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dizzydrea~o~
It's the strangest love triangle Phil Coulson's ever been involved with.
That is to say, if he'd ever been involved in a love triangle before, this would have to be the strangest.
He isn't sure whether to be annoyed or exasperated. Of course, his life now includes giant, armored flying whales, aliens, magic and resurrections, so really, this shouldn't even register on the weird-shit-o-meter.
Except it does.
It does because the man he's involved with isn't in it for the sex, and he's in love with the deadliest woman alive.
He'd facepalm, if he though it wouldn't ruin his carefully-constructed image.
~o~
It starts like this:
He brings in one of the best marksmen to ever ply his trade. Reluctantly, to be sure (and Clint's got the scar on his thigh from Phil's bullet to prove it), but when Director Fury told Phil to, "Bring in Hawkeye, dead or alive. I'd prefer alive, but I'll take what I can get", well, Phil's not one to disobey orders, and he's been intrigued by one Clinton Francis Barton for years.
He's not your average assassin, for one thing. They guy's preferred weapon is a bow and arrow. Not a crossbow, which has the force of a bolt-action trigger behind it. Not a rifle with a long range scope, so he can see his target's individual eyebrow hairs. No, Hawkeye has chosen the bow and arrow, and despite the odds, he's good with it. Better than good, actually. He can hit his target no matter the conditions or location. He's just that good.
So, yeah, when Director Fury tells him to go get one of the best assassins in a business full to bursting with men (and women, but that comes later) who are the best at what they do, he's all in.
Barton is the kind of assassin who has a conscience, who only kills those who deserve it. He's picky about the contracts he'll take, and that fascinates Phil. It's what got Fury's attention, and it's what both men believe will make him an excellent agent for SHIELD.
So, Phil brings Clint in, a little the worse for wear, and distrustful of everyone but the senior agent (oddly, considering it was Phil who shot him), but in he comes.
They quickly find out just why Barton is so good. He's got instincts, and when left to his own devices and the judgment of his own instincts... well, his kill rate is off the charts. But the things that make him good also make him difficult to work with. He's not a robot who'll just take orders and never ask questions. And when he thinks he's right, he'll just do the job the way he thinks it ought to be done, no matter if his handler says otherwise. His fitrep calls him insubordinate, insolent, impossible. You name the i-word, he's been called it by a succession of handlers, each one of whom has refused to work with him again.
This frustrates the Director for a very long year, before Phil's finally called into his office for an extended bitch session. The end result of all of this is that Phil is now Clint's handler, with strict instructions to listen to the archer and give him a little rope. If he hangs himself with it, well, Fury is okay with that. But if the end result is even more efficient kills, he's good with that too.
Phil never once tells Fury I told you so, but he's thinking it. Loudly.
Improbably, impossibly (if you ask any of Clint's other handlers) his kill rate goes up. They work well together. Clint trusts that when Phil says no, he's saying it because he's considered all angles and taken Clint's opinion into account and is trying to save both their lives, and who cares if it screws up the mission. Phil learns that Clint is really better than even he'd suspected. His instincts are solid and his ability to see things is unparalleled, which allows him to give Clint more leeway than he might to a lesser talent.
On missions, they're in sync, thinking and acting as one. It's scary how well they complement each other, and the rumors about them only grow. Between missions, Clint can often be found in Phil's office, working on mission reports or just hanging out. Phil will occasionally join Clint on the range, watching as the archer sends arrow after arrow into his target, always hitting dead center. And if everyone thinks that Clint has somehow found a way to humanize the android they all think Phil is, they would be wrong.
Phil is no more an android than Clint is Robin Hood, though the comparisons are apt. Which doesn't mean that they haven't become friends. They are, as unlikely as it is. Phil is all controlled coolness, the eye of the storm. While everything is falling apart around him, he's keeping it all together. Clint is young and brash, full of bravado and the confidence that only comes from being the best of the best. They are opposites on the same continuum, who have forged a relationship that can weather any storm that comes, but they are not lovers, no matter what everyone thinks.
Until the day all that changes.
