighteen in a year and moves out. It’s the least he can do,
even bristling under his father’s new “calling” as a parish priest after his
mother’s death over a decade ago. Well, it’s the least he can try to do.
But then, he glances over, and the boy is staring. Honest to god staring, and
Phil quickly ducks his head down and tries to focus entirely on cutting the
grass. The boy shifts in Phil’s peripheral vision, his muscled arms straining
under the tight cotton and polyester blend of his short sleeved white button
down, and Phil promptly walks his lawnmower into a tree. Phil groans. That
wasn’t smooth at all. He swears that he can see the boy chuckle.
Alright, then. If that’s how they’re going to play it, Phil is game. He picks
at the edge of his t-shirt. He knows how he looks now. His broad shoulders have
filled in in the past few years, and he looks quite a lot closer to the men in
the magazines he hides away than the slightly chubby boy he used to be. He’d
still been a bit awkward at first, but the past couple years of
experimentation (because really, what else do you do at an all boys school?)
have filled out both his ego and confidence well.
The boy is fidgeting on the couch now, and Phil grins as he pulls his sweat
soaked shirt over his head. I hope the parochial vicar is in tomorrow morning,
Phil thinks, because someone’s going to have to forgive these sins.  
 
                                      ***
“Well, I think the Church of Latter Day Saints actually does have a lot in
common with the Catholic Church!” Jake says to Mr. Coulson. They end up sitting
on the plush couch in the living room together, and Clint makes a deal with God
to pray a little extra tonight, because he has a perfect view through the clear
screen door to the backyard. And to Phil Coulson, who is now wrestling a
lawnmower out to the backyard, his strong arms easily moving the lawn furniture
aside.
“We are all spirit-children of God.” Jake says.
“I certainly agree that we are all children of God, but what exactly do you
mean about spirit-children?” Mr. Coulson asks. “The Church believes that we are
part of a long line of worshippers that descend from the first church founded
by Jesus.”
Clint tunes out of that conversation, because Phil Coulson is now peeling off
his white cotton shirt, which was sticking to his back in a manner that makes
Clint feel the heat in his cheeks, obnoxiously aware that perhaps this is
exactly what the Bible means about “temptation.” Phil is taking his time with
the shirt, and Clint swears that he can see a small groan escape the other
boy’s lips, as he finally - finally - pulls the shirt over his head. Phil wipes
the sweat off his face with the shirt, and tosses it aside. And then, he looks
up. Right at Clint. And he smirks. Clint’s entire teenage body reacts to the
sight, and he’s never hated polyester pants so badly in his life.
Clint tears his eyes away, searching desperately for anything else to look at,
finally landing on the crucifix located above the sliding doors. On the cross,
the limp figure of Jesus Christ bleeds from his palms and feet, the gory scene
rendered in cast plaster and mediocre paint. Clint reaches over to grab a throw
pillow, positions it appropriately over his lap, and returns his gaze to the
backyard. It is, hands down, a generally better view.
“Yes, of course we believe in the holy institution of marriage.” Jake is
explaining to Mr. Coulson. “We don’t actually believe in polygamy, well not our
Church. There’s a sect that broke off a while back....Clint, you’ve been quiet.
What are you thinking about?”
Clint yelps when Jake elbows him in his ribs, shaking himself out of his
reverie. Phil, of course he’s thinking of Phil. How could he not think about
Phil, the sweat glistening off his golden skin, dripping slowly off the curve
of his nose…”Phil...lip” Clint blurts out.
“Um, Philip, the apostle.” Clint’s brain immediately strives to fix the words
falling out of his mouth. “The gospel of Philip speaks of the sacrament that is
made between a man and a woman, and the indisso-um-indissolubility of
marriage.” The other men were just talking about marriage, right?
“Clint, the gospel of Philip is not canonical.”
“No, it’s not, but -” This would be a lot easier if Phil was just named John or
Matthew or Paul, Clint thinks.
“But, it really is an interesting text. Speaking of the Gospel of Philip - tell
me, Elder Collins, what do you think about Jesus’ purported relationship to
Mary Magdalene? A bit sacrilegious, don’t you think?” Mr Coulson starts up
again, and Clint sinks back into the cushions, relieved.
 
                                      ***
The tree that Clint is perched in is uncomfortable, but at least he’s wearing a
t-shirt and jeans right now, and not the ridiculous outfit he has to wear when
accompanying Jake on his missionary duties. The rapidly cooling evening air is
cold on his skin, and he wishes he’d grabbed a hoodie too, but he wasn’t
planning on actually staying that long. He does spend an awful lot of time in
trees, since it’s one of the only private places he gets to himself, especially
living in a house with seven other boys, all foster children. But this tree,
this tree is special. This tree happens to be in a backyard of a foreclosed
house, which is not extraordinary in any way except that it is right next to
the house belonging to Father Patrick Coulson, the parish priest for Sacred
Heart Catholic Church. And this tree just happens to also provide an amazing
view into the bedroom window of one Phil Coulson.
The first thing that Clint learns about Phil Coulson tonight, is that Phil does
not close his blinds.
The second thing is that Phil Coulson is gorgeous with clothing on, but his
bare torso is worthy of the Sistine Chapel, and Clint doesn’t feel particularly
sacrilegious for thinking that because even the demons in that mural were
really hot.
The third thing is that Phil Coulson is not at all concerned about going blind,
because he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, his hand shoved roughly into his
unzipped jeans. Clint’s hand drifts similarly downwards, because the tip of
Phil’s cock is peeking past the waistband of his boxers, and the sight almost
makes him fall out of the tree.
He's never really seen another boy's cock before, not hard and red like Phil's
is. Clint watches, mouth hanging slack and open as Phil pushes his underpants
down far enough to properly get a hand around himself, and Clint tips forward,
realising just how hard he is when his own dick presses against the branch he's
sitting astride.
Clint can feel that his face is red because he's far too warm all of a sudden,
even with the cool breeze rustling the leaves around him. Through the window,
Phil licks his hand and leans back on the bed, brazen as anything as he slicks
his cock up with his spit, not even under the covers! Clint's jerked off in the
shower, of course, and sometimes under the sheets when he's double and triple
checked that no one's around, but never this luxuriantly -  never as though
there's nothing else in the world he'd rather be doing. This - this is amazing.
His throat clicks when he swallows, and he leans forward again for the pressure
of the tree against the seam of his jeans. Phil's moving his hand so slowly on
himself, laying back even further so his legs are spread for the whole world to
see. Well, perhaps not the whole world. Perhaps just this tree, this perfect
and wonderful tree that Clint is ready to make a false idol of. Clint watches
as Phil starts moving his hips up and down, bracing his feet on the bed to
thrust himself into his tight fist, and Clint can't help but echo the movements
he's making, rocking back and forth just a little against the lumpy bark of the
tree. It's not quite enough, mostly because it’s a tree, but it feels divine,
and Clint wonders in the back of his head if anyone else has ever jerked off in
this tree before, because he knows about porn, knows people watch it, but this
has to be better than that, right? Because it's all happening right now, right
there in front of him, framed neatly by blue curtains and dark red bricks. And
maybe Phil does this all the time, maybe even every night. Maybe, Clint should
come by to check tomorrow.
He figures he ought to feel worse about this than he does. But he's not doing
anything really, he's just sitting in a tree. He's not the one touching himself
with the curtains open, working himself on top of the sheets like it's God's
work.
Still, he doesn't stop pressing his cock between himself and the branch as he
watches, clinging on to the wood as much to stop himself from unzipping
anything as to keep himself aloft. It's not comfortable exactly, but he could
watch this all night; Phil's hand and hips are moving even faster now, fast
enough that his balls bounce between his legs as he moves, and he's got to be
making a noise, surely, the bed springs or something, but Phil doesn't seem to
care, speeding up and then slowing down, rolling his hips as he fucks up into
his fist a half dozen times until his movements get jerkier and less fluid and
he comes. Right there, framed in the window with Clint watching, Phil Coulson
comes into his hand and flops down against the bed.
Phil gasps silently, and the look of pleasure on his face makes Clint wonder if
he might be struck down by the wrath of God if that look were actually turned
in his direction.  
And then, he doesn’t have to wonder, because Phil is standing up, wiping his
hand off on a towel from the floor, and walking - nay, strutting - right
towards the window, and his eyes are looking directly at the tree that Clint is
in. Clint’s instinct is to leap from his perch, run home, and beg absolution
from God, but instead he remains frozen and still in the darkening night. Phil
Coulson leans over his desk, scrawling on a stack of Post-It notes, and when he
walks over to the window again, Clint’s hope that he wasn’t seen is proven
absolutely futile.
Phil sticks the first note against the window, smiling. Hey kid, I know you’re
there.
The second. My dad’s at evening bible study.
And finally, the third. Just come over already, stupid.
Clint does fall out of the tree now, twisting his ankle slightly on the hard
ground, and he crosses the distance between the neighbour’s backyard to the
Coulson’s front door in record time. Not that there is a record for the horny
young man 100m dash, but if there were, Clint would have definitely have taken
the gold.
He rings the doorbell with a trembling hand, shoving at the button instead of a
gentle poke, and his heart beats as he hears the footsteps ring out from inside
the house.
And then the door opens, and there is Phil Coulson. Still shirtless, and still
slightly flushed from his earlier activities. The look on his face is
absolutely wicked, and Clint thinks for a moment that if this is how the devil
looks, he completely understands why Faustus would sell his soul.
And Clint doesn’t know what to say, because his mouth is dry and his throat
appears to have a tennis ball in it, but his training responds and - “Hello, my
name is Clint Barton and I’m here to talk to you about Jesus Christ.” - spills
out of his mouth, and god, that was pretty fucking dumb.
“No, you’re not.” Phil laughs, reaching out to grab Clint’s arm and pull him
into his house, and Clint is certain he couldn’t be happier about the prospect
of going to hell.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Clint sits at the dinner table fidgeting uncomfortably, as Phil walks
confidently across the kitchen to gather up bowls, spoons, and finally, three
cartons of ice cream, which he places smugly in front of the younger boy.
“I’m starving.” Phil says, with a knowing smile. “I suspect you are too.”
Clint gawps at the pints of ice cream, colourful and emblazoned with names such
as Cherry Garcia and Phish Food and Chunky Monkey. The Collins do not buy ice
cream, and Clint only eats it once a year at the Church’s ice cream social,
where the large tubs of vanilla ice cream that melt too quickly are set out in
the parking lot for the congregation to mingle around. Clint has only ever had
vanilla ice cream.
“You look like you’ve never had ice cream before. Are you allergic to nuts?”
Phil asks, a small furrow of concern between his eyes.
”No, um, my foster family. We don’t really eat sweets in the house.” Clint
stammers, because he doesn’t want Phil to think he’s a prude, because he’s not
a prude, he just doesn’t get to eat ice cream every day, that’s all.
“Oh, you poor boy. I have so much to show you.” Phil walks over to the cabinet
then, and when he returns with jars full of sprinkles and crushed peanuts and
two squeeze bottles, one filled with chocolate sauce and the other with
caramel, Clint is sure that this is not hell, but heaven.
Phil scoops ice cream generously into Clint’s bowl, explaining each flavour.
Although Clint is genuinely fascinated with the concept of ice cream with both
fruit and chocolate in it, he is really more enthralled by the way Phil’s lips
move, his pink tongue slowly licking the melted cream from his spoon. Clint is
certain that he has gone red again, but Phil is looking over his own bowl
without judgement, and judging by the way Phil’s foot is sliding up against his
own, Phil has likely gotten past “not judging” and is now firmly in the
category of “enthusiastically complicit.”
“I didn’t come over to talk to you about Jesus.” Clint finally blurts out,
scooping the last of the chocolate sauce from the bottom of his bowl.
“Oh, that’s a shame. Fortunately, I’m a good Catholic boy, so I already know
plenty about Jesus.”
Clint feels strangely brave. “Oh, do good Catholic boys jerk off in their
bedrooms so strange boys in trees can stare at them?”  
“Apparently, yes.” Phil says, and his smile grows devastatingly mischievous.
“Can I show you what else good Catholic boys can do to good Mormon boys?”
Clint stammers out a “Y-yes,” and then Phil has plucked the spoon from his
hand. He watches eagerly as Phil takes a giant scoop of ice cream directly from
the carton and eats it hungrily, his hands simultaneously pulling Clint up from
the chair and backing him up against the refrigerator. Clint is already hard
when Phil reaches for his zipper; he’s been hard for twenty minutes and he’s
starting to ache from it.
Phil doesn’t hesitate or tease, just kneels down and swallows Clint’s cock
easily without further comment. The cold of Phil’s lips contrast with the hot,
slick wetness of Phil’s tongue and Clint is absolutely certain that this is not
actually what good Catholic boys do, but he is in no mood to argue.
Clint doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he reaches back to grasp
uselessly at the refrigerator door behind him, sliding through fridge magnets
and shopping lists when the coolness of Phil’s mouth starts to move. There’s a
painfully handsome boy on his knees in front of Clint, looking up at him with
the devil in his eyes every time he pulls back far enough, watching Clint’s
reaction when he flicks his tongue this way and that, and it’s too good, so
good. Clint knows that he will come any moment and he’s sure it’ll be over
then; he’s had dreams like this that he never wants to wake up from, so he
casts his eyes away from Phil and looks around the room in desperation for
something else to look at.  But - even staring at a framed portrait of a long
haired and blue eyed Jesus Christ on the wall can’t hold off Clint’s pending
ecstasy, and he comes with a little high pitched squeak and a handful of
magnets falling to the floor and that portrait of Jesus, blithely watching over
them. Phil pulls away just as Clint comes, spattering hot semen all over the
kitchen tile.
Clint barely lasts thirty seconds, but he’s not embarrassed about it, because
jesus christ, that thing with the ice cream, and the licking, and the mouth -
how could anyone survive that, much less last? Phil is still hard and ready
when Clint finally catches his breath, and he’s looking at Clint with an
unreadable expression, although Clint thinks that it can probably be
categorized under either  “lust” or “stomachache.” Clint slides down the
refrigerator, watching Phil efficiently wipe up the mess with a paper towel.
His eyes are drawn to the bulge in Phil’s jeans, and something in him crows
with pride - I did that to him, Clint thinks - this beautiful person wants me.
“Um. I can do that, if you want.” Clint offers, his voice reedy and wrecked. “I
haven’t - I haven’t done that before, but I can learn.”
Phil’s eyes are dark when he offers Clint his hand. “Would you like to check
out my room?”
 
