Phil Coulson hates codenames. He refuses to come up with them and hates using them. So it stands to reason that he steadfastly refuses to accept a codename of his own.

Once Stark realizes this, he adopts it as a pet project, tossing out a new name every time he and Coulson occupy the same space, which, thanks to the chaos of post alien-invasion New York City, turns out to be quite often.

Mechano Man.

Digi-Dick.

Android.

Circuit Head.

Stark also offers to set him up with Jarvis, but then thinks better of the idea, saying, “Cancel that, I respect Jarvis too much.”

Part of it, Phil concludes, is bitterness. It’s buried deep, unconscious, and stems from the comments Steve Rogers nailed him with the first time Captain America and Iron Man attempted to work together. But Phil gets it; Tony Stark’s no longer the only guy with a mechanical (bio-mechanical in Phil’s case) contraption lodged in his chest, keeping him among the living. If horrible codenames are Stark’s way of lashing out at something so insignificant, Phil can deal with it. He knows what Stark’s capable of and this is preferable to the billionaire creating a squad of mini robots with the sole mission of annoying Phil to death.

(Though he’s pretty sure he’s come across that item on one of Stark’s to-do lists.)

Fortunately, no one else latches on to Stark’s codename initiative. Rogers calls him ‘Android’ exactly once—and Phil’s positive it’s only because the Captain has no idea what the word means—before Dr. Banner explains it to him. If Romanoff hears some of Stark’s more insulting names, she never repeats them, and Thor hasn’t returned from Asgard to invent grandiose codenames of his own, though Phil has never quite minded, ‘Son of Coul.’

Clint Barton, on the other hand, already has plenty of names in his quiver for Phil. The team rarely hears Barton refer to Phil as anything other than ‘boss’ or ‘sir’ over their mission comms (not that they show the same courtesy), but those aren’t the only two. Even when Barton says, ‘Coulson,’ simple and without the ‘Agent’ attached to it, it feels like something special that’s just between them.

Before Loki killed him (and Phil had been dead, he has no illusions about that), Phil thought the names came down to familiarity or even affection, since he and Barton had been stationed together for so long. Afterwards, he couldn’t help giving certain things new meaning.



Phil Coulson woke up sixteen days after the Avengers saved New York City.

It was a shock, waking up, as there’d been no expectation that he would. Phil didn’t challenge Loki that day—didn’t die—ever imagining that he could be brought back to life. Resurrection wasn’t in his job description.

Only apparently it was, as Phil later found out. Some clause buried amidst the non-disclosures and waivers and contracts gave S.H.I.E.L.D. permission to ‘use revolutionary and/or untested means’ to save his life. Phil had never heard of such a thing; had never seen that kind of technology used in the past.

Apparently Fury thought Phil needed to be saved. He hadn’t thanked the director yet.

Obviously, Phil had questions about his heart, and the med staff (along with Fury) did their best to give him answers. Sitting on a hospital bed a week after he’d woken up, ringed by half a dozen doctors, scientists, and the director, Phil felt he was at a slight disadvantage.

“Is it safe?”

Yes, but until they’d finished with the entire battery of tests…

“Is it S.H.I.E.L.D. property?”

Fury, on the other side of the interrogation, bestowed Phil with one of his mastermind grins. “Are you planning to run away with it, Agent Coulson? Let’s just say we have an extra interest in your wellbeing than we did before.”

“Are there side effects?”

None that would disrupt his daily routine, but the heart had never been tested in a living person. There was no telling what kind of physiological effects it might have, but if Phil feels anything out of the ordinary…

“Can I get back to work?”

Fury again, telling him, “Got a lot for you to catch up on, Coulson. You slept through quite a bit of the action.”

“Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“With millions of dollars of R&D in your chest, I hope it doesn’t,” Fury had said, too gruff to be called affection, but Phil hears it just the same. “Just try to stay out of the way of pointy things from now on.”

Waking up after sixteen days of death (it wasn’t technically a coma, the doctors informed him) required a good deal of adjustment. From his first moment of consciousness, Phil’s body felt foreign as if his sense and muscle memories had been wiped clean from his body’s hard drive.

On one of the occasions Barton came to visit him in the med bay, he explained it differently.