~o~
This is how it happens (but not right away):
There's an assassin, a woman of frighteningly cool efficiency that SHIELD has run across too many times for anyone's comfort. Much as he had when he'd sent Phil out after Clint, Fury sends Phil and Clint out after her. This time the orders are clear: take out the Black Widow. No one, least of all Director Fury, thinks she can be turned, so he's not even willing to try.
They catch up with her in Budapest (and no, that comes later).
Clint is in his perch, arrow nocked, watching for an opportunity. Phil is in the out-of-the-way hotel they'd checked into three days ago, listening on comms and waiting to give Clint the green light.
Finally, after two days of waiting and watching, she crosses Clint's field of vision. Phil gives him the go-ahead. It's supposed to be a killshot. Quick, clean. Then they can pack up and go home. Simple.
Except it's never going to be simple where Clint is concerned.
"I don't have the shot, sir," Clint says quietly.
"I'm ordering you to take the shot," Phil says. He's gritting his teeth. Clint's never actually disobeyed a direct order (not one given by Phil, anyway). It's startling more than anything. But they haven't gotten this far by ignoring each other's instincts. He takes a deep breath. "Talk to me, Barton"
"She wants to die," Clint whispers over the comms. "She's given up. I think we can bring her in."
"Those aren't our orders," Phil says. He knows Clint knows this, but sometimes it's good to remind him that he works for a larger whole, one that will be infinitely more secure once the Widow is off the streets.
"Fuck the orders, Coulson." There's a rustling sound, and Phil's heard it often enough that he knows just what it is: Clint is coming down from his perch. "I'm going to bring her in."
"Negative," Phil says, but only hears static in return.
He sits in the hotel room for hours, waiting. This can only go one of three ways. One, Clint gets the drop on her and manages to kill her when he realizes that she doesn't want to come in. Two, she's baiting him, and will kill him when he gets close enough. Or three (and God, does he hope this is the one), he's right and she comes in willingly.
Hours later, after the sun sets and he's giving serious consideration to calling the op and heading for the exfiltration point, Clint comes through the door, the Black Widow in tow.
Phil's reaction time has been honed over long years of working in the field, so he has his gun drawn and pointed at her before the two of them even clear the doorjamb. Her only response is a raised eyebrow, and Phil knows that she could probably kill the both of them with her bare hands without even breaking a sweat, and long before either of them could do anything about it.
"It's okay, Phil," Clint says, raising his hands placatingly. "She wants to come in."
Phil shifts his gaze. She's beautiful. Dangerous but beautiful. Her red hair hangs in luscious waves, framing her face. She's wearing black from head to toe, and he knows without seeing that she's got weapons secreted all over her person. Unexpectedly, he feels a frisson of attraction sizzle along his nerves. He clamps down on that reaction; he can't let her know she has that power over him. This is already a dangerous situation, no need to make it worse by exposing a potential weakness.
"I..." He sees her struggle for a moment, and it's so out of tune with what they know about her that for a moment he's stunned. "I want a purpose. I need a purpose, not this mindless killing."
It's those words that finally convince Phil that she might actually want to come in.
She's under lockdown for weeks, unable to leave SHIELD headquarters, only allowed to move about the buildings if she's accompanied by a SHIELD agent. Which means that Clint spends a lot of time with her.
Phil's not jealous, per se, but he finds he misses seeing Clint lounging on his couch.
When Natasha (that's her name, Natasha Romanova, though she prefers to go by Romanov because she says it's easier) is finally cleared for limited duty, he finds himself the handler for two high-level assets. Their first few missions go better than expected, and Phil finally begins to believe that this might work. Natasha fits in with them very well, filling the few gaps that they'd had before. It's like they've always worked together, and he learns to trust her instincts as much as he trusts Clint's.
Between missions, the two of them can often be found on Phil's couch, when they're not at the range or in the gym sparring. It's an odd symmetry, but it works, and Phil is finally able to take a deep breath.
~
It happens after Natasha is cleared for duty but before their first mission. Clint is away on a mission with Jasper Sitwell. He's one of the few handlers that Clint will trust, and it's mostly because Phil trained him, so Clint knows he can trust him.