 
                                      ***
Considering Phil’s earlier forwardness, not that Clint seemed to mind at all,
he tries to make it up for it by making sure that he is perfectly gentle when
he ushers Clint into his bedroom, letting the door close with a quiet click
behind him. Clint is standing in the middle of the room, looking like he
doesn’t know what to do with his own limbs, so Phil helps him, walking over and
sliding his arms around Clint’s waist and pulling him close.
Kissing Clint is easy, not just because the other boy is about the same height,
but because he practically melts into Phil’s lips, perfectly happy to explore
Phil’s mouth slowly and curiously. It’s almost sweet, and Phil gets even more
turned on because he is certain that he’s never been kissed that innocently
before.
“Is this your first time kissing a dude?” Phil asks, trying to regain some
control in his voice, although he knows that he’s sounding a bit squeakier than
usual.
Clint ducks his head bashfully. “Um, it’s my first time - first time...ever?”
he says, and the way the red crawls up his cheeks is a picture that Phil wants
seared into his brain forever.
He looks scared and a little defiant, like he expects Phil to laugh at him,
which in turn makes him look about eight years old, with the tiniest bit of a
pout about his mouth and a frown that’s about to come out from its hiding place
between his eyebrows. “So, I’m your first… everything?” Phil asks in the end,
and Clint nods hesitantly. “Well, you’re doing pretty good for your first
time.” Phil says, and it’s kind of an asshole thing to say, but the idea of
introducing Clint to all this is making him unbearably hard and lends him a bit
of swagger he never even knew he had.
Clint swallows and visibly steels himself before moving in to kiss Phil again,
more forceful than before but still achingly sweet about it. He still doesn’t
seem to know what to do with his hands, so Phil takes one and puts it against
the front of his pants, pleased at the uptick in Clint’s breathing. He looks
lost, hand pressing hesitantly against Phil’s pants until Phil presses his palm
to Clint’s crotch and massages it a little more forcefully. Clint makes a
little gasp before kissing Phil again and shifting his hips the tiniest amount,
like he’s waiting for permission, like he doesn’t want to be rude.
Phil rests their foreheads together and grins. “It’s my turn now,” he says, and
Clint, god bless his soul, looks incredibly contrite all of a sudden, eyes wide
and sorry.
“Oh,” he replies, stepping back but falling onto the bed clumsily. “I didn’t -”
“I’m kidding,” Phil says. “You don’t have to…”
“I want to,” Clint says obstinately, like he’s being denied something that’s
his right. “Do I need ice cream?”
“Oh wow,” Phil laughs. He should probably feel worse about this than he does,
but at least there are no framed pictures of Jesus Christ in his own room. “No,
you don’t need ice cream.” He unzips his pants and steps out of them, glancing
out at the tree he’d watched Clint watch him from before pressing a palm
against the front of his underwear.  He turns back to see Clint kneeling on the
floor next to the bed, watching him with wide, lusftul eyes.
He licks his lips and keeps looking, and Phil thinks he might come all over the
floor himself. “Really? You want to… you want to suck my cock?”
Clint nods, nervously at first and then with more force, enthusiastic and
defiant, and Phil’s heart nearly pounds it's way out of his chest.
Clint’s sloppy, and Phil’s careful not to thrust too much cause he doesn’t want
to make Clint gag, but it’s ridiculous how amazing it is, how warm and soft
that sweet, pouting little mouth is around his cock. Phil’s mouth runs dry and
he has to swallow twice before he can speak, telling Clint just where to lick
and what to do with his tongue. “You sure you’ve never done this before?” he
asks, and Phil thinks Clint would smirk if his mouth wasn’t occupied, because
his eyes are filled with smug accomplishment. “You’re a natural,” Phil mutters,
threading his fingers through Clint’s church-neat hair and mussing it so it
stands on end.
It’s over pretty fast, with Phil pushing Clint away to come into his own hand,
although the little noise of disappointment Clint makes only makes Phil come
harder. He stumbles to the bed to flop down ungracefully, clumsily reaching
around for something to wipe his hands on. Clint taps his knee and hands him a
towel, the one Phil had used not an hour earlier, when Clint had been watching
from outside the window.
“I’m hard again,” Clint says, still sitting on the floor, half apology, half
whine.
“Come up here.” Phil shifts towards the wall and lays on one side to watch as
Clint stands and rubs a palm over his own crotch. His mouth is wet still, pink
and pretty, and when he lays down on the narrow bed, Phil pulls him close to
feel those beautiful lips with his own again.
Clint melts against him, and holds on around Phil’s waist when Phil manages to
flick open the button on Clint’s jeans and get a hand around his cock. It takes
barely a minute before Clint’s coming between them, with Phil’s lips on his
neck muttering the most profane prayers of all. He clings to Phil’s shirt and
gasps, and looks absolutely perfect when he does it, and Phil pulls back to
watch him as he tips over the edge and decides he likes this angle the best of
all.
When they are both sated and stretched out on Phil’s twin bed, their sides
lined up against each other, Phil catches Clint staring at a corner of his
room, his eyes fixated on a point near the back of his closet.
“What are you looking at?” he asks, because he doesn’t think there’s anything
in there except dust bunnies and laundry overdue for the washer.
“You have a bow.” Clint says, a note of wonder in his voice.
“Oh, that. Yeah, it was one of the sports my dad wanted me to try. I never took
to it. Just like I never took to soccer, or football, or baseball, or hockey,
or swimming, or tennis...” Phil drifts off because he’s annoyed at the thought.
He’s never been the child his dad wanted, not even before his mother’s death.
He plays the cello now, but his father won’t buy him one because it’s too
expensive, so he has to borrow the school’s.
“Can I look at it?” Clint asks, but he’s already off the bed and reaching into
the closet. It’s a just cheap student bow, part of an entry level youth archery
set, but Clint is holding it like it’s the most amazing thing that he’s seen
today. Considering that Phil was the last thing Clint was holding, he can’t
help but feel a little bit envious of the inanimate object.
“You’re not supposed to leave her strung.” Clint says, his voice low and
authoritative. “You’ll have to get her new strings, but she’s good, she’s
perfect...”
“Um, you can have it.” Phil offers, because it has been in the back of his
closet for at least three years.
“Really?” Clint exclaims, his eyes bright and wild. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, just don’t let my dad find out. And I don’t have any arrows...I lost
them all already. Look, there’s a tree outside my window - can you climb it?”
Clint looks out. “Yeah, of course. Duh.”
“I’m gonna leave it on my windowsill, you can come get it later, okay?”
Clint grins, although his hands are still clasped around the bow as if it were
precious gold, and not a rickety pile of fiberglass and plastic. “Are you
trying to sneak me into your room at night?”
Phil snorts. “I think I already did that.”
 