“You were given a new heart—a stronger heart,” the archer said, ignoring his lap-full of paperwork for the time being (Barton told him that bringing his own sit-reps and requisitions reports to fill out with Phil’s help, probably did more good than bringing him word puzzles or gifts). “Your blood is pumping differently than it ever has before. I can’t imagine what that must feel like, but it’s gotta take some getting used to.”

It took Phil nearly two weeks to get used to it. Half of that time was dedicated to testing his bio-mechanical heart, an innovation from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s R&D branch (thank God it wasn’t one of Stark’s inventions) as Phil was the first patient to ever receive the transplant and wake up.

Phil demanded the reports on prior transplants, trial and development notes, and Fury made sure he got everything. Countless hours of bed-rest were filled learning all he could about the piece of technology beating where his heart used to be, letting Barton’s frequent visits distract him from the reports of how often the heart had been tested on fallen agents without success. Lying in the dark, Phil thanked them for their sacrifices.

Testing followed a strict schedule, and while Phil had never minded schedules, he was usually the one creating them, not subject to them. But there was little he could do; he couldn’t exactly give the heart back.

He was growing rather attached to it.



Phil feels guilty. Survivor’s guilt, they tell him, only that isn’t it. Not really.

Phil feels guilty for surviving when it was his death that had rallied the Avengers. It feels like a lie, now—a deception he’d unwillingly played a part in. He doesn’t regret it. Can’t, with the way things turned out. But it doesn’t stop him from feeling like he’d betrayed the initiative. Their banner was a smokescreen, an op Fury might as well have planned from the get-go.

He tells himself that it was what he would have wanted, then shakes his head at his own reflection when he realizes he’s talking to himself, about himself in the past tense. As if he’s still dead.

In what has become the norm since Phil woke up with a new, S.H.I.E.L.D. manufactured heart, it is Barton, whose sharp eye is focused on and off the battlefield, setting him straight.

“Loki could have given you a paper cut, and I would have rallied behind the cause.”

“Is that so?” Phil asks, rhetorically, from behind his desk. Barton occupies the room’s only other chair (the third had gone missing while he was sleeping). “I remember that you weren’t quite with us at the time.”

Barton doesn’t look guilty, despite his involvement in the events that led to Phil getting stabbed in the back; Phil wonders how he manages that.

“I came back,” Barton says, as if that explains it. “We needed a shove. You threw us all off a building with a single parachute.”

“It was my job.” Phil had lived and breathed the Avengers Initiative since it was nothing but a hypothetical in Fury’s labyrinthine mind. That he was the man who united the team still boggles.

“That,” Barton stresses, leaning forward over the desk, “was not your job.”

Given the way his sniper is looking at him, Phil decides it is best not to argue.

“You get a chance to see what your sacrifice bought,” Barton adds, chest touching the desk. “Don’t feel guilty. The team’s not going to up and quit just because you didn’t die.”

When Barton puts it like that, Phil silently admits that the theory sounds ridiculous.

“Did they tell you how much it cost?” Phil asks once Barton relaxes back into the chair. “My heart, I mean.”

Barton pulls a scowl. “Like that’s supposed to matter?”

“Think I was worth it?”

Phil watches Barton twist his hands together in his lap. He doesn’t need to look too closely to see his fingers shaping around an invisible bow.

“I went up against Loki and got my brain scrambled, and a lot of good people died. You knew what would probably happen, and you faced him alone anyway. Giving you a new heart was the least S.H.I.E.L.D. could do after that. They—we—owe you a lot more. And the cost of the heart was pocket change for Fury, you know that.”

It’s the most Phil’s ever heard the marksman say in one go, and he’s not finished.

“Maybe you should think of it as a reward. After all you’ve done for them, god damn right they owed you a new ticker.”

“A performance incentive,” Phil muses. “Kill some of the bad guys, debrief all the good guys—”

“Assemble the Avengers,” Barton adds.

“Then die, and get a bio-mechanical organ you can’t live without.”

But that logic is something Phil can live with. Will live with, for a while, unless he goes after another demi-god with a weapons fetish, which Fury has assured him, is not in his job description anymore. That assurance means very little.