He's sitting at his desk, working on some long-overdue reports, when she walks in. She closes the door and locks it, then leans back and looks at him. It's a look he's quite familiar with, full of heat and no small amount of danger. She stalks across the room, hips swaying enticingly, and he can't help but appreciate the sight he's being treated to. He's only human, after all. When she reaches his desk, she spins his chair around, straddling his lap in one smooth move.
"Natasha—" he starts to say, but is stopped by her finger over his lips.
Her fingers run up into his hair, the scrape of nails on his scalp sending tingles down his spine. She leans in, her intent clear, but just before her lips make contact (and he knows that if that happens, he'll be lost; he's not an android, no matter what the junior agents say) he pushes her back with gentle hands on her shoulders.
She raises an eyebrow at him.
"It's not necessary," he says.
"But it is what you want," she says.
"What I want," he says, quiet and calm, "is for you to trust me. If I let this happen, you'll never trust me again."
She cocks her head. "And if I want this?"
"You don't," he says, shaking his head. When she opens her mouth to protest, he lays his finger over her lips. "Promise me you won't try this again unless you really do want it."
She looks at him for the space of a few heartbeats. He's holding his breath, hoping that by refusing her he's showing her how much he respects her. If she doesn't get it, he's afraid his career will end in a pool of blood in his own office. He's not sure his reputation would survive the indignity.
Finally, she leans forward, resting her forehead on his. "Okay," she whispers.
He thinks that'll be the end of it.
He couldn't be more wrong.
~
It's a year to the day since she first made a move on him. Once again, he's working on paperwork in his office when she comes in. This time, though, there's nothing of the vixen in the way she closes and locks the door or in the way she crosses the room. She's much more timid and unsure, and it rattles him some, because if there's one thing Natasha is, it's confident.
The reason for her timidity becomes clear when she spins his chair and settles in his lap, this time sitting sideways, almost as though she's protecting herself. She lays a hand on his cheek, her eyes boring into his as if she's looking for that moment when he'll reject her again.
To tell the truth, he hasn't been able to stop thinking about the last time they were here. The smell of her hair and the softness of her skin, the way the heat in her eyes made them glow. He's imagined what her lips would taste like, whether her kiss would be slow and smooth or hard and all-consuming.
It is none of those things.
When her lips finally touch his, the kiss is soft and sweet. This is Natasha, stripped down to the woman underneath. She's been used and abused all her life, and in most situations, she's confident and in control, but in this, she's uncertain. He knows about her past, about the Red Room and all the things they'd done to her, though they've never talked about it (the SHIELD interrogators were thorough, and their report was exhaustive).
He can't not respond. There are no fraternization regulations in SHIELD, because if there were, he'd have put a permanent stop to this long ago. But since there aren't, he allows himself the moment. He pulls her close, tangling his hand in her hair as he takes control of the kiss, angling his lips and letting his passion run free. He takes a long moment to savor the feel of her lips on his, then reluctantly pulls back. He's breathing fast, his heart pounding out a rhythm in his chest.
She's resting her forehead against his, the same as last time, only this time it doesn't taste of defeat and frustration. "Have dinner with me. Tonight."
She pulls back, her eyes locking with his. They're sparkling now, the green even more intense than before. "Yeah," she says softly. "Yeah."
They never make it to dinner.
Well, that's not true. They do eventually have dinner, but it's pasta and wine in Phil's bed, wearing as little clothing as possible.
He thinks about her soft curves and the tight heat when he'd slid into her that first time, and finds he's suddenly lost his appetite. Her smile is lusty and knowing as she takes his plate and places it on the floor beside hers. Without warning, she straddles him and impales herself in one continuous move, surprising a groan out of both of them. It's no less sensual than it was the first two times, but Phil finds he can enjoy it more, now that he knows what it's like: acres of flesh on display and all for him to touch and tease, wet heat, and the sounds she makes, which is a revelation all its own. Doesn't make it last any longer, though (and he'd be embarrassed about that if she hadn't come first).
They do eventually make it out to dinner, though the date itself is interrupted on no less than three separate occasions by a coup d'etat in a South American nation nobody had ever heard of until that day, the sudden re-emergence of a wanted arms dealer and Clint Barton.
It's that last one that frustrates Phil.