 
                                      ***
“My dad’s usually back by now.” Phil says, searching for the remote control in
his living room as Clint perches awkwardly on the edge of the couch. “Don’t
worry, I have guests all the time.”
“What kind of guests?” Clint snipes, a jealous note in his voice. Phil whips
his head around, taken aback. Clint hunches into himself. What was he thinking?
Of course Phil would have others, it’s not like he’s special -
“Stop thinking that.” Phil scolds, and his face is patient and gentle. “I don’t
- I don’t do this with everyone. I mean, I’ve had two boyfriends, but I don’t
just - you know.”
“Are we boyfriends?” Clint blurts out.
It’s Phil’s turn to look bashful and uncertain. “If you want.”
“Isn’t that a sin?” Clint asks, not that he really cares, because taking the
Lord’s name in vain is also a sin and he does that all the time, and based on
what his foster parents say, watching television and eating chocolate and not
cleaning your room are also sins, not to mention ice cream.
“I don’t know how your church does it, but we - we confess our sins. To our
priests.”
“You’re going to tell your dad about us?”
“Of course not. I’m just saying that...you know, penance, followed by
absolution. Like, if I suck your cock, maybe I can just say some Hail Marys and
read some scripture and it’ll all work out in the end.” Phil says, and Clint
laughs, because - could it really be that easy?
“So, what do you think?” Phil says, bumping up his shoulder against Clint, but
refusing to look him in the eye.
“I - I think that yes, I want to be your boyfriend. And you should probably
teach me what a Hail Mary is.”
They relax on the couch together, on separate ends, although Phil wriggles his
toes under Clint’s hips and the calm friendliness he exudes grounds Clint and
helps him focus on the television, which is playing reruns of M*A*S*H.
There is a low conversation outside the door, and footsteps, and Clint
scrambles to sit upright, instinctively trying to flatten his messy hair. The
door opens, and Phil yanks away his toes, turning around to greet his father.
“Hey dad, I ran into Clint at the park and invited him over to -” Phil begins.
“Clint?” Elder Collins - Jake - says, stuttering to a halt right inside the
front door. He is standing next to Phil’s father and Clint thinks that it might
actually be a little too close, for two men that just met earlier that
afternoon.
“Jake! What are you doing here?” Clint yelps.
“Um, I invited Elder Collins over to our bible study for a discussion about his
faith.” Patrick Coulson says, although his eyes are shifting suspiciously.
“And... you were planning on continuing the discussion over coffee? In our
living room?” Phil asks, with a sly smile crawling over his face.
“Yes, exactly.” Father Coulson stammers, his hands reaching up to fidget at his
clerical collar.   
“Well, I was doing the same thing with Clint. Having an interfaith discussion.
He has some very interesting thoughts on ...um, Corinthians.” Phil says, his
chin up and shoulders squared.
“Is that so?” Jake says, but his eyes are soft. “It’s really good that you’re
sharing your faith, Clint. I’m very proud of you. But, it is past your curfew
and I should take you home.”
Clint walks silently behind Jake as they walk towards their cramped home, a
heavy guilt resting in his chest. The Collins have done so much for him -
clothed him, housed him, and this is how he repays them? By sneaking out after
his curfew and wallowing in sin. Clint curses inwardly as his teenage body
reacts to the mere thought of the -sinful behaviour. Jake stops walking then,
looking worried, and places his hand on Clint’s shoulder, which at least helps
to deflate certain other parts.
“Clint - “ Jake starts, disapproval in his voice.
“Look, I’m sorry I stayed out after curfew -” Clint begins to apologize,
because he does actually feel bad. Would his foster parents have stayed up
waiting for him, worried that he wasn’t home yet?
“It’s not that. Our parents will understand that you were being led by the
Lord.”
“Um, yeah, that. Yeah.” Okay, sure, it’s a surprising reprieve, but he’ll take
it.
Jake runs a hand through his neatly cropped hair, and pinches the bridge of his
nose with a frown. “Thank you, Clint. I’m glad you were there tonight. Thank
you.”
“Um, why are you thanking me?”
“For leading me from temptation.” Jake clears his throat and continues down the
street, his head bowed. Clint, confused, follows.  
Chapter End Notes
     Obsessive footnoting is dustbear's fault - just wanted to answer some
     questions that have come up!
     1. Yes, the majority of Catholic priests take a vow of celibacy
     (very, very rarely, a married priest is "grandfathered" in). Phil's
     father felt a calling to serve the Church after his wife's death when
     Phil was very young. He went through seminary school as a single
     father, and when Phil was about 12, he was ordained as a priest and
     took his vows of celibacy (although he's actually been celibate since
     his wife's death). It is not uncommon for a widower to join the
     priesthood, although they are generally discouraged from doing so if
     they have very young children.
     2. I feel like I should address the use (or lack thereof) of "Mormon
     underwear." The short answer is that Mormon children generally dress
     like any other children (girls dress modestly, but you probably
     wouldn't be able to tell a mainstream Mormon teenager from any
     other), and the special undergarments don't come into play until
     reaching adulthood, and an endowment ceremony.
     3. I really handwaved a lot of the Mormon missionary stuff due to the
     original "prompt"(which was just SO GOOD). Apologies!
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     This one is just a porny-as-hell interlude before we move on to more
     plot. :) You may compliment AdamantSteve for her hot church boy porn
     at her Tumblr_page.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It becomes a bit of a habit, this Phil thing. Clint finishes his study
worksheets for the day, and dutifully helps his younger foster siblings with
their homeschooling, and if he spends a little more time watching the clock
than usual, everyone is too busy to notice. At four in the afternoon, he is
free to do as he wishes until his curfew at eight, and he’s running out of the
house the moment the minute hand clicks on the 12, headed towards the small
park a few blocks from Phil’s house. Phil says that they can hang out in the
house, says that his father doesn’t mind him having friends over, but to be
honest, Clint might enjoy the sneaking around a bit. Besides, after a
particularly enthusiastic make out session had knocked a statue of the Virgin
Mary off Phil’s dresser, cleanly decapitating the Mother of God - Clint
preferred to have Phil away from the prying eyes of any saints, angels, martyrs
or gods.
Clint climbs up his favourite tree in the park, which is not his favourite tree
next to Phil’s house, but it will do. He sits in the tree, up on the very
highest branches, and assembles the bow that Phil gave him. It is just a simple
youth recurve, but it’s already the most important material object in Clint’s
life. It was the main thing he’d liked about the circus, before Child
Protective Services had gotten involved and he’d been taken away from the 16
hour days of labouring in the hot sun. And the beatings when he’d miss a shot.
But in the circus, he’d also had a bow, and he’d learned how to shoot more
accurately than even Trickshot, his mentor. Clint had gotten used to the slow
draw of the string and the way his world would narrow into nothingness, just
the arrow, and the bow, and the target.
Clint doesn't have any money of his own, there isn't any extra to go around in
the Collins family anyway, but he’d bartered a couple hours of stockroom work
at the local sporting goods store for a new bow string. He's pretty sure that
the store got the better end of the deal, but he doesn't care, because he's
stringing his bow now, his hands easily executing the practiced movements even
after years without. He tests the draw; it's about twenty pounds lighter than
what he used to train with, and he doesn't even have arrows yet, but the
familiar tool in his hands already feels something like his oldest friend.
“Hey kid.” The familiar voice that he’s been waiting for sounds below, followed
by a kick to the tree. The tree doesn’t move, but Clint does, scrambling down
to the lower branches with a surprising lack of regard for the concept of
footholds. Phil is there, looking up with a giant smile on his face, and
Clint’s heart skips several beats because meeting in the park is what they do
almost every day, but today, Phil looks very different.
Phil is standing there in a pair of tailored navy blue slacks, a white button
down dress shirt and a loosened tie with an embroidered crest and subtle
striping hanging casually around his neck. He’s holding a blazer around his
arm, and his shoes are shiny and polished black, and Clint thinks that right
now, Phil looks a lot like the Prince Charming in the old Disney movies that
his foster family lets him watch with the younger children.
“What are you staring at?” Phil demands, his voice a pretend petulant. He
reaches up for the lowest branch, already beginning to haul himself up to join
Clint in the tree.
“No!” Clint says, and Phil drops back to the ground, startled and curious.
“I meant...I just didn’t want you to ruin your clothes.” Clint tries to
explain. In his household of hand-me-downs and far too many children to provide
for, ruining your Sunday’s best is reason to be assigned the worst chores.
Phil looks embarassed for a second, before shrugging and pulling himself onto
the tree anyway. Clint shimmies down a couple of branches to meet Phil,
although Phil is already above the bulk of leafy canopy, sitting in a large Y
shaped branch with his legs dangling in the air. “I was already late, and I
didn’t want to stop at home to change,” Phil explains, seeming completely
ignorant of how incredibly good he actually looks.
“You’re staring at me again.” Phil points out. Clint has no way of configuring
his words to tell Phil exactly how hot he thinks the uniform is right now, all
buttoned up and scholarly, so he figures he’ll just have to show Phil instead.
"You look like... like you're out of a catalogue or something," Clint says, and
he doesn’t exactly mean the JC Penney’s catalogue, but Phil doesn’t need to
know that. "Just.." Clint reaches out and touches Phil’s jaw, already strong
and solid at just seventeen, and he really does look handsome, so neat and tidy
and clean. Phil quirks his mouth as if to ask something, but Clint leans
forward to kiss him instead, going as soft and slowly as he can. He feels
Phil's mouth curve into a smile beneath his, but when he reaches up towards
Clint, he starts to lose his balance, knocking Clint's teeth as he jerks away
in a brief panic. Clint grabs him and keeps him aloft, giggling a little at
Phil's coordination as he pushes at him to move back, closer to the trunk.
Clint follows him down the branch until they're as close as they can get,
Phil's legs draped over Clint's knees and Phil's back against the tree.
"You scared you're gonna fall?" Clint asks, sliding his hands between Phil's
waist and the tree trunk, kissing softly under his jaw. Phil's hands grasp the
worn hoodie Clint's wearing, and Clint shifts a little just to see if he'll
grab on tighter. He does, and something hums warmly in Clint's chest.
"No," Phil says, and he looks obstinate when Clint pulls back to look him in
the face. He shifts again to make Phil yelp and grab on, kissing him again
through laughs and more clinging. That is definitely one of the things Clint
likes about having Phil up in a tree with him, the way Phil's hands are nearly
always on him, grasping on like he trusts Clint to guide him higher up the
tree. Phil never says to stop, even when he quails a little at how high they’ve
gotten, and Clint figures maybe it's kind of mean, but can't feel too bad about
it when Phil looks at him like Clint really will be able to catch him if he
falls.
Right now, Clint's too preoccupied with keeping Phil as pristine as he looks -
even though there is definitely a short twig sticking out of his otherwise neat
hair - kissing a way around that starchy collar. Clint doesn’t hesitate to take
advantage now that he’s been given free reign since Phil's hands are still
attached firmly around his waist. Phil's eyes open a little wider when Clint
undoes the top-most button and kisses the little triangle of warm skin it
reveals. "What if someone sees?" Phil asks quietly, because they don't usually
do much of anything outside of Phil's bedroom, tree-clinging not withstanding.
Clint shrugs. "People don't usually look up," he answers, and it's true. That's
why he likes being up high; you can watch everything and no one notices you at
all. Clint is used to not being noticed, but being able to control how he’s not
noticed is still a skill he treasures. Phil seems unconvinced, but Clint offers
him a sly smile which gets him another kiss in return.
"If we keep making out," Phil says after a little while, one hand unclenched
enough to twine his fingers with Clint's between them, "I'm gonna come in my
pants."
"No!" Clint says again, because Phil’s soft wool pants are far too nice to get
ruined like that.
"Well, you got me all worked up," Phil says reproachfully, like it's Clint's
fault for sucking on his tongue. He's hard too, but he's just in some fifth-
hand jeans and who cares about them?
"Take it out," Clint whispers against Phil's lips before biting his own and
looking up at him. Phil's gaze darkens and he swallows as he looks around at
the glimpses of park between the leaves, as if he's actually considering not
getting his cock out for Clint to touch. He's so hard that it’s actually a
struggle to get the zipper on his pants open, but he manages it somehow, and
then he's just as hard and perfect in Clint's hand as always. Clint shuffles
backwards and grabs ahold of a smaller branch to one side before dipping his
head to lick. It's all fast enough that Phil evidently takes a moment to
actually parse what's going on, hissing, "Clint! You can't!"
Clint stops and looks up, the head of Phil's cock peeking out from the top of
his fist, wet and shiny. He licks once again and grins. "Do you really want me
to stop?"
"N-no."
When he's done, both their cum wiped messily on the leaves and bark around
them, Clint's not sure why he wanted to keep Phil so pristine when he looks so
decidedly perfect now, flushed cheeks and shirt half undone, wet cock still
swaying as Phil slumps back, finally relaxed enough to stop being scared of
falling.
***
“I have something I want to show you.” Clint says, looking shyly through his
eyelashes and Phil, already exhausted and spent, decides that he’ll go anywhere
that Clint wants. Clint gives him his hand, and helps him over a large gap
between the tree’s branches and then Phil mostly just focuses on not falling,
following his monkey blooded boyfriend upwards.
“Here.” Clint says, gesturing next to himself, and Phil sees a large wooden
plank screwed into the branches. A chunk of tree bark has been scraped away
unceremoniously, and Phil can see the name “CLINT” etched into the bark in a
childish hand. He hoists himself up, settling next to Clint, and through the
leaves, he can see the entire town around them, small and steady in the
distance. “I come here to be alone,” Clint says, “But I wanted you to see it.”
“I wish I had something special to show you too.” Phil mumbles, feeling a bit
pathetic. Clint is so much moreinteresting that he is, full of stories about
the circus and life on the road. Phil doesn’t really have anything to talk
about besides his school, and that barely warrants his own interest, much less
Clint’s. He wishes he had a cello, so he could play for Clint, show Clint one
of the only things he’s actually really good at, but short of sneaking Clint
into his private school after hours, that's unlikely to happen.
“Can - can you show me your church?” Clint asks nervously, and Phil agrees
immediately, because that’s something he can do.
The Sacred Heart Catholic Church is an impressive building for their small
town, three storeys of short cathedral spires and pseudo Neo Gothic
architecture. Clint looks at it with wide eyes, tracing the outlines of the
small arches and spiralling pillars. The building is empty, although Phil knows
that his father is leading a prayer meeting in one of the adjoining classrooms,
and parishioners sometimes come by to pray. Phil feels strangely brave and
slips his hand into Clint’s own as they enter the building. He knows that he
isn’t ready to come out to his father yet, not ready at all to admit that he
likes boys, likes Clint, and he doubts he ever will be ready for that. But
here, in the church, watched only by the eyes of the Father, Son and Holy
Spirit - well, he wants God to know, so he grasps Clint’s hand tighter, and
treasures the steady grip that he receives in return.
Phil stops in front of the holy water font, a small fountain like receptacle
near the entrance, dipping two fingers in it.  He automatically makes the sign
of the cross, the muscle memory ingrained in his arm, as he dabs the cool water
on his forehead, and then his stomach, left shoulder and right shoulder. “It’s
a holy water font.” he explains to Clint, who’s looking at him with curious
eyes.
“I know what that is.” Clint rolls his eyes, but his smile is friendly and
wide. “We’re Mormon, not aliens.”
Phil snorts, embarrassed, but Clint steps up to him and grabs his right wrist
before he can wipe his wet fingers off on his pants. “What are you -” Phil
starts, but Clint has leaned forward and is licking the holy water off his
fingers, and he doesn’t have any idea how to finish his sentence. He’s usually
a lot more competent in all Clint-related matters, but he’s standing in a
church, on holy consecrated ground, and his thoughts are so far from pure,
they’ve already made it to the second circle of Hell.
“Just checking.” Clint says, his eyes sparkling. “I’d heard the Catholics use
wine instead of water.”
“For communion. We don’t baptize babies in wine.” Phil gently corrects, but
Clint is already wandering over to the confessional booth, pulling him along
lightly but insistently.
“How does this work?” Clint asks, walking around the small rectangular box. “Is
this where I confess if I’m planning to sin?”
“I’m not sure it works that way.” Phil says. “Were you planning on sinning?”
In response, Clint hustles Phil into the small booth, crowding him against the
back wall. “I think I’ve already been sinning a lot lately, don’t you?” Clint
whispers into Phil’s ear huskily and Phil is certain that no amount of reciting
the Lord’s Prayer will save his soul now. Clint’s hand tangles around the
rosary around Phil’s neck, running his fingers over the smooth beads and Phil
leans into the kiss, letting Clint explore at his own pace.
“I want to confess.” Clint says, running his long fingers over the aged wood of
the confessional chamber.
“You have to confess to a priest.”
“I’m not confessing to your dad. I’ll confess to you.” Clint says.
Phil stumbles awkwardly into the other side of the confessional, divided from
Clint only by a heavy curtain and a low ledge. His heart is pounding out of his
chest, and he reaches over and flicks the switch that lights a small red light
outside, the signal that the confessional is in use.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” Clint says, and Phil has to stop
himself from slamming his head against the back of the confessional, because
his cock is already harder than he thinks it’s ever been. “It has been  - well,
never - since my last confession. These are my sins.” Clint continues, and Phil
doesn’t know how Clint knows what to say at a Catholic confession but he really
doesn’t care because his mind is suddenly flooded with the thought of Clint
touching himself on the other side of the curtain. His parochial school pants
are far too tight.
“Go ahead.” Phil stammers.
“There’s this boy I think of all the time, Father. He’s good to me, and so good
looking, and he’s so sweet when he kisses me, and all I want is for him to fuck
me hard in the ass until I come screaming his name. Is that a sin, Father?”
Phil’s throat is dry when he finally chokes out his answer, which sounds just
as lame on his lips as it did in his head. “I’m pretty sure it is a sin, yes.”
There's a tiny little sound from the other side of the confessional, the
smallest sigh coming from Clint and then a rhythmic sliding sound which Phil's
pretty sure is Clint jerking off. He's about to say something, about how that's
definitely a sin and how they're literally going to burst into flames when
Clint continues -
"But I know he wants it too, Father. He told me so, told me just how much he
wants to come in my ass, and I want it too, so bad -" Clint breaks off there to
sigh and his movement speeds up, the curtain between them jiggling a little
with every stroke.
"That... that's very sinful," Phil admits, as much to himself as to Clint,
because Clint might be taking significant liberties with his paraphrasing but
he's not lying. Why did this seem like a good idea?
Phil reaches down to press a palm against his own erection and shakes his head
as he cautiously pulls the curtain open enough to see just what Clint's doing.
Sure enough, his pants are around his thighs and his cock is in his hand. He's
smirking right back at Phil, like he's won something.
Clint thrusts his hands past the curtain and pulls Phil closer, grabbing at the
front of his pants and opening them immediately for the second time that day.
"Clint," Phil hisses, but quickly shuts up because Clint's kissing him roughly,
and more fervently than he ever has. Clint is not particularly gentle when he
pulls Phil's dick out, but Phil can't bring himself to mind much when his pants
are so tight. Clint slicks up his hand with his pink tongue right in front of
Phil before closing his fist around Phil's cock, at which point even the idea
of protest flies out of Phil's brain.
Phil wraps his arms around Clint and kisses back, consumed by the sort of lust
he's only been warned about and never knew could be real. Jesus himself could
arrive on earth and he'd have a hard time rapturing Phil away from this.
Clint pulls back - not far, the booth is so small there's barely space for the
two of them even as close as they are - to lick his way up Phil's neck. He
grabs one of Phil's hands and pulls it up to his mouth, licking Phil's index
finger right in front of his face before very deliberately placing it back to
where it had been palming his ass. "Touch me," he whispers, barely a breath
against Phil's ear. "Please?"
Phil's had two boyfriends already so really, he shouldn't feel as much shivery
thrill at the way Clint's jaw slackens when he pulls his hand back around to
wet it properly, but then he slides his wet fingers down the crack of Clint's
ass and finds what he's looking for and yeah, many apologies to Jesus Christ,
but Phil's very deeply committed to this particular sin now. Clint gasps softly
into Phil's neck as he presses carefully, slow but with intent, his breath
choking when Clint opens up enough to let him in. "So tight," Phil mutters
mindlessly, cock bobbing in time with the pulse Phil can actually feel around
his finger.
Clint tips his head back against the wall of the confessional, neck long and
perfect and begging to be kissed as Phil slides in further. Phil's own cock
gets forgotten in Clint's bliss, but he's not sure he'd last if Clint was
working him over with his usual enthusiasm, not when he's this perfectly hot
and tight around his finger.
He moves in and out as gently as he can, unable to do much more from the angle
they're in without moving Clint, and he looks so perfect exactly as he is that
the thought of moving him seems like sacrilege. Clint moves himself though,
shifting one leg up against the small ledge that divides the booth and making
Phil push his finger all the way home to a louder gasp than the rest. Phil
cringes at the sound, but no one comes knocking. Even if they did, Phil's not
sure he'd care at this point.
"One day," Phil promises as quietly as he can, using his other hand to jack
Clint's cock with same pace as Clint is thrusting back onto his finger. "One
day, I'll open you up big enough for me," and it sounds clunky and unsexy when
the words actually leave his mouth, but Clint apparently doesn't think so,
because he clenches hard around Phil's finger and promptly comes into his
waiting hand.
When Phil's pulled out and Clint's looking at him, eyes unfocused and
beautiful, Phil licks his cum-covered hand clean, mostly out of necessity
because even after everything, wiping his hands on the confessional’s thick
velvet divider just seems wrong. But, he can’t help but smirk at the moan it
elicits from Clint.
"I wanna suck your cock so bad," Clint's voice is a hoarse whisper, and Phil
can't help but feel a little prideful at having led Clint to that point. Clint
grabs him instead, because that's really all the space will allow, and it's
only a few short tugs before Phil's coming right into Clint's hand. Of course,
Clint licks his hand clean too, making even more of a show of things than Phil
did. They kiss, and it is filthy and perfect and for all the rest of what
they've just done, it’s that that feels like the most outrageous part, both of
them tasting like each other in the most ridiculously intimate way.
Clint's a wreck and Phil's sure that he looks just as red and flustered, and
absolutely certain that anyone that sees them will know exactly what they just
did. Clint comes out after Phil looking more beautiful than ever, and Phil
can't feel too bad about his own transgressions. They sneak out into the still
empty church, the air cool on their skin outside the stuffy confessional that
now reeks of sex and lust and other heathen things.
Chapter End Notes
     Footnotes!
     1. Phil's Catholic schoolboy uniform is pretty much as described.
     It's really Catholic schoolgirl outfits that tend to be more
     interesting.
     2. The "movie" version of a confessional usually features completely
     divided sections for the priest and penitent, separated by a grate.
     But for story purposes (read: porn), we decided to go with another
     common version, which has a heavy curtained divider.
***** Chapter 4 *****
It’s Clint’s birthday, and he doesn’t know it, because he doesn't remember ever
celebrating one. The Collins do celebrate birthdays, but there are so many
children in the house, so they do quarterly birthday celebrations. All Clint
knows is that there will be cake at the end of the month, and him and Jake and
two of his other foster brothers will all blow out candles at the same time.
There’ll be white cake, frosted with some sort of buttercream, and there’ll be
a wrapped present for him, except it won’t really be a real present, just a
pair of socks, or a new prayer book to talk about during Bible study.
So for Clint, it’s just another day, although all his days have been really
good now that Phil’s around, and he’s in a good mood when his foster mom calls
an end to the day of homeschooling and chores. He runs over to the
neighbourhood where Phil lives, enjoying the feel of the warm afternoon sun on
his skin. Clint has practically memorized Father Coulson’s schedule by now, and
treasures the four hours between the end of Phil’s school day and the time that
Phil’s dad returns home from his evening Bible study meeting, which coincides
with his own curfew. They get a lot done in four hours, him and Phil, although
as much as he loves kissing the other boy (amongst other less innocent things),
he’s grown even more attached to the idea of having a friend.
The front door of Phil’s house is already open when Clint gets there, and he
bounces into the living room to find Phil standing there, holding a small
cupcake.
“Here, take this.” Phil says, thrusting the cupcake into his hands. It is
chocolate, with white frosting and a smattering of rainbow sprinkles. “I have
something to give you.”
Clint looks at the cupcake and licks at the frosting, savouring the smooth,
sweet treat. “Is this something like the thing with the ice cream?” he asks,
already starting up the stairs to Phil’s room. Clint isn’t entirely sure what
Phil is intending to do with a cupcake, but if Phil insists on making sure that
Clint gets a hard on any time he looks at a dessert, he’s not going to
complain.
“No!” Phil yelps. “Just - just eat the cupcake. I meant - it’s your birthday. I
got you something.”
Clint stares at the cupcake. It’s his birthday?
“Your brother - Jake. He spent all night talking to my father about the
pastoral epistles on the back porch, and stayed for breakfast this morning. And
before you ask - my bedroom is right above the porch, and unless four hours of
droning about Pauline authorship is traditional homosexual courting behaviour,
I’m pretty sure that they’re not doing what we’re doing. Anyway, he talked at
breakfast about how your family celebrates birthdays and said that today was
your actual birthday….so here.” Phil produces a long wrapped package from
behind his back. It is wrapped carefully in light blue gift wrap, with a dark
purple ribbon around it.
“You got me a gift?” Clint stares at the wrapped present in his hands. He
suspects that it probably isn’t a pair of socks.
“It’s just a thing.” Phil mutters, running his hand through his short hair. “If
you don’t like it, you can exchange it for something else.”
Clint opens the present, trying not to wrinkle the paper the way he’s been
taught, because his foster family always tries to recycle the wrapping. But
then Phil sighs and says “Just tear it up, for goodness sake!” so Clint does,
and basks in the heady joy of hearing the paper rip to shreds. The blue paper
falls away, and then Clint finds himself holding twelve fiberglass arrows in
his hand. The long, narrow shafts are cold and heavy in his hand, and the
plastic fletching on the ends are purple and black.
“I thought it was a bit silly that you had a bow with no arrows. The guy at the
store said these would work with the bow you have, and I know you like purple -
Clint, are you okay? Are you crying?”
Clint’s not quite crying, he doesn’t think, but this is the first time someone
has ever bought something just for him, just as a gift, for no reason other
than it being his birthday. And Phil had to have saved up to buy these, and
thought about what Clint would actually want, and even considered his favourite
colour - and okay, maybe he is crying a little. Phil wraps his arms around him,
reassuring and calm, and Clint mumbles a choked thank you into the steady
shoulder.
“Hey, let’s go try them out.” Phil prods at his side gently, and Clint figures
that he’s less likely to be embarrassingly emotional while actually shooting
arrows, so he lets Phil lead him into the backyard. A burlap sack is nailed to
the tree and Clint grins at the crude circles drawn on the coarse fabric. He
turns to Phil, and kisses a deep thank you, and when Phil has to come up for
air, his eyes dark and dilated in the late afternoon sun, Clint is ready to
show Phil the other thing in the world that he’s really good at.
The first arrow is a bit off center; Clint hasn’t used a bow in about five
years, and this bow is lighter than his last one. The next four arrows land
squarely in the middle of the red circle. Phil gapes as Clint lets loose each
arrow, each one released faster until the last few arrows bounce off the ends
of the other, since the middle of the target no longer has any room to spare.
The stuffing in the burlap sack spills out of the middle, falling to the floor,
and Clint’s heart is the happiest it has ever been. Phil’s face is full of
admiration and wonder and it’s a bit difficult to tear himself away from his
new gift, but Clint knows exactly what he wants to give Phil in return.
 