“Who knows what you can do with that heart,” Barton says, rolling his shoulders. “I’m all for anything that gives you extra stamina or enhances your reflexes. I wouldn’t mind some of that myself.” It goes without saying, for Phil, that Barton hardly needs help sharpening his skills. “You could be like…”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to join Stark in his codename initiative.”

“It could be fun.”

“And I could transfer you to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s new public outreach program. We’re quite popular now, as I’m sure you’ve heard.” Phil smiles. “Tell me, Hawkeye how do you feel about photoshoots and book signings?”

Barton sighs. “Codenames are overrated.”

“That’s what I thought.”



Phil’s watching the op go to pieces. Hill and her agents are dealing with a force on the opposite side of the city (Miami this time; attacking New York is going out of style, apparently) and Phil’s riding the pine as an observer from the command post. He’s only been out of the med facilities for eight days, and Director Fury had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was present only to ‘observe and support.’

But Phil’s temporary replacement is doing his best to cock things up, and without Hill to kick him out of his chair, it’s down to Phil. Saving the mission clearly falls under the ‘support’ directive from Fury, and no one else in the sea of standard-issue navy blues is taking necessary action.

He’s up and snatching the headset away from Agent Green before anyone sees him moving. (He was a pinstriped blur, as someone would later tell him.)

“Agent Coulson! The director said—”

Someone must have told Green to sit down and shut up somewhere out of the way, because that’s the last time Phil hears his voice for the rest of the mission. As he’s fitting the headset, Phil absorbs the information on the screens in front of him, the patterns of troop movement and the way S.H.I.E.L.D.’s assets are deployed. He gives his first order.

“Barton.”

No pause. “Coulson.”

“Stay where you are and cover the evacuation. Romanoff and Rogers are on their way to you.”

Phil hears a long exhale before Barton responds, “Yes, sir.”

“Is that Agent Mandroid?” Stark’s voice comes over the line, the sound of exploding ordinance mangling the transmission. “We’ve missed you.”

“I doubt that, Stark,” Phil says. “Once you’ve dealt with the aircraft landing on top of the Jasper Building, move to position Alpha and give the others some air support.” Stark doesn’t acknowledge, but the action on Phil’s monitors is enough to see that Iron Man is responding. At least Jarvis listens to Phil if Stark tends not to.

“We’re coming up Biscayne.” That is Rogers’ voice. “Got a clear path for us, Coulson?”

Phil checks his monitors and reroutes them away from where the big green guy’s got things under control at the waterfront. He listens to the fight—several different versions of it—and picks out each Avenger’s breathing, knowing who’s in trouble and who’s got things under control before they call in.

“Get me full infrared scans of their ships and artillery,” he addresses the entire team standing behind him. “We need to hit these things that’ll do the most damage.”

He’s pleased to note only a split-second’s hesitation before the chorus of ‘yes, sir’s!’ and a scramble of activity.

The Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. salvage the mission, which shouldn’t have been all that difficult in the first place. Phil maintains his position as coordinator throughout and doesn’t relinquish his headset until Fury enters the command post, trailing menace like a shadow. Or maybe that’s just his trench coat.

“Agent Coulson.”

“Sir.”

Fury looks around. Agent Green had moved to the back of the post where agents are now coordinating with civilian emergency response teams. Their vid screens show skies clear of enemy aircraft and the late afternoon Florida sun is beginning to poke through the smoke. Phil’s got the Avengers’ vitals and positions on his monitors, each of them working in the thick of the clean-up.

“Everything under control here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Bring everyone in,” Fury says, and Phil feels his heart slow down to its resting rhythm. “Debrief at 1700. I expect you there.”

“Yes, sir.”



Somewhat surprisingly, intercourse hadn’t been on the long list of medical tests Phil was put through after he woke up.

They’d raised his heart rate, put him on the treadmill to measure stress, and seemingly invented a number of other procedures to determine his physiological boundaries (of which there seemed to be fewer, now), but his doctors had neglected to even have him jerk off.

Not that Phil had been eager to masturbate while dotted with electrodes that monitored every bodily reaction down to the most insignificant shiver, but it seemed like an oversight.

Fortunately, as a concession to Phil’s recovery, Barton decides to implement his own series of procedures to ensure that Phil’s libido hasn’t been negatively affected by his heart transplant.