Because yeah, they'd planned on telling him at some point, when they were on solid ground with each other. Phil knows that the transition from handler/asset to something more personal would be rough. Natasha's had a lifetime of conditioning telling her that emotion is weakness and weakness can't be tolerated. It's been Phil's job to teach her that caring about someone makes you stronger, because if nothing matters to you then you won't defend anything to your death. She's got passion and loyalty in spades, and it's the patient work of the last year that's brought her out of her shell. He's proud of her, proud of what she's become. He didn't do it so that she'd fall in love with him, but he can't say he's even a little disappointed that she did.
But when Clint sees them at Phil's favorite Italian place—a little out-of-the-way restaurant in the village run by an actual Italian mother—he knows they've run out of time.
But things rarely ever go the way Phil expects them to, so why should this be any different?
~o~
This is how it ends (which is actually where it begins):
Clint Barton is a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, and possessed of the most amazing arms Phil's ever seen.
When he'd first brought the archer in, he'd follow him to the range just to watch the muscles of his arms bunch and coil as he let fly his arrows. There is power and strength in those arms, but Clint isn't all muscles. He's bright, witty, dedicated, loyal.
In short, he's everything Phil could possibly want in a partner.
Except for one important thing: Clint is straight.
Phil's long since accepted that he's attracted to both men and women. He's known it since the age of eight when he discovered that he was the only boy in his class admiring Captain America's muscled chest. He didn't want to be Captain America like his friends did, he wanted to be with Captain America.
He had the good sense to keep that to himself.
So his attraction to Clint is no surprise, and it's hard knowing that he's right there, on Phil's couch, but so terribly unreachable. Somehow, he manages. Just like with Natasha, it's more important that Clint trust Phil than it is that Phil satisfy his baser urges. Being Clint's friend is good, and while it's not nearly enough, it's still something.
So, when the thing with Natasha starts, he thinks it'll just be a few nights of spent passion and then they'll go back to the way they were. She'll go back to her solitary life and he'll go back to admiring Clint from afar.
Except that's not what happens at all.
He finds that he likes spending time with Natasha. Under that cold exterior lies the heart of a warrior, fierce and loyal, with passion to spare. But she's also snarky and has a soft spot for old movies, and is perfectly happy to sit on the couch with him, reading a book with her feet in his lap while he watches a marathon of whatever his latest favorite reality show is.
It's oddly domestic, and Phil loves that he's the only one that gets to see her this way. He loves her, in point of fact, and that in itself is a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. But all that contentment doesn't really quash his attraction to Clint. It just pushes it out of the immediacy of the moment and into a lingering burn somewhere in the back of his mind.
Loki changes all that.
Loki changes everything.
When he wakes up, Phil feels like there's an elephant sitting on his chest. He's disappointed to find it's nothing of the sort when he opens his eyes.
As expected, Clint and Natasha are sitting by his bed, one on each side, looking tired and worried. His heart leaps painfully in his chest when he sees Clint, the beautiful blue-green of his eyes a welcome change from the ice-cold blue he'd seen the last time he'd seen his asset. He wants to wipe the worry away, but he can't quite seem to manage words. Which is fine, because apparently, now that he's awake, Clint and Natasha are fine with carrying the conversation for him.
"They had to use this bio thingy on you," Clint says, quite likely fumbling the words on purpose to make Phil laugh. He doesn't; he has a feeling it'll hurt if he does.
Natasha shoots him a mock glare. "It was a bio-regeneration unit. Don't ask me where they got it. It took three days to mend the tissue damaged by Loki's spear."
"So, I died?"
He knows it's not kind of him to ask that question, but he needs to know. It's all a bit of a blur, and he's feeling off balance at the gaps in his memory. He regrets the question almost immediately when they both flinch.
"Fury told us right before the big battle," Natasha says.
"The bastard," Clint mumbles.
Phil does smile at that. He'd told Nick to do it, and he supposes that it worked, since they're all still here and Clint appears to be none the worse for Loki's interference.
They lapse into silence, and it's then that Phil notices that Clint is clinging to one hand, while Natasha holds the other between her palms. He rolls his head over to look at her, then cuts his eyes to Clint and back to her, raising an eyebrow in silent question. She merely cocks her head, a small smile tugging at her lips.
