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Rain pitter-patters merrily on the windows when Phil finally makes it home. It's still light enough to see; the room is bathed in a soft blue-grey light filtered through clouds so low they were almost touching the top of the Avengers tower as Phil drove in. Raindrops dot the floor-to-ceiling windows of his apartment, and rivulets of water slide down the panes as Phil pads over the thick carpet covering the living room. He heads for the bedroom, because what he wants most of all right now is to take off the damn suit he has been wearing for four days straight and slip into a pair of worn jeans and one the warm cotton sweaters that are--that used to be his only weakness (and then go find his other, much more irresistible weakness). He's a day earlier than expected, but he hadn't called ahead. He hadn't been able to fight off the strange wish to surprise Clint, to see the way his face lights up just for Phil, even when it's only been an hour since they last saw each other. Make it five days on a stupid hand-holding mission that's the only thing he's allowed to do in the field yet, and Phil is ready to just curl up on the sofa and bury his head under Clint's arm, let the scent of soap and gun oil and the spicy hint of Clint's skin soothe him from the frustrations of the week.
The apartment that Tony had given him on his 'return from the dead' is huge and lavishly appointed. High ceilings give the rooms an airy, open feel, like he can just stand in the middle of it all and breathe, in, out, as deeply as he needs to. Even when the light is dimmed, like now, they still make him want to stretch his body as high as it'll go and let the worries of the day fade away. So Phil does just that, breathes, shucks his suit jacket, unwinds his tie from around his neck and starts on the buttons of his shirt even before he pushes the door to his bedroom open -- and stops in his tracks.
There is someone in his bed. Not just someone, the someone, the one Phil has been yearning to see almost since the moment he left. Clint is curled on his side, head nestled into Phil's pillow, eyes closed, back rising and falling evenly -- he's dozing, looks like he was watching the rain when he slipped under. There's one of Phil's soft blankets thrown over his middle, tucked under his arms; his hands rest close to his face. The overall picture makes Phil's gut cramp with emotion, with the kind of happiness he is still surprised he has somehow managed to earn. His fists clench in his shirt, and he bites hard on the inside of his cheek, forces his breath to calm and not release the whimper that wants to crawl out of his throat.
He and Clint don't share apartments, not yet. It's mostly a moot point, since they are always in each other's space, just being there even if they aren't touching, or speaking. Almost from the start, it had been ridiculously easy to be together with no ulterior motive. The silence has never been awkward between them, no matter how much of it there had been. Still, Phil has been thinking more and more of just swallowing his apprehension and asking Clint to move in. It's not like he's--well, okay, he is a little worried that Clint might say no, he values his independence so highly. And anyway, Phil doesn't want to rock the boat any harder, not when what they have is so good, so--damn perfect, is what it is. He doesn't want it to change--
But he can't deny that finding Clint asleep in his bed isn't doing things to him, isn't making a curl of possessive heat slink through his gut. Clint is here. He is Phil's, he said so himself, in front of witnesses too, but there's something so much more in finding Clint dozing on top of his sheets, there of his own free will, nowhere else he had wanted to be at that moment. Phil smiles, aware that it's probably ridiculously sappy but giving not a damn, and steps closer to the bed. Which is when he recognises the cool grey of the sweater that Clint is wearing, no, huddling into, hands curled in the sleeves, holding tight. It's the same sweater that he'd worn on their first hike together and many times since, and he'd always felt a zing of happiness at the way Clint's eyes would dart over him, lingering from time to time.
If the sight of Clint in his bed had made that low hum of want in his belly wake up and sniff the air, seeing Clint in his sweater fans it into a full-blown pyre of need, to put his hands on Clint, to wake him up just so he can kiss him stupid. It's ridiculous, that seeing Clint wear that sweater should affect him so strongly, when this isn't the first time he has seen Clint in his t-shirts or sweatpants, but there's something in the way Clint holds himself, like he's hugging the sweater to his chest, that makes Phil's knees honest-to-god feel weak.