                                      ***
“I have something I want to give you too.” Clint whispers into his ear, and
then it’s all that Phil can do to keep up as Clint forcibly drags him up to his
room. The bow and arrows are dropped off at the foot of Phil’s bed, and then
Phil finds himself laid out on his own bed, with Clint aggressively straddling
his thighs. Clint kisses hotly and wetly, and his nimble hands make quick work
of Phil’s shirt. Clint hasn’t been soft and shy for a while, but this level of
enthusiasm throws Phil off balance a little, even as his entire body responds
to the gorgeous boy on top of him.
Clint slips out of his shirt and jeans and underwear without comment, and it
occurs to Phil that this is actually the first time he’s seen Clint entirely
naked, without a single shred of clothing remaining on his body. He’s stunned
into silence, watching Clint grind and move on his still covered groin, and is
suddenly reminded that Clint used to be a circus performer, and there are no
other words to describe what Clint is doing except that it is definitely a
performance. There is no trace of any awkwardness in Clint’s movements as he
gyrates against Phil’s cock, and Phil forgets how to breathe.
But, when Clint reaches over for the lotion on the desk, brazenly crawling over
Phil’s chest and practically dangling his hard cock in Phil’s face, Phil
instinctively blurts out - “What are you doing?”
“You’re so good to me, Phil,” Clint mutters in his ear, stopping to kiss and
nibble at his neck.”You’re so good, and you give me so many things and I can
never give you anything, but I can give you this. Let me give you this.” Clint
says, and he reaches his lotion covered hand to his own asshole, arching
backwards like a particularly pornographic trapeze artist. Phil can’t see
Clint’s fingers, but he has a really good idea of what they’re doing.
“I want to let you fuck me.” Clint moans, and that particular phrasing really
doesn’t sit well with Phil, and he scrambles backwards, out from under Clint’s
writhing body.
“Wait, stop.” Phil demands, sliding his hands up to Clint’s shoulders and
holding him an arm’s length away. “Please, stop, I can’t let you do this.”
“What?” Clint asks. “You won’t fuck me?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s - you want me to fuck you as - as - a gift to me? To
pay me back for the arrows?”
Clint looks embarrassed for a second, ducking his head shyly, before he brings
his eyes back up to meet Phil. “I’m sorry, it’s just that - that’s all I have.
I don’t have any money, I’m not good at anything besides archery, and I wanted
to give you something. Can we please - ” Clint’s hand reaches for Phil’s
waistband, trying to pull him close again.
“No, Clint.” Phil reaches across the bed for Clint’s jeans. “Put these on.”
Clint looks irreparably confused and not a little bit disappointed, but he does
as Phil instructs, although he doesn’t resist shimmying into his jeans a little
bit and Phil can’t help but note that he doesn’t actually bother to put his
underwear back on.
Clint sits nervously on the edge of the bed as Phil, still hard in his pants,
swipes his Bible off his desk. His hands tremble as he flips to the verse he’s
searching for, and he knows that Clint’s eyes are on him.
”'Do you not know that your bodies are members of Christ? Shall I then take
Christ’s members and make them the members of a prostitute?'” Phil runs his
fingers down the page, stopping several verses down. “'Do you not know that
your body is a temple of the holy Spirit within you,'” Phil reads, his voice a
bit croaky. ”'For you have been purchased for a price. Therefore, glorify God
in your body.'”
He looks at Clint, who is staring back quizzically. “It’s from First
Corinthians. It says that Jesus has purchased our salvation with his sacrifice,
and our bodies are not to be bargained away for trifling things.” Phil
explains, trying to ignore the throbbing hardness in his own pants. Clint is
looking intently at him, his hands folded in his lap, with an unreadable
expression in his eyes.
Phil tries to continue - “You’re amazing, Clint. You’re clever and funny and
caring and you’re important to me. And I love you, and I’m not going to have
sex with you just because you think you owe me something, because you’re worth
more than anything I could ever give you. And I don’t mean your virginity,
which is a pretty awkward social construct anyway, but you are a precious gift
and -” Phil’s breath is knocked out by Clint, who has thrown his arms around
Phil’s waist, and is kissing desperately into his lips.
Clint’s eyes are bright and wet when he pulls away. “Say it again.” he demands.
“Um. You’re really important in my eyes and God’s? I’m not going to have sex
with you if you don’t really want to?”
“Not that. You said you love me.”
“I do. I love you.” Phil insists, and Clint is kissing him again, slowly and
achingly sweet.
“I love you too.” Clint mumbles into his lips. “And I’ve also been trying to
get you to fuck me for weeks, and not for any reason other than I really,
really, really want you to.” Clint reaches over to Phil’s Bible and flips the
pages forward. “And if you’re trying to justify things with Bible verses -
there’s this really perfect verse, oh, here it is.”
Clint clears his throat and reads, his voice strong and clear. “'I arose to
open for my beloved, and my hands dripped with myrrh.'” Clint smirks, and puts
the book down, starting to unbutton his jeans again. “Now, we’re all out of
myrrh, but I think Jergens hand lotion will do just fine, unless you’d like to
inform me that that’s not what the Song of Songs is about.“
“That’s not what the Song of Songs is - “ Phil tries to say, but Clint is
already astride him again, and Phil decides that there are so many better
things to do with his beautifully enthusiastic boyfriend than quote Bible
verses at him.
 
They've...done things before, fingers and tongues and all sorts of fascinating
exploration, and Phil's actually lost count of how many orgasms they've given
one another over the past few months. But, they've never quite gotten to this
point, though he's not sure there's much else to learn.
Clint strips off again and sits astride Phil, cock warm and solid against
Phil's belly as he reaches back with a lotion-covered hand. He bites his lip
and grins when he sees Phil looking, turning the wide-eyed innocence on his
face absolutely filthy with a leer.
Phil pushes at Clint until he lets up and moves onto his back beneath him and
takes over with the lotion. It seems like the least he can do, although Clint’s
acrobatic flexibility is certainly something that he has to explore later. It
leaves Clint's arms free to grab at Phil's shoulders and pull him closer to
kiss and squirm happily, and he's slick and warm around Phil's fingers. "Do
it," Clint whispers. "Fuck me."
There's no one home, no real reason to be so quiet, but Phil whispers back
breathlessly anyway. "You sure?"
Clint nods and pulls him in even closer, pressing his face against Phil's neck.
Phil turns his head to catch Clint's lips in a kiss before breaking away to
slick up his cock before wiping his hand on that crummy old towel that's
apparently become their best friend. But Phil isn’t thinking about the laundry;
his hands are shaking nervously and he has to take a deep, fortifying breath
before lining himself up and holding himself there before looking back up at
Clint.
"Please," Clint goads, as though he thinks Phil might run off and start reading
the Bible at him again. "C'mon."
Phil surges forward to kiss Clint, which gives him the courage to actually
move, leaning back and then pushing in. It's tight, so incredibly tight, and he
goes as slow as he can, feeling Clint's heartbeat flutter against his cock and
- holy hell, he's actually doing it, he's actually having sex and it feels
amazing.
Clint grabs at Phil's arms and pulls him down to bury his head in the crook of
Phil's neck again, both of them breathing light little pants of breath as Phil
keeps going, pushing until his cock's all the way in, his balls resting firm
against the smooth curve of Clint’s ass. "You ok?" Phil asks, pulling away
enough to swallow and look at Clint's face, eyes lidded as he nods and grins
weakly.
"Your cock is in my ass," he says, like it's a hilarious secret they are
sharing, and Phil starts laughing at the same time as Clint does, nodding and
giggling and saying, "I know."
Phil doesn't consciously decide to move, they just end up kissing again and
it's natural to move with it, the same as when they roll around making out and
rubbing off against one another - but approximately six million times better.
He shifts his hips a little, just small rolling movements as they kiss each
other deeply, and then it is impossible to stop kissing or moving because both
things feel so hopelessly good.
Clint is making little sighs of pleasure, his cock jumping between them every
time Phil moves, even once they've rolled over so Phil's bearing down between
Clint's pulled-up knees. "We should do this all the time," he says, back to the
soft whispers again, and Phil can't disagree. Maybe that's why people are
always so against sex - if this is really how it feels, how do people get
anything else done?
"Are you sure I'm not hurting you?" Phil asks, because his whole cock is
sheathed inside Clint's hot body and there has to be some downside if it feels
this good for him. But, Clint shakes his head and beams up at him. "No, no, it
feels...like you're fucking me."
They go back to kissing and and Phil loses himself to the friction of Clint’s
body sliding against his own. Clint gets his hand between them and wraps it
around himself, jerking off in time to Phil's slow, tentative thrusts. "I love
you," he murmurs softly, eyes fixed on the perfect V between Clint's collar
bones even as he shifts and sinks back into Clint's tight heat. But Clint grins
wide, the white of his teeth bright against the red bitten skin of his lips and
Phil stutters in his movement when he looks up and smiles, a happy and content
expression that Phil decides that he has to remember forever, because it’s the
most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. "I love you too," Clint promises, and Phil
comes not a moment later, shaking and almost collapsing right on top of him.
"Sorry," he gasps, still coming even as he tries to pull away, because doing
this right inside Clint’s ass just seems rude, seems like it's really
outrageous to - well.
But Clint's lost, moving his hand so fast that it is a blur as he jerks himself
off with one hand and holds on to Phil with the other. He feels Clint come
clenched around his cock, pulsing in time with the spurts of cum that spray
over his chest. He presses onto it though, still warm before it cools in the
air on Clint's skin, sealing them together like glue as they kiss.
“Next time,” Phil says softly against Clint’s ear, both of their chests rising
and falling even as he slides gingerly free of Clint’s body. “You can fuck me.”
“Yeah?” Clint asks, just as soft, and the filthy and unrepentant promise in his
eyes when Phil nods is something else he’d like to remember forever.
 
                                      ***
“Let’s go get ice cream.” Phil whispers, and it makes Clint giggle furiously,
because ice cream will always make him giggle now. He throws his arms around
Phil, childishly demanding a piggyback ride down the stairs, and pays for it by
sneaking small kisses into the base of Phil’s neck, right where his neatly
cropped hair ends. Phil takes the steps slowly and carefully, his right hand
looped reassuringly around Clint’s ankle.
When they reach the flat landing, Clint reaches over to poke Phil in the side,
which makes Phil laugh when he turns the corner - and lets go of Clint.
“What the -” Clint starts, picking himself off the carpet, and then stops,
because Phil is pale as a sheet.
And, Father Coulson - he’s definitely Father Coulson now and not Mr. Coulson,
still dressed in his stern black clerical collar - is leaning against the couch
in the living room, his arms crossed.
“I thought you were at Bible study.” Phil stammers. “This is not what it looks
like.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, son. This is exactly what I think it looks
like.” Father Coulson says, his voice a depressed monotone. “Clint, I’ve called
your brother to come pick you up.”
Phil steps in front of Clint then, practically shielding him with his own body,
which seems silly to Clint, because it’s not as if Father Coulson is going to
start throwing punches. Father Coulson’s face falls, and Clint thinks that this
might be easier if he just looked angry, instead of heartbroken and
disappointed. “This is my fault.” Patrick Coulson says, pacing around the room
while running his hand roughly through his thinning hair. “I’ve failed you,
Phil. I’m sorry. When I was called to the priesthood, I did not think that it
would be at the expense of being a good parent. But-but I just haven’t known
what to do since your mother died.”
Father Coulson gestures vaguely in the direction of both Clint and Phil, “I’ve
allowed you to be led astray.“
“You don’t understand, dad.” Phil insists. “I love him.”
“Philip, church doctrine is clear - “
“I don’t give a fuck about church doctrine!” Phil yells, and the anger in his
voice startles Clint, because he’s never heard it like that before. “You’re
right! You are a shitty dad! I’ve been messing around with him under your roof
for months now, and you’ve never noticed because you’re too busy with your
goddamn church.”
“Philip, I’ve always tried - “
“Well, you didn’t try hard enough, Father Coulson!” Phil enunciates his
father’s title mockingly. ”Clint is my third boyfriend, did you even know that?
Did you know that I’m on track to be class valedictorian? Did you know I play
the cello and I’m really fucking good at it? You know what else I’m really
fucking good at, Dad? I’m really fucking good at sucking cock!” Phil swears,
set on provoking his father.
“The word of God is clear, Philip.”
“I don’t believe in God.” Phil says, and he’s no longer loud, his voice low and
bitter instead.
Father Coulson is pale, his lips pursed furiously, and Clint inches away from
the confrontation, his flight instinct kicking into high gear. He’s almost to
the front door, when it suddenly opens and he practically falls into Jake, who
stands there with one hand on the door, and the other on Clint’s arm, steadying
him.
“Patrick - Father Coulson, I’m sorry - I didn’t know about this.” Jake says,
but he’s holding Clint back protectively.
“Please take him home, Jake. This is a family matter.”
“Yes, of course - but I need to talk to you for a second first.” Jake pleads,
and Father Coulson waves him over the kitchen. They speak in hushed voices, but
Jake steals furtive glances in Clint’s direction, and Clint has eavesdropped on
enough conversations to know how to lip read the words ‘social worker’. He
knows how this ends.
Clint remains rooted where he is, not daring to approach Phil, who is similarly
stunned. When Jake returns to his side, placing a comforting arm on his back to
guide him out of the house, Clint doesn’t even try to wave goodbye.
 