The debriefing runs late—it had turned into an impromptu ‘welcome back’ celebration for Phil that even Stark hung around for—and Phil is finally winding his way back to his office through the helicarrier’s passageways, well aware of the near-silent footsteps following him. He leaves the door open, thinking Barton wants to talk, but when he hears the door being secured, Phil knows what’s coming.

He’s caught hints of it in Barton’s gaze when they cross paths and when he sits in Phil’s office to keep him company while he manages the mountain of paperwork generated by Loki’s attempts to destroy New York City. Phil had even seen it coming for months before his death, rain-drenched and staring at one another across the New Mexico night, so he feels prepared now; he has a plan of what to do when Barton strides across the deck and kisses him.

Phil kisses back.

Barton—Clint—is still wearing his mission uniform, a high-tech mix of Kevlar, latex, and neoprene that’s body-warm and solid, worn like an extra layer of muscle and skin. Phil fits his fingers into one of the streamlined grooves that runs down Clint’s back, hauls him closer.

“I thought I’d have to convince you this was a good idea,” Clint says, moving his lips to Phil’s ear. (He was so comfortable having Clint’s voice in his head.)

“I already came to the same conclusion.”

“Of course you did.” Clint pushes him backwards until the back of Phil’s knees hit the desk, mouths reattached.

The reality of kissing Clint is better than he’d imagined, and Phil had imagined plenty. He recalls their early ops together, before Mjolnir fell from the sky, when Phil spent hours coordinating high-risk surveillance missions, listening to Clint relay information over the comms. He’d listen to the sniper’s voice with prurient interest, picturing that mouth swollen and flushed. Knowing better than to act on it, Phil had devoted his time and energy into building one of the best working relationships he’s ever known. Lust became friendship and want turned into trust.

Like dying, it’s another decision Phil refuses to regret.

In a rush of pulse-pounding moments, Phil is braced over his own desk with Clint covering his back, close enough to feel Phil’s heartbeat. Phil’s belt hangs loose, pants undone, and Clint’s hand is shoved beneath his boxers, fisting his cock with a robust grip that is far from teasing. And Phil’s seen Clint’s fingers manipulate a bow flawlessly, but that couldn’t prepare him for the way they feel around him. He’s aware (very, very aware) of Clint’s erection against the back of his thigh, but Clint isn’t grinding forward. As if his own pleasure is insignificant compared to getting Phil off in the most mind-numbing way possible.

Phil vows to give as good as he’s getting. He foresees a lot of broken office furniture and makes a mental note to check into replacements. Sturdier pieces, he adds, hearing an ominous creeeeeak as Clint bends him even further over the desk.

“I missed hearing your voice out there,” Clint whispers as his tongue curls around Phil’s earlobe. “Harder to concentrate when you weren’t watching out for me.”

“I’m glad you made it back.” Phil’s been meaning to say it for the last week. “It was the first thing Fury told me, when I woke up: that you survived.”

Clint squeezes and Phil’s nerves react, sending his body into orgasm. The aftershocks continue to roll through as Clint turns him around and finds his mouth. Though his knees are weak, his heart is pumping fiercely and Phil refuses to wilt against Clint’s body.

They break apart to breathe and Phil’s hands skim down Clint’s chest to where the uniform splits into two pieces. Phil is just getting a feel for the heft and shape of Clint when the sharpshooter grabs his wrists and pins them against the desk.

“You don’t need to—”

Phil cuts him off. “Not a chance, Barton. I died thinking I’d never get to do this, so you’re not going anywhere until I’m satisfied.” He has a second to catch the smile crossing Clint’s face, the lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, before they’re kissing again, Clint letting Phil’s hands wander freely.

They’re off duty; Phil could kiss Clint for hours and unless Miami experiences another wave of attacks, there’s no reason for anyone to interrupt them.

That’s why the knock startles both of them.

“Agent Coulson?” Another knock. “We noticed that your heart rate had spiked…”

Phil regains control of his lungs and calls back, “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” the med tech asks, jiggling the door handle. “I could bring you down to the labs and run some tests.”

“He said he was fine!”

Phil glances over at Clint and smiles as he hears hurried footsteps retreating. Not the way he wanted to break this kind of news, but what is done, is done. Still, there’s no need to let Clint off easily.

“I could have handled that.”