"I'm flattered 'bout warranting so much attention. I think," Clint murmurs without moving a single muscle other than his mouth. Phil's face flames. Busted ogling one's husband--hm. Not such a bad thing, actually.
When he doesn't say anything, Clint opens a lazy eye, peering at Phil from under lowered lashes. Phil's mouth feels too dry.
"You gonna stand there all evening, or are you gonna get over here so I can kiss you welcome?" Clint drawls, and Phil's legs start closing the distance between them without consulting his brain even before Clint finishes speaking. Clint moves under the blanket, stretching languidly, dark-blond hair ruffled and standing out in all directions. It's getting a little too long; it won't be more than a week before Clint buzzes it all off again, to Phil's carefully hidden disappointment. He likes tangling his hands in it, winding the silken strands between his fingers.
Clint finishes stretching, then one arm comes up, fisting itself in Phil's shirt and tugging lightly. Phil goes, because of course he does, because there is no world in which Phil won't come when Clint asks. Clint's mouth is warm and tasting of the spicy tea he loves, tongue soft and slick when it strokes against Phil's. Phil can't hold back the small gasp of pleasure, doesn't want to.
"Hi," Clint says, once they have disengaged. He's looking up at Phil, eyes crinkled half-shut and smiling, that look of joy on his face that Phil has frankly become addicted to ever since Clint started letting him see it.
"Hi," Phil murmurs back, stroking his thumb across Clint's cheekbone, smoothing out the creases the pillow left in his skin even though he can't have been asleep for more than half an hour.
"You're home early. How did the job go?"
'Home', Phil thinks, and smiles to himself.
"Swimmingly. And boring as all fuck," he admits. There must be something seriously wrong with him, because he is starting to get used to the hair-raising altercations the Avengers tend to gleefully fall into at least on a weekly basis.
Clint smirks. It's sleepy, and sweet, and devastatingly hot. "You missed us."
Phil makes a face at him, but leans in close to press another kiss to those tempting lips. "I missed you," he whispers against them, half-hoping that Clint would just ignore it; but with Clint, that was always going to be a doomed cause.
Clint's smirk fades, and his eyes widen a little. Phil's heart is never not going to lurch at the sight of Clint's surprise, like every time Phil says something along these lines, it's still something Clint doesn't expect to hear.
So Phil kisses him again, kisses the startled look off his face until Clint's lips relax under his and his hands curl around Phil's arms, holding him there, fingers flexing a little to drag him closer. Phil gives in to the urge, slides his palm along Clint's chest, feeling the warmth of Clint's body trapped in the cotton. The sweater is a little threadbare now, baggy from over a decade of wear, but it still feels deliciously soft under his hand, especially with the silk of Clint's skin underneath it.
To his surprise, when he pulls back, Clint is blushing and avoiding Phil's eyes. Phil frowns, just a little, thinks about asking what's wrong, but then Clint's fingers tangle with his over Clint's stomach and Clint says, haltingly, "I hope you don't mind. I know it's your favourite, but you'd been gone for four days, and I just needed something--um. It smells like you," he finishes shyly, and good god, Phil is going to be achingly in love with this man for the rest of his life, he knows it for the simple fact it is. He doesn't see how this feeling could ever fade, this burst of emotion in his chest every time Clint lets him see under his mask, shows him how much Phil has wormed his way under his skin.
"I don't mind," Phil says. It comes out a little rougher than he anticipated, a little bit darker, more loaded, and Clint's eyes flare wide, a smile creeping over his still-flushed face.
"You really don't, huh," Clint says, more confident now that he's seen what Phil gave up trying to hide a long time ago.
"I honestly don't get how it can still surprise you. I married you, for god's sake, how many more hints do you need?"