                                      ***
The pebbles hitting his window are the only thing that draw Phil out of his
distraught crying, which he’s trying really hard not to do, because he’s almost
a grown man, and grown men don’t cry about stupid boys. He leaps up to pull up
his windowshade, and Clint has already scrambled up the tree that reaches his
room.
“I’m going away.” Clint says, his eyes clearly red, even in the moonlight. “I’m
not going to go to another foster family.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you come back?” Phil asks, hating the way his voice cracks into a sob.
“Yes. I’ll come back.” Clint’s hands reach out to grasp Phil’s. They are
shaking, and Phil doesn’t really believe the words, doesn’t believe that he’ll
ever see Clint again.
“I’ll wait for you, then.” Phil promises, and in that moment, he is certain
that at least his own promise is true.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Clint is twenty four, and he’s much taller than he was the last time he was in
this small New England town, thirty minutes out of Boston. He’s taken the bus
down here, instead of going with the other performers to the beach. The street
is still familiar, and he is surprised that he actually remembers how to get
there, even though he doesn’t know the street address, and never has.
He pauses before he knocks on the door. A small part of him hopes that a
complete stranger will open the door, because he’s not sure how much he wants
to know that he’s been left behind. But, he is proud. The intervening years
haven’t been easy, but he’s worked hard, and he’s made something for himself.
He’s a carnie, sure, but he also picked up a GED shortly after running away
from home, he’s a few semesters into a correspondence course for a Business
Management degree, and his savings account is not unhealthy at all. He’s not
the same sullen boy that he was the last time he knocked on this door, and he
is proud of that, confident in the man he’s grown up to be. And if a little
part of him still holds on to the thought that Phil would be happy that he’s
made a scarecrow of a real person out of a lost teenager with no hopes or
dreams - well, that’s the thought that echoes in his head when he reaches out
for the doorbell.
It is a familiar face that opens the door, after all. “Father Coulson, I don’t
know if you remember me.” Clint starts, trying not to think of the last emotion
he’d seen on the elderly man’s face.
“Clint Barton. Of course I remember you. Please, come in.” Father Coulson holds
the door open and waves Clint in. The house still looks like it did almost a
decade ago, a crucifix still sits above the sliding glass doors to the porch;
the framed portrait of Jesus Christ is still blue eyed, and still in the
kitchen.
Clint can’t help noticing the picture next to the framed portrait of Christ,
which is an official Army photograph of Phil, older of course. His expression
is hard, his back rigid and his eyes stare fiercely into the distance. He looks
miles away from the kind boy Clint once knew.
“I’m sorry, but haven’t spoken to Philip in years. I sent him to military
school after you went away, hoping that the structure would help him, but I
don’t think that was the right choice. He chose to join the Army afterwards. He
hasn’t returned my calls or letters since he left boot camp.”  
Clint follows him to the dining table, where Father Coulson pours them cups of
coffee, his thin hands shaking slightly.
“He was deployed to Afghanistan in January. He’s been missing in action since
last month.” Phil Coulson’s dad says, and Clint tries not to let any emotion
cross his face, but fails. “I’m really sorry for what I did. I still can’t
accept homosexual sex as acceptable in God’s eyes, and certainly not any sort
of sex when he was just a teenager, you understand that. But I should have
tried to listen.” He walks over to a small altar in the living room, upon which
is placed a lit candle and a picture of a saint, and picks up a set of dog
tags. He slides one of them off the chain, and hands it to Clint. “I suppose
that I really don’t care that my son is gay. I would much rather have my son.
Just my son, the way God made him, alive and well.”
Clint rubs the cool metal in his hands, reads the last name(COULSON), first
name(PHILIP J), Social Security number and blood type. The space where a
service member would list a religion, if they had one, is left blank. “The Army
found these at his last known location, but no body, or anything else. So, I’ll
continue to pray for his safety.” Patrick Coulson explains, and he sounds
exhausted and defeated.
Clint fidgets with the metal tag in his hand, not knowing what to say. Talking
about Phil is obviously difficult for Father Coulson, and it’s not exactly easy
for Clint either. “Do the Collins still live here?” he asks, although he isn’t
sure why the elder Coulson would know the answer.
“They moved back to Utah with the whole family, after all their pending
adoptions were finalized. They were trying to adopt you too, you know? But,
your brother Jake - we’ve kept in touch. He went on a two year mission trip to
Sierra Leone shortly after he graduated, but he’s decided to stay on for a few
more years as an aid worker. I have his address, if you’d like it?”
“Yeah, sure.” Clint says, although he doesn’t think he’ll actually write.
Clint walks down the driveway with his hand clasped around the single dog tag
in his pocket. From the front porch, Father Coulson calls out - “Clint?”
“Yes?”
“I hope you don’t mind if I continue praying for you.”
“No, I don’t mind at all.” Clint replies, and he tries to smile a polite
goodbye.
                                      ***
Phil Coulson is twenty seven, and he’s a prisoner of war in a large compound
near the border of Afghanistan and Tajikistan. All things considered, he is
treated quite well. He‘s mostly confined in a small room with two of his other
squadmates, and it’s cramped and often noisy, but they are fed well, and
clothed cleanly, and generally left to their devices. He walks with a slight
limp now, from a break that wasn’t set perfectly when he was first captured,
but he mostly considers himself to blame for refusing the medical attention.
He’s been here for over a year, he suspects, but unlike his squadmates, he’s
stopped counting the days.
He is reading a Harlequin novel, a painfully trite romance about a cowboy and a
city girl. The reading material they have access to is sadly lacking in
variety, and he’s not sure how the small stack of Harlequin novels with the
covers torn off got added to the pile, but he’s already read this book twice.
“Jesus Christ, Sitwell, are you fucking jerking off?” Sergeant Marcus Johnson
exclaims, kicking at the top bunk. A choked laugh emerges from up top, followed
by a low moan.
“Not anymore, sir!” First Lieutenant Jasper Sitwell says, and he definitely
lets loose a giggle.
Phil grins. Well, if he has to be a prisoner of war, at least he is in good
company. Sitwell hops off the top bunk, tossing a horribly disgusting looking
washcloth into the sink.
“Had a dream about my first girlfriend. You never forget your first, you know?”
He sighs, scratching his hairless belly.
“Of course you don’t. Wasn’t your first girlfriend just two years ago, Jasper?”
Sergeant Fury chuckles.
“Shut uppp.” Jasper growls. “No, I actually had a girlfriend when I was a kid,
dude. Catholic schoolgirl; her name was Maria and everything. Man, those
Catholics really know how to get it on. Hey Phil, aren’t you Catholic?”
“I was.” Phil concedes. “But I would highly recommend you not think of me the
same way as your Catholic schoolgirl.”
“Who was your first, Phil? Betcha she was some little hottie. They always go
after the strong, clever types like you.” Johnson says, stretching out on his
bunk.
Phil shrugs. “None of your business.”
“Oh, come on, Coulson. I’ve seen your balls, dude, and you’ve bled on me, and
now you can’t talk about your hot teenage dalliances?“ Sitwell picks the book
out of Phil’s hand, and tosses it aside unceremoniously.
Phil sighs. Eh, what the hell. “It was a boy, actually.” Well, if there was
ever a good time to come out to his squadron, a prisoner of war compound was as
good a place as any. “His name was Clint.”
Jasper exhales, and slumps onto Phil’s cot, easily clapping him on the
shoulder. “Man, you never forget your first.”
Phil can’t help but find himself telling stories then - first, just sweet ones
about Clint’s archery, and climbing trees and reading the Bible together. But
then, Sitwell tells a story about having sex in his mother’s Buick, and
Sergeant Johnson tells an unbelievably dirty one about an older woman and the
contents of her produce drawer, and before Phil knows it, he’s telling filthy
stories about ice cream and church confessionals and the three of them are
laughing and crying and laughing about their teenage escapades. And Phil misses
Clint so badly, but here, in a small room on the border of Afghanistan, not
knowing whether he’ll ever see anyone he knows or loves ever again, his
memories give him strength.
Two weeks later, Phil is paging through another Harlequin novel, this one about
an oil baron and a nanny, when a guard comes to the door and hands Sitwell a
book. He doesn’t pay much attention to the exchange, until Sitwell flops onto
the cot and jostles into Phil’s side, gingerly placing the book on his lap.
“What is this?” Phil asks, brushing his fingers over the leatherbound book.
“You said you used to be Catholic - I know you aren’t anymore, but you still
talk a lot about the Bible, like you find it really interesting and care a lot
about it. And when you have panic attacks, you recite psalms to calm yourself
down, and it helps - it helps to calm me too. I asked for an English language
translation of the Quran, and the guard was more than happy to find me a copy.
I know it’s not exactly the same, but it talks about the same God, and I think
a lot of the stories are the same, and either way, even if you just read it as
a historical text, it has to be better than reading that filth.” Jasper
gestures dismissively at the romance novel in Phil’s hand.
That night, Phil reads about Moses again, the familiar stories arranged in
different words - reads about salvation and hope and perseverance. That night,
for the first time in years, he prays. He no longer has a rosary, hasn’t
carried one since he left home, but he starts with a Hail Mary, and follows it
with the Lord’s Prayer. The words are etched into his brain from a childhood of
Mass and catechism and Sunday school, and he recites the words easily, and the
rest comes like a pent up flood. He prays for deliverance, prays for the safety
of his squadmates, prays for his father and whispers an apology into the humid
night. He prays for a boy he once knew, golden and rebellious and angry and
lost, and he prays that Clint Barton found a light to guide him home, wherever
home may be.
                                      ***
Phil Coulson is thirty one, and he’s in his first year at Harvard Divinity
School, after having gotten his undergraduate degrees in History and Religion
with the help of the G.I. Bill. After leaving Afghanistan as part of a
diplomatic prisoner exchange program, he had set out to do two things -
reconcile with his father, and find Clint Barton. He’d done well with the
former, but the latter has proved more elusive. Sometimes, Phil wonders if he’s
better off not knowing. Perhaps his memories of Clint are more transcendent
than they otherwise would be, filtered through the hazy breath of a perfect
summer. Perhaps it really was just a teenage dalliance, a short passionate
thing between two kids who didn’t know better, but even as Phil tells himself
that it was nothing at all, he knows that it isn’t true.
But tonight, Jasper Sitwell is in town, and he’s going out for a drink with his
old friend. Jasper is already at the bar when Phil arrives, fiddling with a
cherry in his drink. They catch up for hours, and it doesn’t take long for them
to fall into their old routines of ribbing each other, and Phil is relieved to
have a friend that doesn’t stop swearing just because he’s decided to study
religion for a living. Jasper is thoroughly plastered, and Phil is definitely
buzzed, when Jasper gasps at a commercial playing on television. “Oh my god,
let’s go to the circus,” he says, and Phil turns to the screen where a
beautiful redhead is winking right at him. “Come to Carson’s Carnival of
Travelling Wonders! Meet Hawkeye, the World’s Greatest Marksman, the Bearded
Lady and more!” she exclaims, dressed in a devastatingly feminine approximation
of a ringleader’s jacket and hat.
“Well, it’s in town, and the second show starts at ten, so we can still catch
it.” Phil offers, and when Jasper’s delighted expression answers, Phil finds
himself closing his bar tab and then piling into a cab with his friend.
                                      ***
Clint Barton is twenty nine, and he thinks that he’s in love with Natasha
Romanov, but he can’t really be sure, because she’s certainly not in love with
him.
Clint climbs the tall rope ladder for his act, squints into the bright lights
and swipes his eyes across the audience. They’re like little ants, little sheep
led to the spectacle. He’s loves performing, loves the heady thrill of
applause, but he still disdains the people that patronize his world, so ready
to be fooled and tricked by slights of hand and carny games.
Most of all, he’s tired. There aren’t many lifestyles that make a person feel
more uprooted than the nomadic life of a carny, and Clint is no exception. Even
though it wasn’t perfect, Clint always thinks about the last time he had a
home, with the Collins. He’d had Phil Coulson then too, had a friend for a
couple of months. Even though Clint has managed to fall in and out of love many
times since he was fifteen, and fallen in and out of many more beds in the
meantime, there’s still something inimitable and special about that summer, and
Clint holds the memory close and lets it reassure him that he might find a
place to grow roots in again someday.
                                      ***
The audience gasps as Hawkeye lets loose his first arrow, easily hitting an
apple that was on a beautiful, pirouetting, girl's head. Phil recognizes the
girl as the ringleader from the commercial, but he's not really looking at her,
even if her sparkly lilac bodysuit shimmers like diamonds under the hot stage
lights. The apple is pinned, and then shattered on a target behind her, and she
laughs a happy laugh as she picks bits of apple out of her red hair.
Phil gasps too, but for a different reason. Hawkeye performs the rest of his
act with a bright smile and a light touch, and Phil looks on, amazed. The
teenage boy he once gave his crappy bow to is now the World’s Greatest
Marksman, and Phil’s chest is bursting with pride and love to see what Clint
Barton has become.  
Phil stands, intending to clap until his hands are sore, because this is Clint,
his Clint, his perfect golden boy, now all grown up and so beautiful. There is
a smudge of dark eyeshadow around Clint’s eyes, and it only serves to draw out
the deep greens and violent greys of his piercing stare. And his costume,
purple and sleeveless and tight in all the right places - well, that’s just
absolutely ridiculous. The first person Phil has ever been in love with is
strutting around the largest ring of a three ring circus,. and he looks so
proud and confident, and Phil wants to leap past the metal barrier and tell him
just that.
The redhead comes out again, this time dressed back in her ringleader costume,
and the entire tent explodes in cheers as the elephants and trapeze artists and
clowns parade around the tent for their curtain call. She stands on the highest
circular platform, bowing to the adoring crowd and Hawkeye - Clint - hops up
beside her and does the same. And then, she reaches an arm around him, sliding
down his back, and then he’s kissing her fervently as she arches into his grip.
Phil can’t look away, as much as he desperately wants to, his memories conjured
up by the sight of Clint’s hands roaming over the tightly fitting ringleader’s
costume - he knows how strong but delicate those hands are, so skilled and
insistent. Clint finally pulls away, and his lips are swollen and wet,
noticeable even under the harsh lights and from a distance, and Phil makes
himself turn and follow in the direction of the exiting audience, disallowing
himself to dwell on the forbidden fruit of his childhood love.
The look on Clint’s face, happy and proud and as gorgeous as he’s ever been,
haunts Phil as he waves another cab down. This is not a man that will settle
for anything less than adventure, Phil thinks, and he can’t offer that. All
Phil can offer is a small country church, and a lifetime of service to God and
a congregation, and men like Clint Barton were not made to accompany small town
church pastors. Men like Clint Barton were made for the stage, not for teaching
Sunday School, for glimmering bright spotlights and fame, not bake sales and
lemonade stands.
When a surprisingly intuitive Jasper suggests that they continue drinking their
sorrows away, Phil gladly agrees.
                                      ***
Clint Barton is thirty six, and he is now a full partner in Barton and
Romanov’s Carnival of Travelling Wonders, having bought the whole thing from
Carson when the old man retired. They’re in Middlebury, Vermont, camping out on
an acre of farmland owned by a man that Natasha knows. Next week, they’ll be
going up to Montreal, to meet with a man who says he wants to help them build a
new kind of circus show, but Clint doesn’t care, not really. His joints ache,
from over a decade of travelling and performing, of dancing like a monkey for
patrons that they have to beg for. He’s exhausted, and he’ll go wherever
Natasha wants him to, but his heart’s not in it anymore, hasn’t been in years.
The rest of the circus folk, the ones that don’t have families or anywhere else
to go during their break, are gathered around a campfire, singing bawdy songs,
but Clint wants to be alone, perhaps cook something in his tiny trailer and
just spend a night staring at the stars, scattered like pebbles across the
empty sky. He rides his motorcycle out of the cargo truck it lives in and
starts down the street to the supermarket. It is actually five miles away, but
the cold air in his face feels nice, and the quiet hills feel even better.
His muscles ache as he strides through the meat and produce sections, hurting
more than they should when he's just doing ordinary things like picking out a
steak and selecting a nice bunch of spinach. He's already feeling defeated, and
exhausted, and perhaps he'll just have soup. 
“Well, yes, I think that’ll be alright.” A voice floats in from the
neighbouring aisle, and Clint startles because it is painfully familiar. He
leans over, peeks through the cans of soup to try and get a look, and - it’s
Phil. It’s Phil, and it couldn’t be anyone but Phil, because he still holds
himself the same way, upright but welcoming. He’s older now, of course, and his
hair is thinning, and he’s smiling as he talks on the phone. He’s dressed in a
simple plaid button down shirt and khaki pants, and there is a silver cross
hanging on a light chain around his neck. “Yes, of course I’m available
tonight.” he says, distracted by his conversation.
Clint’s heart is pounding out of his chest as he crouches down further to get a
good look at Phil, but stops short when he sees the grocery cart. Phil’s
grocery cart is filled to the brim, with enough perishables to feed a family of
six. Clint takes in the large box of diapers, and the small cans of baby food,
and the anti-rash lotion, all sharing space in the cart, and his heart hurts in
a way he’s never felt before, standing right there in a brightly lit aisle of a
grocery store.
“Well, you know how it is. Anything for the kids.” Phil says, that wry lilt in
his voice perfect and exactly like it was over two decades ago. Phil hangs up
and sighs, and looks directly in the direction of Clint’s spot between the soup
cans, and his eyes are still blue and kind, perhaps even kinder now that they
crease in the edges, like Phil’s been living a life with an endless well of
love and laughter in it. Phil doesn’t see him, just reaches over and picks up a
box of cereal and reads the nutritional facts on the side, and that gesture is
so ordinary, so domestic, that Clint just can’t take it anymore.
He doesn’t bother checking out, just leaves the shopping basket full of his
planned dinner on the ground, and bolts out of the grocery store, suddenly
needing to breathe the cold night air, needing to let the frost chill his lungs
to remind him that he is still alive, and he's gotten this far without Phil. He
tells himself that he’s not sad, just angry, because of course Phil Coulson
would get a lovely suburban life in a lovely house in New England, with lovely
children, and a lovely wife. Of course Phil Coulson wears khaki pants and
collared shirts and a silver cross around his neck because of course Phil
Coulson still has faith, still believes that people are good inside.
And at the end of the day, Clint is just a carny, just another kid who isn’t
good at anything but archery. Sure, he runs a business, owns a circus, but what
the hell does that matter for someone like Phil? Phil’s moved on, started a
family, lived his life -  surely Clint can too.
The fire is out by the time he gets back to the campground, after he rides his
bike fifty miles in the direction of Massachusetts. He only realizes it when he
has to stop for gas, realizes that some internal compass is pulling him to the
small town where he first met Phil, trying to recreate the heady days of that
perfect summer. He turns back, of course.
The campground is quiet when he wheels his bike back into the cargo truck, and
he plods through the damp grass to his lonely trailer, his stomach growling.
Natasha is waiting on the steps of his trailer when he approaches. She’s
holding two large slices of pie on a plate in her lap, and Clint reaches for
it, but she yanks it away, patting the step beside her as an invitation to sit
down.
“The clowns had a bake-off. I saved some for you, but only if you tell me why
you’ve been gone for hours and why you look like you’ve been crying.” Natasha
says, handing him a fork. She doesn’t actually prevent him from taking the pie
from her, already knowing that he’ll spill his guts to her, because he always
does.
“I saw someone I knew at the grocery store. “ Clint mutters, between mouthfuls
of pie, and feeling a little bit grateful that at least pie is not a dessert he
subconsciously associates with Phil. He’s starving, and the pie only lasts a
few minutes, and then he’s finished eating and Natasha is waiting.
Natasha butts her shoulder up against his, and the pressure is comforting.
“That still doesn’t explain why you look totally wrecked.”
“It was Phil.” Clint says, and hears a small “Oh” from Natasha. They’ve been
together long enough that she’s seen his relationships fail, one after the
other. She’s been there through all of it, helping steady him as he drinks too
much and cries in her lap about how none of them have made him feel the same
way that Phil did, and she’s never once made fun of him for carrying a torch
for a boy that he met when he was only fifteen.
“You didn’t even say hi to him, did you?” Natasha surmises, and then Clint is
telling her about the baby diapers, and the family’s worth of food, and how
Phil is happy, has to be happy with a nice house and a nice wife and probably a
nice golden retriever in the backyard.
“We’re here for another week before we go to Montreal. Go find him. You’ve been
kind of in love for this guy for who knows how long - go find out. Maybe he is
happy, maybe he has a family, and you’ve totally missed your chance - but go
and find out for sure.”
Clint nods, not quite processing anything Natasha is saying.
“Let the story end, Clint. Don’t let the ‘what-ifs’ consume you. He might not
be the same boy you once knew, and maybe you won’t even be interested anymore.
Go find him, and say hello, and if it all just ends in a polite cup of coffee
at a Starbucks...well, at least you’ll know.”
She rests her head on Clint’s shoulder, letting her arm wrap around him. “Hey,
you,”she says, tipping his chin up. “You’re the bravest person I know. You can
do this.”
Chapter End Notes
     I'm so sorry - this chapter is all angst and no porn, but I promise
     you that we are in the process of wrapping up the final chapter, and
     AdamantSteve has written some wonderful porn for your dirty, dirty
     eyes.
     love, dustbear
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Clint wanders aimlessly down Middlebury’s Main Street, the street that all
small towns have that are strewn with adorable bookshops and independent
coffeehouses, and he’s not sure what he’s looking for in this small town, not
entirely certain that his plan to just walk around and hopefully run into Phil
is particularly well thought out.  
It’s the sound of singing that he ends up following, the melodic strains of a
hymn he’s heard before. It’s a cacophony of children’s voices, not quite
polished into a professional choir and quite a bit out of tune - our God is an
awesome God, he reigns from heaven above, with wisdom power and love, our God
is an awesome God - the rhyme is simple, accompanied by the sweet sound of a
single violin, and the voices are clear and bright, and before he realizes it,
he’s standing in front of the open doors of the Middlebury Unitarian
Universalist Church. Clint slides carefully into the empty back pew and - of
course, there’s Phil.
Phil is sitting on the small stage, his head bowed over a cello, although he
somehow manages to also smile encouragingly at the children on stage. There are
perhaps twelve of them there, in a variety of ages. The oldest one is a girl,
and she’s probably actually already eighteen, dressed in a pretty violet dress,
and she’s the one playing the violin. The song comes to an end, or rather a bit
of a rough stuttering halt (the youngest children seem to have forgotten how
many times the final refrain is repeated), and the congregation tries not to
giggle. Clint wants to leave, to turn away from this tiny world that is clearly
not made for him, but he can’t, drawn in by the intense warmth that he feels in
this small church house.
“Well, that was...something.” The girl says, laughing into a mic. “As you can
tell, we’re still ironing out the kinks in the Coulson Children’s Choir.”
“It’s not called that, Katie.” Phil says, his eyes crinkling as he tries to
frown sternly at her.
“Sorry, the Middlebury Unitarian Children’s Choir. We have some work to do,
obviously.” She clears her throat. “Alright, I’m ready. Kids - remember that
you come in during the third verse, not the first. Hit it, Mr. Pastor!”
Phil rolls his eyes, but he draws his bow across the strings of his cello, and
the low thrum of his instrument rings out in the church, the familiar tune
reverberating in Clint’s bones.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me, the girl -
Katie - sings, her voice clean and loud over the cello. I once was lost, but
now I'm found  - the arrangement is a bit rough, and not quite pretty, but it
is still perfect - 'twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears
relieved - and Clint dares a little to believe that it might be true, that
there may still be a little bit of grace in the world for a lost soul like him.
He closes his eyes and bows his head and lets the words wash over him -through
many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come; 'tis grace hath brought
me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home - the third verse begins, and
then the other children’s voices join in, and then the entire church is
singing, and Clint finds himself singing along, his eyes closed and his head
bowed. He knows the lyrics, knows the song, drilled into him by four years of
Church and Sunday School, but the words have never resonated as much as they do
now. He’s so enraptured by the hymn, that he doesn’t quite notice that the
cello stutters and misses a note.
 