So, there's something going on, and Natasha knows what it is but won't talk about it in front of Clint. Oddly, he's not worried. She'll explain what she knows at some point, but he really doesn't need to worry about it right now. It's enough to know that the two people who mean the most to him are alive and well. The rest will keep.
~
During the weeks and months that follow, he finds Clint staying closer than usual. It would worry him if he weren't really grateful for all the extra help.
Clint has always been a tactile person. Phil suspects that this has something to do with losing his parents at a young age, winding up in an orphanage and later the circus. He's always needed just that little bit of extra attention, that little bit of approval that Phil's more than willing to provide. But it was never unusual for Clint to stand just a little bit closer than most people when they talked, or to just barge in to Phil's office and lean over his shoulder to look at whatever he's working on (usually, editing Clint's AAR to make it more professional and less this is what I did on my summer vacation).
He doesn't complain about the little invasions. He trusts Clint, and enjoys his company, so that's never been an issue. But ever since his resurrection (Tony's word, and unfortunately, it stuck), Clint's been hovering a little more.
Phil gets it, he does. Clint hasn't had the stability most people take for granted; people tend to leave him, so he clings tightly to those he cares about in an effort to keep them around. And he doesn't mind, not really. It's nice having Clint around to help him out with things that used to be easy for him, or cheer him on during the hours of physical therapy he's had to endure.
But he feels like he's missing something, something crucial. He asks Natasha about it once, after he's been released from SHIELD Medical to the world's most comfortable bed in his own apartment at Star—no, Avengers Tower, now (and doesn't that just blow his mind). She just smiles that secret smile of hers, the one that's reserved only for him, the one he suspects says you're an idiot, but I love you anyway. She doesn't explain, and it bothers him a little, but not enough to push, because whatever's going on, she's okay with it. She still spends just as much time with him as she did before Loki and the Chitauri attack.
Only now, it isn't just Natasha on the couch with him; there's Clint, too, slumping into his shoulder or sprawled out with his feet beside Natasha's on his lap. It's comfortable, natural, and Phil gets used to it alarmingly quickly.
Natasha knows how he feels about Clint, has always known, and seems to have simply welcomed Clint into their relationship with ease. There's nothing going on between them; she says that sex between them wouldn't have worked, and that she sees him more like a brother anyway.
So, he's not exactly worried that they seem to spend most of their free time together as a trio. Besides, the doctor hasn't cleared him for that kind of activity yet, much to his own frustration. And until he does, Natasha has refused to even look at him naked. It should probably frustrate him, but he's honestly too tired to care most of the time, so it really doesn't matter.
And then suddenly it does.
The day of his final check with the doctors (who are satisfied that the device has repaired his heart sufficiently, and believe he can return to limited duty, and thank god for small favors), Natasha gets pulled away on a last-minute op for SHIELD. Fury is apologetic, but it can't be helped. They need her to help infiltrate a Hydra base, and while she hasn't gone on many (read: none) SHIELD ops since she joined the Avengers, Fury has still reserved the right to recall her when her particular skillset can be of use.
So, Natasha's off to who knows where with a SHIELD rapid-response team, and Phil's exhausted. Probably beyond exhausted, if he could come up with a word that suits. It's the end of his first week back to limited duty, and his shoulders and back ache from sitting at his desk reviewing mission reports for everything he's missed over the last few months (even though he's technically the Avengers' SHIELD liason and de-facto handler, he still wants to keep up on the comings and goings of SHIELD's roster, because who knows when something like that will be relevant).
He's sitting at his desk, rereading the same sentence over and over, hoping it'll make more sense the longer he stares at it, when Clint comes in (without knocking, because why knock? Phil's just going to tell him to come in anyway). He takes one look at Phil and quickly, and with much protest, chivvy's him out of the office and into his car.
The drive to the tower is quiet, and for that Phil is grateful. He doesn't usually mind talking to Clint, who can talk your ear off with very little effort, but the idea of conversation when he's this tired makes him even more tired just thinking about it. Clint is driving more carefully than usual, which amuses him though he tries not to show it.