Clint's whole face beams at him for that, so happy, like he could produce a thousand Patroni from that one memory. He shudders, this happy little wriggle, curls in towards Phil's body, and Phil realises his fingers are still twisted in his sweater on Clint, gently scratching over his stomach. Clint sighs in satisfaction and burrows into him, tucks his face into Phil's neck and settles, his whole body going limp. Phil just holds onto him, and lets himself relax for the first time in a week.
Well. Most of him relaxes. He wasn't kidding about the effect the sight of Clint swaddled in his sweater has on him. Clint hasn't worked it out yet, which is a small blessing, even though he really should stop being embarrassed about how very much he feels for Clint, so many emotions that sometimes he can't untangle them from the knot in his chest: love and affection and protectiveness and a fierce, fiery mine that he honestly did not expect to ever entertain for any person. It would be stupid to deny that he's feeling it now, all right, and how.
And then Clint shifts, the whole of his thigh rubbing along the stiffness in Phil's pants, and Phil--revises his earlier estimate. He must have been trying very hard to fool himself; his husband is anything but oblivious. He can feel Clint's smile over the skin of his neck, the faint ticking rasp of stubble when Clint's mouth moves, shaping god knows what words since no sound comes from him. His other hand comes up, his left hand, resting onto Phil's chest, the dull gold of the wedding band he's tellingly wearing for once catching the fading light just so, until it almost glows. Something catches in Phil's chest, something that had been dormant, lurking, just waiting for a spark to set it free, and here it is, the glint of warm yellow making his cock twitch with the evidence of how thoroughly he has marked Clint, branded him as his. Phil has never, ever felt this about anyone, anything, even.
"Clint," he says hoarsely, "Clint," like a prayer, like a call that needs no answer.
"I'm here, baby," Clint answers anyway, pressing a kiss in the hollow of his throat where his shirt hangs open.
Phil gulps down air, because he can't speak, not then; the need is too strong, to take, claim, possess. Gone is the calm that guides him through his life; gone is the tranquility, the 'take what you can get' approach he favours. Now, all he can think is how much he wants to take Clint, remind himself Clint is his, has willingly given himself over, even when Phil still doesn't know how he managed to earn so much trust, so much unquestioning allegiance.
He doesn't know how to tell Clint this, how to ask for what he needs -- but the way Clint rolls over on his back, pulling Phil fully on top of him, heavy over his chest, pressing him deep into the soft bed; the way his legs fall open to cradle Phil between them; the way he links his fingers behind Phil's neck, opening himself up for Phil to take whatever he needs, it says enough, reminds Phil that he married the most observant man he ever met.
He takes the gift he's being given, kisses Clint insistently, tongue stroking Clint's inside his mouth; only when he can't seem to catch his breath does he pull back -- to trail kisses along Clint's jaw, down the gorgeous, taut muscles of his neck, suck on that spot just above where it meets Clint's shoulder that never fails to turn Clint to putty in his arms. Clint's hips lift into him, wordlessly begging, rubbing delicious friction along Phil's now painfully hard cock, slotting it into the space just alongside Clint's own hardness. It's so good that Phil could finish it right there if he wanted to, just rub mindlessly on Clint until they are both a sweaty, happy mess -- but he needs more than that, he needs to be inside Clint, needs it so badly he can taste it.
Clothes fly off the bed, falling where he drops them in his haste to get at more of Clint's skin, to remove all the barriers between them, even when they're Clint's soft jeans, even when it's his own sweater that sparked off the whole thing. He'll want to see it back on Clint, often, but just now he needs the slide of their chests together, needs to see the crisp lines of Clint's tattoo, a small swamp dragon to match the AMCW177 badge on Phil's left pec, half-covering his scar. The dragon is lying over Clint's heart, eyes smiling where it looks over its shoulder, happily greeting Phil like it always does, and Phil can't breathe for a moment, has to put his lips to it, kiss it softly, acknowledge the intent behind Clint getting it inked on that exact spot. Loves Clint so much for indulging him, for taking Phil's strange obsessions and welcoming them in his life; for welcoming Phil in his life, all of it, giving himself over to Phil every single day, over and over again.