 
                                      ***
                                        
Phil is certain that he’s going mad, because there’s a man in the back row of
his church that looks exactly like Clint Barton, and his lips are gorgeously
perfect and they’re singing Amazing Grace. He can’t stop staring, and he’s
grateful that he knows this song by heart because he has no interest at all in
looking at his sheet music, and Kate will be furious if he messes up her song.
His confusion gives way to terror when they reach the last verse, and the man
looks up and it’s Clint, it is absolutely Clint and none other. Because Phil
has seen that stricken, trapped look before, and he’d sworn to always be there,
to always protect Clint, to wait. But Clint hadn’t come back, and Phil had
built a life for himself, because childish promises are for children.
But perhaps, there are always second chances.
The hymn draws to an end, and Phil stands up, reaching in his pocket for the
sermon notes he has neatly written on index cards. Kate offers him his stole,
but he waves it away, suddenly painfully conscious that he’s always worn purple
stoles and his favourite colour is really not purple.
He stands in front of his congregation, his eyes right on the back row where
Clint is now fidgeting, and sets aside his notes. It was a sermon about hard
work, and perseverance, and it’s still a sermon worth preaching someday - but
not today. Phil steps up to his pulpit, flips his Bible open to the correct
page, and inhales deeply. “In Luke, he tells several parables about finding
what you’ve lost.” he starts, and he can barely hear his own voice over his own
heartbeat.
“Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave
the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds
it?” Phil says, quoting the apostle Luke, and the lump in his throat does not
dissipate, because he been looking for Clint Barton for two decades, and now
he’s here.
His voice feels hoarse and strained, but he continues. “And when he finds it,
he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends
and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost
sheep.’”
 
 
                                      ***
                                        
Clint wants to run again, seeing Phil at the pulpit. He’s not much taller than
he was at seventeen, although his shoulders are broader and his voice is smooth
and steady as he preaches to his flock. The congregation listens intently,
listens to Phil talk about finding what was once thought lost, and Clint
listens too, because he wants to desperately believe that it’s him that Phil
wants to find again.
He is suddenly jostled by an elbow, sliding down the smooth church pew, and
finds a violin case unceremoniously plopped next to his ankles.
“Hi! You’re new.” the girl - Katie? Kate? - whispers, although it is more of a
stage whisper, and the row of parishioners in front of him turn and frown
gently in their direction.
“Um, yes?” Clint says.
“We’re having an ice cream social after. “ she says, thrusting a church
programme in his hand. “You should stay.”
Clint looks down at the folded piece of coloured construction paper. Pastor -
Rev. Phil Coulson, it reads, right under the name of the church, and Clint
can’t help smiling because of course this was what Phil was meant to do. He’s
always had it in him, that deep sustaining faith, that belief in humanity’s
deserved grace. And, Clint thinks as his heart sinks - he can’t quite live up
to that, can he? He hasn’t believed in God for a long time, hasn’t since he
hopped on a freight train and lived on the kindness of people for months, the
people who couldn’t quite walk past a starving boy on the streets. He hasn’t
believed in God since his first audition at Carson’s Carnival, since he refused
to pray before letting loose his first arrow, and hit the target anyway. Clint
hasn’t believed in God for a long time, because what has God done for him?
Where was God when he was tired, when he was lonely, when all he had to warm
him were memories of a sort-of-family, and a friend?
The sermon ends and Clint is already standing up, intending to slip out as
quietly as he can. Phil is still speaking to individual parishioners, and Clint
is certain that he can disappear now. But, Kate has slipped her hand tight
around his arm and is pulling him forward. “Nope, we’re having ice cream,
remember? And you have to meet my dad. He always wants to meet new people.”
“Your - your dad?” Clint stammers.
“Yeah. The pastor?” Kate continues dragging him along, bypassing most of the
milling crowd through a back door. No, Clint thinks, please do not introduce me
to your father. He does the calculation in his head, if Kate is about eighteen,
then Phil’s been probably been married for almost two decades, which means -
well, it means that Phil never really waited at all. He steels himself, trying
to shake away the nervous gulp he can’t avoid making. He’ll meet Phil, then.
He’ll meet Phil, and his certainly lovely church wife, and his entire brood of
gorgeous church children, and Clint is a grown man, and he’s survived quite a
lot of things, and he can certainly handle this.
Kate pulls him into the nearly empty church courtyard, already set up with
tables and gallons of ice cream and ice cream toppings. She thrusts an empty
plastic bowl in his hand, which is promptly filled with chocolate ice cream and
rainbow sprinkles. “I hope you’re not allergic to dairy. Stay here. I’m going
to tell Dad that we have a guest.”
Clint’s hands are trembling, and he looks desperately for an exit, but all the
doors lead back into the church in some fashion. The back fence looks scaleable
though, and he’s starting towards it when there is a strong pair of hands on
his arm, pulling him back. He hadn’t even heard any footsteps, so when he turns
around he’s not expecting to see Phil, certainly not Phil with the most broken
look that Clint has ever seen on any face, including the one in the mirror.
“Clint.” Phil hisses, his voice cracking. He actually looks furious. “You were
going to leave without even saying hello?”
And Clint finds himself slammed against the wooden fence of the small church
courtyard, and yanked into a brutally hard kiss, more rude demand than passion.
“I thought I lost you.” Phil mumbles, his voice soft and shattered, holding
Clint’s shocked face in his hands.
In the courtyard, the church parishioners are starting to drift in, chatting
happily about their neighbours and children. “But - your wife?” Clint stammers,
although he realizes that there isn’t a band of cold metal around Phil’s left
ring finger, which is still pressed against his cheek.
Phil raises his eyebrow. “I’m not married. Come with me.” Phil’s hand on his
arm is as insistent as Kate’s. Clint wants to ask about Kate, ask if Phil had a
wife, ask about the baby diapers and baby food, but Phil's pushing him into an
empty classroom, and the questions are forgotten because Phil’s solid mass is
pressing him into a wall, and he’s getting kissed roughly and desperately, and
it’s Phil, his Phil. Improbably, he is also still holding the bowl of ice cream
in one hand. He detaches himself and sets the bowl down on the large oak desk
in front of the classroom, not forgetting the last time that he’d been in a
room with Phil and ice cream, and his body responds immediately to the memory.
And then, Phil is on him again, shoving against his shoulders - “You didn’t
come back.” Phil says, his voice quiet and bitter. “You said you’d come back,
asshole.” Phil fumes indignantly, his face only inches away, and Clint can feel
the angry heat in his short breaths and in his red cheeks.
Clint shoves back, hard. If nothing else, he’s a fighter. “And you said you’d
wait.” Clint points out.
Phil stumbles back several steps with Clint’s push. He stands there, his arms
wrapped around himself, and laughs a pained laugh. “I did.” he says, his voice
choking. “I did wait.” And, in that moment, he's not Reverend Phil Coulson
anymore, he's just Phil, a little bit angry and a little bit lost, same as he
ever was.
Clint makes his decision, then. He reaches out his hand, hesitantly at first,
and then Phil is in his arms again, holding on as if his life depended on how
tightly his arms could squeeze. Clint reaches to tip Phil’s chin up, and it’s
the same face, the same eyes, the same wry smile that he fell in love with when
he was fifteen. He has questions, and he doesn’t know how Phil will answer
them, but he’ll take anything that Phil is willing to offer.
Clint slides his hands down the strong, lean line of Phil's body until they’re
at his hips, pulling him backwards until his own ass hits the desk, jostling
the spoon in the bowl of melting ice cream. He sits then, perching on the edge
of the desk, and it's not because his knees are a little weak at being kissed
so thoroughly, so earnestly - it's just easier to hold tightly on to Phil this
way, that's all.
Phil's so neat and buttoned up - his light blue collared shirt pressed and
unwrinkled - between his knees, not much different from the boy Clint
remembers, though a little taller, a little bigger all over. He's suddenly hit
with the realisation, when Phil runs his hands over the curve of Clint's
biceps, that he must look very different to the last time Phil ever saw him,
and he's sorry about it, sorry for changing when Phil seems to have stayed so
much the same.
But his worries appear to be unfounded, because Phil squeezes the muscles under
his hands (and Clint can't help but flex as he does it, always wanting to
impress this perfect boy) and kisses him hard before murmuring against his
lips. "You... you're so...hot," and then he ducks his head adorably at his own
ineloquence. "Sorry, I-" but Clint cuts him off with a kiss. There'll probably
be endless apologies and explanations soon enough, but right now? Clint just
wants the thing he's dreamed about for far too long; to show Phil just how much
he's learned in all their time apart. He’s many things, Clint Barton, but he'll
never stop wanting to impress Phil Coulson.
"Did you think about fucking me?" Clint says, his own youthful memories goading
him to ask. Phil's eyes darken and he nods his head helplessly, like it's
something of a shame to confess to.
"Me too," Clint replies, popping the button on the top of Phil's pants and
sliding off the desk as he does it. "All the time, Phil. We barely knew what we
were doing but it was so good."
"Clint," Phil gasps when his cock is in Clint's hand, and it's just as hard and
perfect as Clint remembers it. Phil seems to think of Clint's cock as an
afterthought, reaching for it but being waylaid by the distraction of Clint's
lips on his neck, and his neck is rougher than he remembers it, a man's skin
instead of a boy's.
He's pulling away suddenly then, and Clint thinks for one horrible moment that
he's changed his mind, or is off to find a goddamn Bible for old time’s sake.
But he's rooting around in the desk drawer beside them, one hand tucked behind
the belt buckle he'd been working on opening. He comes back with a red flush on
his cheeks that makes him look even more like the sweet boy Clint's thought of
all these long years.
It's a bottle of Jergens hand cream, and Clint's not sure such an innocuous
object has ever seemed so instantly sinful (but then, he’s been getting hard
ons around ice cream for almost two decades now). Phil quirks his lips and then
he grins. "The Sunday School teacher gets dry hands."
Clint undoes his own belt in response, crowds against Phil with a searching
kiss as he plucks the bottle from Phil's hands. He squeezes some into his palm
and the smell of the cream almost rocks Clint on his feet, the sense memory is
so strong. Suddenly he's a kid again, in a too small shirt and a clip on tie,
disbelieving that this beautiful, perfect boy could be looking at him like
this, touching him like this, wanting him even for a moment.
He's smooth usually, full of sexy moves and clever plays and just the right
thing to say, but Clint suddenly can't do a thing, he's completely blindsided
by the smell of a perfect summer, and it's only Phil wrapping his hand around
Clint's and pulling it down to both their cocks that brings him back, and
another hand on the back of Clint's neck pulling him into a kiss that is new,
with the soft little bristles on Clint's chin and the harder ones on Phil's, a
different angle and bigger hands. They're both of them not quite the same
person they used to be, not quite different people either, but this Clint is
happy to meet this Phil, glad of the strong hands holding him just right.
This isn't how he'd imagined it, all those lonely nights when his mind turned
back to the memory of their almost innocent sins. He'd imagined stalking into a
church and fucking Phil over a lectern, or sucking him off kneeling on one of
those embroidered prayer cushions. Running away together on a motorcycle or
making Phil join the circus with him. He'd imagined force and declarations and
- he hadn't imagined this, on the edge of tears and out of time, Phil having
such big, soft hands that are a man's hands, or a man's lips, or the solid
weight of his man’s body right there, holding him together so he doesn't fall
hopelessly apart.
He'd meant for Phil to fuck him, or for him to fuck Phil, because that makes
sense somehow, a solid conclusion to this story that he'd never quite believed
would get told. Instead, he gasps against Phil's neck, held there as Phil jacks
them off between them, Clint moving his hand led by Phil's sure guidance, until
Phil says something against his neck, something he can't make out but sounds
like a prayer or a promise and he comes, hot and shuddering, moments before
Phil comes too, and then they're pressed together, damp and warm and panting,
barely holding each other up.
"What did you say?" Clint asks eventually, when he doesn't think his voice will
crack too badly.
Phil shakes his head. "Nothing."
Clint doesn't believe him, and gives him a look which says just that, and Phil
ducks his head and smiles. "I missed you, that's all."
Clint has never had a great bedside manner, which countless other lovers will
attest to (not that any of them matter right now), so he looks into Phil’s eyes
and says. “Kate’s your daughter.”
Phil smiles. “Yes. And Elijah, he’s four. And America, she’s six. And as of
yesterday, Teddy. He’s eighteen months old. And I’ve never been married.”
Clint lets his head fall back, staring at the flourescent lights on the
ceiling. “Oh.” he says, because - oh? Phil does not seem likely to have
children out of wedlock. He must look suitably confused because Phil chuckles
next to him.
“I foster kids, Clint. I was Kate’s godfather when her parents died. I’ve
adopted her, but the process for the others have been more complicated.”
Clint lets the revelation sink in, not quite understanding yet. “But...why?”
”Because I like kids, and I want to help them. They’re supposed to be the
difficult cases, but I can provide them with some stability and some love, for
as long as I can have them. And also, because I’ve spent over twenty years
thinking I screwed up this one foster kid’s life by being a stupid horny
teenager, so maybe I’ve been trying to make up for it.”
“I did okay, you know. I own a circus.” Clint says, although he doesn’t really
want to go back to it.
“I know. I’ve been - er, I’ve sort of been following your career.”
“And you never came to say hi?”
Phil chuckles, a bit sadly. “I’m a small town pastor. I’m a single father. My
hair is thinning early. What could I have to offer you?”
Everything, Clint thinks. Home.
 