They arrive in the tower so quickly that Phil has to wonder if he fell asleep at some point. Clint escorts him up to his rooms, and then, with little regard to what it'll do to his heart, orders him to strip and climb up on the bed.
Phil just stands in the middle of his bedroom, staring at Clint as though he's suddenly turned into the Hulk. Clint, who's gone into the bathroom and is rummaging around in the cabinet for something, doesn't notice until he comes back out.
"You okay?" he asks as he gets right up in Phil's personal space. He shakes a bottle of body oil he'd forgotten he had. "I'm just going to give you a back rub, unless you're too tired?"
Phil shakes himself out of his momentary stupor. He's not sure that's a good idea, but he's too tired and sore to care. And besides, the idea of Clint's hands all over his skin sends tingles up and down his spine.
He suppresses the shudder that threatens to wrack his body and quickly and efficiently strips out of his suit, hanging it up neatly before he crawls onto the bed and sheds his underwear, collapsing onto his belly with a tired sigh.
Clint just chuckles, somewhere behind and to his right, and then he feels the bed dip and Clint is straddling him. He's taken off his jeans, so he can feel the rasp of hair against his legs. It shouldn't feel so damned sexy, but he's tired and he wants, and damnit Clint is right there.
But he takes a deep breath and lets go of his frustrations with a heavy sigh, relaxing into the mattress.
And then he feels them, Clint's hands on his back, slick with oil as they slide over his skin, and he knows he's in trouble. He can feel Clint's calluses as he presses strong fingers into the muscles of his back.
"Damn, you're all knotted up," Clint mutters.
Phil, meanwhile, melts into a puddle of goo on the mattress. Clint's hands are already classified as dangerous weapons, along with his sight and ability with a bow and arrow, but Phil suspects if anyone knew the kind of magic he could perform with a little oil and his hands, they'd want to take him prisoner just so he'd be available at everyone's beck and call.
Phil can't help the moans Clint's touch elicits, and he'd be embarrassed by it all if it weren't for the fact that he's enjoying it so damned much.
His mind automatically supplies an image of what Clint's hands could do to his cock, and that does it. He's hard, pressing himself into the mattress in a vain chase after some friction at the same time he's trying valiantly to keep Clint from noticing.
He's so deep into the sensations, though, that he doesn't notice that Clint's flipped him over until the cool air of the room brushes over his over-heated skin. He blushes like a schoolgirl, averting his eyes as he refuses to look at Clint, afraid of what he'll see.
Clint just chuckles. "Feels good, doesn't it?"
Phil hums non-committally. He's not admitting anything, and he figures if he keeps it vague, he'll get away with this all just being a result of the massage and not the person giving the massage.
Except that Clint goes and does the last thing Phil expected him to do: he wraps his long, incredibly talented fingers around his cock and begins to stroke.
Phil's eyes fly open, meeting Clint's, and it's like the other man was waiting for it. He's got this slightly hopeful, slightly wary look in his eyes, like he's waiting for Phil to push him away at any moment. Any other day, and Phil might have at least considered it, but today his reserves are low and his defenses destroyed. He can't not want what Clint is offering, even if he knows that this isn't what Clint wants.
Instead, he throws his head back and moans appreciatively. It seems to do the trick, because Clint goes from tentative to confident at light speed.
Phil finds himself tumbling over the edge embarrassingly fast. He keeps his eyes closed for a long time after, not willing to open them and find Clint looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. He feels the bed shift, and then Clint is laying down beside him, snuggled up to his side, an arm and a leg thrown over top of him as his hand idly plays in the oil still left on his skin.
They don't talk for a while after that, but Phil knows they're going to have to.
~
"It's okay, sir," Clint says into the silence, after some time has passed. Phil stiffens at that, but Clint just presses closer and sighs. "Phil. It's okay, really."
Phil wishes he could see Clint's face, but the man is stubbornly clinging to him, so he'll just have to settle for reading body language and tone of voice. Idly, he rubs a hand up and down Clint's back, enjoying the way the other man seems to melt into the touch.
"Do you need me to—" "No, I'm good," Clint says before he can even get the words out.
Phil realizes that Clint's not pressing a hard-on into his hip like he'd expected him to. That concerns him, but he knows better than to push. Instead, he says, "Care to explain what that was, then?"