Fingers thread through his hair, scritching gently. "Sap," Clint murmurs softly, and when Phil looks up, he's smiling his "I love you" smile, the one that only Phil (and sometimes Tasha) get to see.
"Yes, well," Phil hedges, but he kisses the tattoo once more before migrating an inch or two further south to take Clint's nipple between his lips and tug on it gently. Clint arches into him like he always does; it feels like he's caressing Phil all over, with hips and thighs and arms and stomach, a strangled sound falling from between his clenched teeth.
"Phil," he rasps, and Phil has no choice but to surge back up and kiss him again, deep and dirty. Clint holds him close, fingers sliding over the already-sweat-slick line of his back, one leg coming up to curl around Phil's waist, incidentally shorting his brain out. "Yes," he moans when Phil's slicked fingers reach around and sheathe themselves in Clint's body, welcoming him with an ease that never fails to make Phil's heart slam into his chest with want.
It doesn't take long; it never does, Clint is impatient and likes his prep short and to the point, much like other areas in his life (which does not explain why, when their positions are reversed, he insists on making sure Phil's ready for him for what feels like hours of torturous pleasure, but that's Clint for you). Soon enough he's growling, "Now, now," and tugging Phil into him so quickly Phil barely manages to get his fingers out of the way first. He would protest, but his whole consciousness has narrowed down to warmpleaseyesfinally and the words lag in his throat, making way for Clint's name whimpered in desperation.
"I'm right here, baby," Clint murmurs, lips brushing over the side of Phil's neck that's usually covered by shirt and tie. Clint likes to nuzzle that spot as soon as it's within reach after Phil removes his suit (of armour), and Phil? Phil likes to indulge him.
It's fast yet slow; deep, thorough, claiming. Clint lifts his arms over his head to brace himself on the headboard so Phil can fuck him harder, and Phil's hands come up to close over his wrists almost without conscious direction. Clint's body arches into him, and Phil takes, and takes, and gives as much of himself as he's claiming. It's the way it always is, always will be between them.
"Close," Clint whispers, in between strangled encouragements and endearments traced into Phil's skin with nose and lips and tongue, and Phil scrapes teeth over the column of his neck, bites down gently, then harder, at the spot right above where the collar of Hawkeye's suit comes up to. Clint's hips stutter, then push violently upwards, rubbing his cock against Phil's stomach while he strokes inside him, once, twice, before Clint shudders and stills, making these small noises in the back of his throat that get Phil hard just thinking about them. Clint's insides clench on him and Phil loses it in a rush of viciously possessive yes, mine, spilling himself inside Clint's body.
"Deviant," Clint murmurs fondly after a while, as Phil sprawls on top of him, cooling off. His words are belied by the way his fingers trace gently over Phil's side, under his heart, over the black curl of Always making all the promises Phil rarely manages to voice.
"Fuck off," Phil grunts on a laugh.
"I don't think you want me to do that," Clint drawls, and Phil's arms tighten around him, because, "Not really, no."
Clint's fingers card through the hair on the back of his head, and Phil enjoys the amused huff of breath Clint expels past his ear.
"Sleep," Clint says.
Phil frowns. They are both sticky and sweaty and disgusting (well. Not Clint. No circumstances exist in which Phil will not want to touch him all the time), and he's still inside Clint even though he's soft now; this can't be comfortable for him. He moves to disengage, but Clint's arms tighten around him and he stills, looking up in surprise.
"I like you there," Clint admits with a pink flush high on his cheeks that Phil wants to lick.
"I see," Phil says gravely, then ruins it by grinning. "Who's the deviant now?"
Clint swats him gently on his shoulder, not quite managing the affronted look he's trying for.
"You'll hate yourself when it's hours later and you're sore and we're stuck together," he warns, but makes no attempt to do anything about it.
"I know," Clint sighs. "Stay. Just for a bit."
Phil smiles into his skin, and lets him get his way.