 
                                      ***
                                        
Phil introduces Clint to his congregation as an old friend. They welcome him
warmly and happily, although some of the older women are already giving him
knowing looks. “So, er, do they know you’re gay?” Clint asks and Phil points
out that he leads a Unitarian Church in Vermont, which means that about a
quarter of the congregation already falls somewhere on the higher end of the
Kinsey scale, and the other three fourths are trying to set him up with their
gay cousins.
“Um, have you dated much?” Clint’s voice is so hesitant that it makes Phil
chuckle.
“Not really, but I haven’t been able to deflect all of the attempts, because it
isn’t seemly for a young church pastor to admit that he still carries a torch
for his teenage boyfriend. We don’t do vows of chastity either, if you’re
wondering about that.” Phil feels oddly comfortable admitting that, telling
Clint that in a sense, it has always been Clint, and - come to think about it,
he really has waited.
Clint snorts at that. “Your dad gave me one of your dog tags. Are you still
estranged?”
“No, we’re on good terms now. Do you remember your brother?”
“Jake?”
“He’s moved into my old room. They’re roommates.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” Phil says, and Clint starts laughing. “Mind you, I really do believe
that my father has remained faithful to his vow of celibacy.”
“Seriously? So they just live together?” Clint looks doubtful, for good reason.
Phil shrugs. “I suspect they mean a lot to each other. And they make it work.”
Clint huffs. “Well,I like sex.”
“I’m glad we agree on that.” Phil says, as wry and deadpan as ever, and he
slips his hand into Clint’s as they walk back to the parking lot.
Phil’s house is a large farmhouse a couple miles from the church, located on
five acres of land, and Phil had once thought that it felt too big. But now
that it’s filled with a spread of toys on the front lawn, and a smattering of
childish paintings on the refrigerator and finally - now that Clint is leaning
in the doorway, the early afternoon sun lighting his hair like a halo, it
finally feels like a home.
“Watch the floor. The kids have been really into Legos recently.” Phil says, as
Clint easily shrugs off his shoes. “Um, Teddy’s with his birth mother for the
weekend. The other kids are at Sunday School, except for Kate who’s at her
gymnastics class. Kate’s nineteen, she drives herself.” he feels compelled to
add, as if to assure Clint that he really is a decent parent and hasn’t
abandoned his children in favor of an afternoon tryst with his old boyfriend.
“They’ll be really glad to meet you, I think. I’m actually going to apologize
in advance for Kate, because she’s taking archery lessons, and she might lose
her mind when she finds out who you are.” He rambles on nervously, not knowing
exactly what to do now that his life is actually complete.
“How long do we have?” Clint asks.
About two hours, Phil wants to say, until Sunday School lets out and he has to
pick up the children. Instead, the words fall out of his mouth unprompted -
“Forever, if you’d like to stay.” He clamps his mouth shut immediately,
embarrassed at his presumption.
But Clint only smiles, his eyes wide and not a little bit moist. And then he
smirks and steps forward, easily lining up their bodies, and Phil bites the
inside of his own cheek, because if this has been a dream, he’d like to wake up
before his heart is thoroughly shattered again. His cheek hurts, and he tastes
a little bit of blood, but he’s still awake, and Clint is still there, right in
front of him.
“Do you remember what you said the last time?”
“I assume it was something along the lines, of ‘I love you.’”
“It was, and I love you too, but for my purposes, I’d like to go with the other
thing you told me.” Clint leans in, his lips brushing tentatively against
Phil’s ear. “You said I could fuck you.”
Phil is fairly certain that this is Clint Barton, and not a demon sent to tempt
him with the promise of previously unknown pleasures, but he bites the inside
of his other cheek just in case. “Do - do you want a house tour?” he asks
anyway, because politeness is bred into his New England blood.
Clint chuckles. “Let’s start with your bedroom.”
 
 
                                      ***
 
It’s different now, and not just in the obvious physical ways. It’s better.
Phil has always been gentle, but he takes his time undressing Clint, as if he
were a Christmas present (the kind wrapped in beautiful paper that you'll save
for later, not the cheap brown paper you tear apart). Clint is riveted to the
graceful slope of Phil’s hands, large and strong, but yet uncalloused. Clint
helps, pulling his shirt over his head, and Phil’s fingers tangle in a long
silver chain around his neck.
“Is that one of my dogtags?”
“Your dad gave it to me. I already told you that.” Clint explains, suddenly
feeling awkward about it. It’s been a good luck charm of sorts, a rock to
anchor him - even in his darkest moments (the empty, unyielding, desperate ones
that shattered his soul into something he once thought unredeemable), he’d
clutch the small piece of metal, and remember that someone good loved him once,
and someday, someone good might love him again.
“Yes, but you didn’t mention that you wore it.” Phil fingers the tag, running
his fingers over the debossed letters, pausing over the empty space where a
religion would have been listed. “You know, even when I didn’t believe in God,
I still believed in you.” Phil says - and yeah, Clint understands that
sentiment.
Phil continues then, his kisses painfully slow, and for a second, Clint worries
if Phil has gone vanilla, if Phil is going to be all about long walks on the
beach and candlelit dinners and slow sex in the missionary position, but Phil,
as always, manages to reassure him.
“Do you want to know what I’m really sorry I never got to try with you?” Phil
whispers, brushing against Clint’s ear, his voice husky and low. “I wanted to
lube you up perfectly, feed my wooden rosary up your tight ass, and suck your
cock. And when you’d come into my mouth, like you always did, I’d yank my
rosary out, and you’d scream my name.”
Clint’s mind might actually fritz out then, because Phil, and rosaries, and
holy hell, that is so sacrilegious. “But...you’re a church pastor.” he manages
to stammer out, even as Phil shoves him onto the soft bed and begins to
insistently tug his tight jeans off.
“And not a Catholic one, so unfortunately, I no longer carry a rosary. Besides,
I am more sanitary now, and you can’t sterilize wooden beads.”
“But - you and sex and - “
“I thought we covered that during the part with the handjobs in my Sunday
school teacher’s classroom?”
“Oh god, do you have a buttplug?” Clint can’t believe that that’s the question
he chooses to ask, but the image of seventeen year old Phil masturbating is
suddenly transposed with this image of the very grown Phil, wearing ironed
shirts and well tailored suits, just - just jerking off with a buttplug shoved
up his ass, without a care in the world. And Clint truly didn’t think that Phil
could get hotter than the Phil he’d kept in his head for two decades, but this
- this responsible, competent, loving man is actually more attractive than the
boy of his dreams.
“Yes, I do. It’s purple.” Phil says, and that detail is what makes Clint snap,
and before he knows it, he’s howling on Phil’s bed, and Phil is giggling along,
a high pitched sound that absolutely does not befit his usual composure. Both
of them are finally naked, and all they’re doing is clutching on to each other,
trying to chase away tears of laughter, and it is everything that Clint didn’t
know he’d been wanting.
"What else? What else did you think about doing?" Clint goads, a grin already
playing on his lips because Phil couldn't possibly say anything that would live
up to that image.
"I've thought about sucking your gorgeous cock for two decades-" He gazes down
Clint's body slowly, like he's savoring the view. Clint's dick twitches under
his gaze and Phil dips his head to kiss the very tip of it. When he looks back
up at Clint and licks his lips, it jerks again, lightly bopping against Phil's
chin in a way that's far too cute for an erection to be acting.
"I thought about your asshole a lot," Phil keeps going, conversationally,
"Mostly your cock, though. Mostly about how it always looks best when it's in
my mouth."
Clint's cock desperately tries to make contact again and Phil licks the very
end, and Clint remembers how much of a tease he could be sometimes, all those
years ago. "You can do that," Clint says. "If you want to, that is?" and jesus,
he thinks, is he really so tongue tied that he can't just say "suck my cock"?
"I thought about you fucking me," Phil replies seriously. "And I thought about
that godawful confessional far more than I probably should have."
Clint can't help but groan at the reminder, because he's had quite a lot of
sex, but that still stands out in his memory as one of the filthiest things
he's ever done.
"I thought about going in there and finding you, lubed up and stretched out
already, waiting to confess all your little, petty sins, waiting to be told to
say three Hail Marys and receive forgiveness and a hard cock shoved up your
ass."
Clint tries not to swallow his words as he tries to play coy. "That seems like
a bit much for just petty sins."
"Well, God is merciful." Phil smiles, improbably wicked, "But I'm just a man."
Clint squirms at the shiver of arousal that sweeps through him, and he almost
flinches when he feels Phil's hand on his thigh, shifting his leg. "Yes," he
breathes, though he's not even sure what Phil's plan is, and wasn't he meant to
be doing the fucking, here? But he doesn't care, he'll do whatever Phil wants,
and if Phil's reaching for - oh wow, actual lube - and slicking his fingers up,
who is Clint to complain?
"But most of all, I think of you - just you - biting your lower lip just like
you're doing now, like you're so unsure about what i'm actually going to do to
you, as if you don't already know."
Phil shifts between his legs and reaches back, and Clint's eyes widen when he
realises what Reverend Philip J Coulson is doing with those lubed up fingers of
his. "I don't need to suck your cock, by the way." he says, shoulder shifting,
one hand high on Clint's thigh, face inches from Clint's dick. "You're already
hard enough for me to ride, and I've barely touched you.” He pauses and grins
at the widening of Clint’s eyes. “Ever fucked an ordained minister before,
Clint?"
Clint almost swears, turning the word 'fuck' into, "Phil!" and he's got no idea
when he turned into such a prude, and it's not as if Phil hasn't said filthier
things. But it's this mental image of Phil, arching and bobbing on his hard
cock - that's what makes him finally gaze guiltily up at the ceiling, as if
there really were a God there to offend - "Jesus Christ, you can't just say
these things!"
Phil's grinning and laughing at him, still working away at himself with a
terribly pleased look on his face.
"I can," he replies. "You blush when I say them, and-" he breaks off to watch
Clint's dick jump as if on cue, "-it turns you on. And by the way, you
shouldn't use the Lord's name in vain."
He says it like it's simple, as if driving Clint crazy is part of a divine
plan, something fated to happen and Phil's just here to facilitate it. Phil
licks at Clint’s cock a little though, just enough to drive him closer to the
edge of desperation as he continues to lube himself open like it’s no big deal.
Phil smiles slowly, and he looks like he's trying to be excruciatingly patient,
as if this might be the last time, and he wants to do it right. Clint would
tell him differently if his brain had the blood to process any thought beyond
tracking the distance between Phil’s mouth and the head of his own cock, that
they'll have all the time in the world and he’ll stay forever if Phil would
have him, even with the ache of his balls at Phil’s sadistic teasing.
Mercifully, Phil shifts, and leans over to his bedside cabinet for a condom
which he carefully applies to Clint’s cock along with a generous amount of
lube, coming back to straddle Clint’s waist and look down on him with eyes that
do not belong anywhere outside of a bordello. Clint is prepared to say
something clever, but he forgets it immediately, because Phil is already
confidently lining him up and sinking slowly down, and holy mother of god. He
wraps Clint in the heat of his body with his jaw slack and his eyes heavy-
lidded, leaning forward to kiss Clint once he’s fully seated. Clint manages to
regain enough composure to wrap his arms around Phil’s waist and kiss back,
holding on tight as Phil starts to move, slowly at first, just an easy glide of
his hips back and forth, letting Clint slip out an inch before easing him back
inside.
It’s perfect, almost frightening in its slow intimacy, and Clint holds on a
little tighter for fear that it’ll show on his face how desperately good it
feels, how Phil has reduced him to a bundle of awkward nerves and giggles. But
Phil pulls back anyway, kissing Clint’s chin as he moves away to look at him
with a faraway look which transforms slowly, beautifully, into something filthy
and satisfied. “That’s better,” he says, brushing his hands over Clint’s chest
until he braces his arms and starts to really move, grinning when Clint puts
his own hands on Phil’s hips as much to feel the movement there as to control
it. “You feel so good inside me. Just like I always imagined.”
Clint nods, dumbly saying, “yeah,” because all he’s able to do right now is
agree - yes to Phil, yes to the tight heat of Phil around him, the weight of
his body on top of him, the broad hands braced on his torso and the thumbs
easily brushing over his nipples. Yes to everything.
“You know, I've fantasized about this,” Phil’s saying, levering himself up and
down slowly again, rolling his hips like… like anything but the buttoned up
preacher he'd appeared to be, and well - still is, and the incongruity turns
Clint on far more than he'd like to admit. “I used to open myself up and fuck
myself with a dildo thinking of you, thinking about making good on that
promise.” Phil continues, before he slams himself down roughly, moaning an
absolutely depraved moan as he does it, and Clint’s hands hold him there,
keeping him as deep as he can for just a moment. The shiver that he can feel
run through Phil clears his head enough to realise that goddammit, he is Clint
Barton, and he's left a very long list of men and women sated and begging for
more, and he can absolutely put all the things he’s learned in the intervening
years to some use.
“Getting your perfect ass fucked by me? Is that what you thought about?” Clint
asks, not even caring that his voice comes out strained, and not quite as
sultry as he'd intended.
Phil nods and moans a little, high pitched sound when Clint holds on tightly to
his hips and rolls his own to fuck up into him. “Your cock is -” he breaks off
when Clint shoves into him again, taking more control of the situation, “much
better in real life.”
 