Clint sighs and pulls back, pushing up on one elbow but not otherwise moving away from Phil. "I'm—" he shrugs, his eyes skittering away.
"Hey," Phil says, laying a hand on Clint's cheek to encourage the other man to look at him. "It's okay. Whatever it is, it's okay."
"I'm not into sex, not like most people," he eventually says. "I like the closeness, like the feeling of being so intimate with someone, seeing them let go and trust me to catch them. I just—don't particularly like getting off. It's too…"
"Too?" Phil asks.
"Too messy? Too much like losing control?" Clint takes a deep breath. "I love you. Have for years. But you have Natasha now, and I didn't think you'd…"
"Be able to deal with this?" Phil asks, deftly interpreting what Clint isn't saying.
Clint sighs, but this one is more in relief. He quirks a smile. "Yeah."
"So, you don't mind helping me get off, but you don't want me to return the favor." Phil looks at Clint, waits for his nod. "You and Natasha have talked about this."
It's not a question, but Clint takes it as one. "Yeah. She knows."
And suddenly, Phil gets it. He gets what Natasha's smiles have been about, and why Clint has been clinging to him like a lifeline. He loves Phil—is in love with him—but wasn't sure how Phil would take all of this. To be fair, he's had some experience with asexuality (an old college roommate, and man does he remember the long, late-night conversations as he hung on his friend's every word), so this isn't something he's shocked about, but he'd heard the whispers about Clint, and this is about as far from what he'd always believed to be true as it was possible to get.
"I've heard the rumors, Clint," he says quietly, wary of scaring him off. "I guess I always thought you were straight and just not interested in me."
"All those women I'm supposed to have bedded?" Clint asks with a huff of laughter. At Phil's nod, he goes on. "I've left every one of them completely satisfied. Just because I don't want to get off doesn't mean they don't have to. I'm very good at it, if you'll forgive me saying so. And I can do other things, too."
"Like the massage."
"Yeah, like the massage," Clint says. "I make sure they get everything they need, and because of that, they keep my secret."
"And you've talked to Natasha? She's okay with this?" Phil asks. He suspects she is. Right before she left, she's kissed him and told him to have fun. It hadn't made sense at the time, but now it does. His girlfriend is playing matchmaker. He'd laugh if he didn't think it might upset Clint.
"She's the one who told me to go for it," he says, chuckling once again. "Said you'd be okay with it, too. I guess she wasn't wrong."
"No, she wasn't wrong." He doesn't say that the two of them would be having a long talk once she returns from her mission, because Clint doesn't need to know that. And because it won't change how he feels about all this. He turns, propping himself on his elbow so he can look Clint in the eye. "So, what do you want, Clint?"
"I want to be with you, Phil," he says, voice hopeful. "For as long as you'll have me, in whatever way you want me."
He thinks about it for a moment, but he really doesn't need to. He's not built to be alone, and he suspects Clint isn't either. Natasha knew that, or she wouldn't have given her approval. She also knows how much Phil loves her, and that's not going to change. It really doesn't surprise him when it feels like he's made this decision a long time ago and is only now giving it voice.
"I'll still be with Natasha," Phil says, wanting to lay it all out. "I love you, have for years, but I love her, too. So if you can live with sharing me, then we're good."
Clint's face breaks out into a bright, unrestrained grin. He leans in and kisses Phil, just a chaste peck, before pulling back and cupping Phil's cheek gently. "Thank you."
Phil shakes his head. "You don't have to thank me. And you may want to kill me when you see what I'm like outside the office."
"Never," Clint says, with all the conviction of a child.
Phil stretches out again, and Clint settles into his side as if that's where he's always been.
~o~
Natasha finds them snuggled up together on the couch when she comes home three days later. Her smile is tender and sweet. She kisses the both of them, then settles down beside Phil, snuggling into his side in a mirror of Clint's pose. Clint raises his head off Phil's shoulder and winks at her, and she winks right back.
Phil would roll his eyes, but he's just too happy to care.
He has everything he's ever wanted right beside him on the couch. One of these days he'll have to send Loki a thank you note. The man has earned it, after all.
~Finis