Even as Clint starts fucking him faster, legs splayed out to brace his feet on
the bed and hands holding Phil right where he wants, Phil keeps talking, like
he needs to confess everything he can before the rest of their lives pulls them
apart again. “I’d think about you coming inside me at seven thirty on a Sunday
morning,” he says between thrusts, leaning down over Clint to bite at his neck.
Clint isn't entirely certain why the precise schedule of the time and day
matters, but Phil continues, and oh. “And then I'd plug myself up and go to
church, and I'd preach my sermon with your cum still inside me.” Which, oh god,
that is absolutely scandalous - the thought of Phil preaching about the love
and sacrifice of Jesus Christ with an ass full of cum - and Clint almost feels
bad about how quickly it makes his balls hitch up with a murmured promise of
orgasm. Almost.
“Pretty sure that’s not proper behaviour for the leader of a congregation,”
Clint says, smirking when Phil pulls away from him far enough to glare
playfully at him. "But, I could make you wait to have your turn until after the
ice cream social; make you get through your sermon with a hard cock too."
They’re both too far gone to laugh properly, huffing in amusement between moans
and sighs instead, and Phil looks so good, a pink flush up his lightly furred
chest and high on his cheeks, the sated look Clint’s seen on other people’s
faces before but never so wonderfully as on Phil’s. "There is nothing in the
Bible that says I can't have an assful of cum. I've checked." Phil says, a
devastatingly mischievous look on his face, "But if you're feeling particularly
devout, there's a verse in Genesis that might prohibit pulling out, so you'll
have to make sure that you get all of it into my ass." Phil smirks, and Clint
decides right there that he’ll do anything he can to make Phil look that
satisfied, as long as Phil will allow him to.
He shifts then, holding onto Phil tight and surging up, still seated inside
him. Clint can't help but feel proud at the way Phil eyes his strong arm
muscles as he manages to easily and acrobatically flip Phil over on his back in
a single smooth motion. Phil yelps as he does it, a sharp gasp that turns into
something much deeper, a shivering groan that tells Clint he’d thought about
this too. “Can I just use you?”, he asks, pushing Phil’s arms up and holding
his wrists in place experimentally, pressing down a little when Phil’s eyes
widen and he nods fervently, finally speechless. "How hard do you want me to
fuck you?" Clint ventures, giving a rough experimental thrust. In response,
Phil wraps his legs around Clint’s waist and seems to melt around him, sighing
and whimpering as Clint fucks him harder and harder, bucking up inelegantly
into Clint's thrusts and throwing in mostly incomprehensible phrases that are
muffled by the skin of Clint’s shoulder.
They’re pressed together so close that Clint can feel Phil’s hard cock trapped
and straining between them, and he gathers both Phil’s hands in one of his own
to snake the other between their bodies. Phil tightens around him and tries to
shake his head, but he can barely hold on and comes the moment Clint touches
him, just with a light brush of fingers, and he’s writhing and screaming like a
demon out of the second circle of hell.
Not to be outdone by Phil’s filthy confessions, Clint pulls his hand free and
makes sure that he has a rapt audience before licking some of the cum off of
it, feeling Phil clench around him again as he does it, still in the final
throes of his orgasm. Phil's eyes are glazed and his smile is easy and sloppy
even as he tries to catch his breath, but he is apparently not to be beaten at
his own game, pulling one hand free to draw Clint's hand to his own mouth and
lick his index finger clean. That is what finally does it for Clint, his hips
moving of their own accord a few times in quick succession before he comes
hard, sinking deep into Phil's relaxed ass. He rests his head against Phil’s
shoulder as he gasps his release, feeling grateful that the tears suddenly
stinging his eyes are hidden by the salty sweat on their bodies. Phil huffs a
content sigh and wraps a strong arm around him and holds on as he trembles
unapologetically, the slick between them only adding to the debauchery.
Clint comes down slowly, realising after a moment that he’s still holding one
of Phil’s hands over his head, letting go and mumbling an apology. Phil shushes
him, a sliver of the stern Reverend Coulson sneaking back in, and rubs his
hands over Clint’s back, comforting in a way Clint didn’t realise he wanted
this much. He lets himself sink into the tight hold Phil has around him, and
he’s pleased that Phil makes a sound of displeasure when he tries to move. He
stays put, moving only when the tightness of Phil around his softening cock
isn’t so pleasurable anymore, disposing of the condom and wiping off both their
bellies with a corner of a sheet. Phil splays out on the bed, letting Clint
clean both of them up, letting Clint take care of the mess, letting Clint take
care of him - and Clint realizes that this is exactly what he wants to be doing
until the end of days.
“Well,” Phil says once Clint’s stopped fussing and has slipped into his arms
again, which feel better every time. “Worth the wait?”
Clint snorts, because he hasn't felt quite this happy, or quite this exhausted,
in a very long time. "I don't know. I'm still disappointed that Unitarians
don't have confessionals."
 
 
                                      ***
 
What surprises Clint most is how easily he fits into this life - this simple,
pastoral life full of family dinners and after school play dates, and Phil. He
doesn’t do much but follow Phil around for the first day, but Phil declares him
irrepressibly distracting and sends him on errands - just short trips to the
grocery store, or some small home repair tasks, and Clint loves the slow
domesticity of this life. Natasha calls him on the third day, and when she asks
if he’ll be back before they leave, he says that he will be, because he'd
promised, but his heart’s not in it.
America, Phil’s foster daughter, is a whirlwind of dark curls and brimstone,
and she doesn’t stay still for long. Clint gets used to the sight of Phil
running after her in the large yard and sighing as he picks up her toys. Most
of all though, it’s the way that Phil sits her down at the kitchen table - and
she’s just a six year old girl with skinned knees and dirt stains on her face
and messy pigtails - and explain patiently to her why she shouldn’t hit her
brother or smash his toys, that’s what really alternately stabs at and warms
Clint’s heart, knowing that Phil’s providing a real home, a sanctuary for his
children. Clint knows that this may not last forever - foster children often
return to their families, there is always paperwork, and difficult legal
procedures - but he knows that Phil will fight for his kids, and he’ll give
them all that he can give, for as long as he can keep them.
Eli is more withdrawn, but Clint catches the boy staring at him out of his
peripheral vision. He doesn’t approach the skittish boy, but sits on the front
porch reading, making sure that he doesn’t look that interested in the book
(he’s not, it’s a tome on Civil War history he plucked off Phil’s bookshelf).
Eli does shuffle over, a bit nervously, and sits by Clint’s feet, still not
looking him in the eye.
Finally, Eli speaks - “Mr. Barton, Dad said you were a foster kid too.”
Clint smiles. “Yeah, I was.”
When Phil finds them that evening, Clint and Eli are crouched over a small
patch of dirt in the backyard, scrawling hobo sign code in the ground. Behind
them, lie the remains of a failed attempt to build a teepee, and there is a
giant mud smear on Clint’s face left by a small hand, but Eli is laughing and
chattering away happily, and there’s no better sound in the world.
Phil’s right, Kate does flip out when she finds out what his job is, and Clint
finds a bow in his hands not five minutes later, and then he’s shooting arrows
in the backyard, Kate looking suitably starstruck. And then, Kate takes the bow
from him, and - well, wow.
“Phil!” Clint yells, storming into the study, where Phil is bent over a stack
of books with a pair of thin rimmed reading glasses perched on his nose. “You
said Kate was taking archery lessons!”
Phil looks up, unfazed. “She is.” He returns to making notes in his book. He
looks really good in glasses, Clint stops to think, but he barrels past that
thought because he is genuinely annoyed that Phil doesn’t seem to have noticed
how good his daughter is.
“She doesn’t need archery lessons. She’s perfect! She’s definitely better than
whomever her instructor is! Haven’t you noticed that she hits the bullseye
every single time? While dancing? While jumping off your roof? With her eyes
closed?”
“I have, and please do not encourage her to jump off the roof.” A smile grows
on Phil’s face. “It’s just that I saw a fifteen year old boy do the same sort
of thing once, so I thought that was expected.”
Clint ignores the smile. “Are you kidding me, Phil? She’s only nineteen, and
she’s controlling a sixty pound draw without batting an eye - by the way,
that’s way more than necessary for just trick shots, her instructor must be an
idiot - and I’ve been training archers for years who don’t have even close to
the natural grace that she has.”
“And what is your point?” Phil raises a stern eyebrow.
“Let me help - let me train her. Let me take her to Montreal - we’re building a
new show there. I’ll teach her not just how to shoot a bow, but really perform.
She deserves to be with people that can push her further, where she can really
refine those skills into something special.”
“She’s going to college.”
“I’m trying to tell you how incredibly talented Kate is, and you want her to
waste it on what - an English major? Do you know what she could be? She’s
special, Phil, really special!”
“And what if she does become a performer? What if she hurts herself? What’s
that lifestyle going to be like when she’s thirty? Forty?”
“She’ll be fine. I’ll take care of her.” Clint insists, because he will. He’s
already started to think of Kate as family, which terrifies him, because he’s
already started to think of Phil as family, and that’s not something that’s
been explicitly offered yet, not outside the context of a bedroom or a passion
soaked reunion. “I got my GED and a degree in Business when I was on the road,
you know.”
Phil sighs. “She’s legally an adult. She can do what she wants. She has a large
trust fund that she just came into as well, so she doesn’t actually need my
money either.”
“But she’ll listen to you.”
“Mostly, yes. And I’m not budging on the college issue.” Phil rubs his temple
and closes his book, and looks at Clint like the stern, disappointed pastor
that he is. “And please don’t talk to her about it yet, I don’t want her to get
her hopes up.”
Clint huffs angrily, and marches out, back to the backyard where Kate is
waiting eagerly, having found another one of her bows, this one a lighter
recurve that is inexplicably covered in purple glitter. “I’ll use my old bow.
Wanna shoot some fruit?”
It isn’t until later that Clint realizes that he’d just had his first fight
with Phil, and out of all things, they’d been fighting about Phil’s kid. But,
despite everything, Phil never pulled the “Well,I’m her father, not you.” card,
and - well, maybe that meant that Phil already called him family, after all.
 
 
                                      ***
 
“I have to go. To Montreal.” Clint says, and Phil’s heart skips several beats,
but Clint is already wrapping his long arms around Phil’s chest and whispering
softly - “I’ll come back, promise. I’ve just only found you again, I’m not
letting go that easily.”
Still, it’s hard to watch Clint get dressed, picking up his clothing from where
it’s strewn around the floor, and moving around the small room like he’s lived
there forever, and not just a week. They say goodbye at the kitchen table,
hands wrapped around hot cups of coffee, and Phil tries to remember every one
of Clint’s small smiles even though he already knows that he’s not going to
forget.
It’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, he thinks, watching Clint walk out
the door, and having nothing but trust and faith in the promise that he will
return. Clint stops at his motorcycle, fishes in his saddlebags for a second,
before returning to Phil’s place on his small front porch.
“I have something for you.” Clint says, his hands wrapped around a large grey
envelope. He offers it in Phil’s direction, hesitantly.
“It’s um - all the stuff you’ll need to submit the paperwork for my background
check for social services. I - er, well, I was caught smoking pot when I was
nineteen, so I’ll need a criminal record exemption, but the documentation is
all there, including my character references and fingerprints and all the
relevant records, and I already talked to the lady at the social services
office, and she said it wouldn’t be a problem. She helped me with getting all
this sorted, so er...yeah, it should be fine.”
Phil stares down at the envelope, realizing what Clint has done, realizing what
he means. It’s not just a promise to come back - it’s a promise that he’ll
stay.
Clint looks nervous. “Is that okay? If this is too fast, I can get my own place
- ”
Phil laughs, and it’s all he can do to pull Clint closer. The kids choose to
pour out of the house then, with the exception of Kate who likes to sleep past
noon. They giggle and run around Phil and Clint’s knees, but Phil doesn’t
consider that a good reason to let go until Teddy comes barrelling out of the
house, and Phil has to catch the toddler because he’s very good at running, but
not yet good at stopping.
“Where is Uncle Clint going?” America asks, her small hand latched onto Clint’s
pant leg.
Clint kneels down, looking America in the eye. “I’m going to Montreal for a few
months to help start a new circus show. I’d much rather be here, but I
promised, and I keep my promises.”
“Do you promise to come back?” Eli asks, his small face brimming with tears.
Clint has been good for Eli, and the young boy has come out of his shell a lot
in just a week, even if Phil had also started rolling his eyes at the amount of
times that Eli could preface a sentence with "Uncle Clint says that...".
“I promise to come back.” Clint says, and he speaks to Eli like he’s just a
smaller adult, and his promise is no less genuine for being offered to a child.
“Dada stay.” Teddy says, reaching for Clint’s nose as Phil picks the toddler
up.
“Will you stay when you come back?” America pipes up, crawling onto Clint’s
knee, which is a bit awkward because America is six, and already rather large
for her age.
Clint fidgets nervously, waiting for his answer - somehow managing to look like
both the personification of a den of iniquity, and yet, something good,
something kind, something worth keeping, something that Phil deserves.
They’ll have a lot to learn still, and Phil wants to learn - wants to learn the
stories behind the small wrinkles that edge around Clint’s eyes, learn the
fairytales that dance behind his laugh lines, and the nightmares that lurk
behind his scars. Clint looks up at Phil with nothing but devotion and trust in
his eyes, just like he’s done so many times before, and Phil wants to answer
that question in a manner utterly inappropriate for children. “I’ve already had
too much time away from you,” he says instead, and pulls Clint into a not-
quite-chaste kiss. “Yes, of course he’ll stay.”
Chapter End Notes
     And...we're done!
     We're working on an separate epilogue that ties up some loose ends -
     Isn't Clint still an atheist? What happens to Kate? What's the deal
     with Phil's dad and Jake Collins? - but we felt that this was a good
     end to the story. Also, the epilogue is all fluff, and stood better
     alone.
     This has been so much fun to work on, and we both thank you all so
     much for reading and commenting.
     AdamantSteve on tumblr - adamantsteve.tumblr.com
     dustjane on tumblr - dustjane.tumblr.com
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