“Definitely.” Clint tilts his head to look down at Phil’s chest. “I didn’t realize you were wearing a monitor.”

Phil pulls his shirt aside to show Clint the monitor, a black digital strip the size of a Band-Aid, placed over his heart. “It must be a live feed. I should have taken it off.”

“Then they would’ve thought you were dead,” Clint says, fingers touching warm skin, “and in that case, they wouldn’t have bothered to knock.”



S.H.I.E.L.D. had run Phil through a battery of physical tests before he was released from the med facilities, but not one of those were as stimulating, or revealing, as an afternoon session with Barton in Stark Tower’s combat training facilities (too elaborate to simply be called ‘gyms’).

Barton invites him over for a round of boxing, knowing Phil is a student of the pugilistic arts.

“Feeling up to this, boss?”

“Get your ass in the ring, Barton,” he says, nudging him in the back with a glove.

They’re both wearing S.H.I.E.L.D. training uniforms—moisture-wicking tanks and shorts made of cool-flow fabric that clings in all the right places, slick enough to prevent an opponent from grabbing hold. Phil wonders if the uniforms have a different intention: teaching agents to fight through distraction. Because he can’t look away from Barton’s trim torso and the cut of his oblique muscles.

The workout is easy at first, warming up as they circle one another. Barton throws a series of quick jabs that Phil has no trouble blocking, and Barton guards against the uppercut Phil sends his way. But it escalates in no time as the endorphins kick in and strengths and weaknesses become more apparent. Barton goes on the offensive, movements sharp and clean, and comes at Phil with a left hook that catches Phil on the jaw.

He bounces back. “Boss?”

“Good,” Phil says, twisting away from Barton’s next attempt and jabbing him in the ribs. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I won’t.” Barton feints to the side and Phil nearly falls for it, planting his feet at the last second and blocking Barton’s right cross. When he smirks, Barton mirrors the expression and raises his eyebrow.

Game on.

The gloves come off, literally, as boxing turns into mixed martial-arts sparring, which devolves into grappling—bare fingers, no padding. The sole objective is to incapacitate your opponent. In English: the goal is getting the other guy flat on his back.

Phil ceases to go easy. The new heart provides him with a burst of energy, like a sustained shot of adrenalin. He’s quick to avoid Barton’s swipes and steady on his feet, watchful for an opening.

“Not too bad, sir,” Barton says after attempting to sweep Phil’s legs out from under him. “I don’t remember you being this good before.”

Keeping his feet, Phil lunges and manages to pin Barton against the ropes. “This heart didn’t give me superpowers,” he says, pressing his heaving chest against Barton’s. “It’s just a heart.”

“Maybe.” Barton shoves him away with little aggression. “Tony could build you a suit—”

“I have suits. Mine are more comfortable.”

Phil holds up his hand and beckons the sniper to try again.

Those who think dancing is the most intimate way for two people to get close without having sex, have never sparred with their partners. Wrestling, touching, nothing off limits. Playing for physical dominance as you compete against and respect your partner’s skill.

Phil’s blood is running hot at the thought of Clint’s strength—no enhancements or powers beyond his training—and the way his own has adapted to match it. He’s trying not to let the close press of Barton’s body distract him, but it’s a tall order. His fingers slip around Barton’s elbow, up the back of his arm, attempting to twist him off balance, and Barton responds by winding his ankle around the back of Phil’s calf and tripping him, rolling with him as he performs a smooth take-down.

He should have seen that coming, but give credit where credit is due, and all that.

“Nicely done,” he says, staring up into heated blue eyes, and is promptly silenced by Barton’s lips crushing down on his. It’s only then that Phil realizes he’s half-hard in his shorts, and Clint’s trying to rub one out against his thigh.

The endorphins flooding throughout his body have an immediate response to that, funneling blood down to Phil’s dick and leaving him light-headed.

But then he remembers where they are. More specifically, whose building they’re in.

“Jarvis.”

“Yes, Agent Coulson?”

“Full privacy mode.”

“Switching all monitoring systems off.”

The Avengers may know about their relationship, but there’s no way Phil will let this ‘home movie’ debut on Stark’s megascreen the next time the billionaire decides to host a party. Phil has nothing to be ashamed of, and Clint definitely doesn’t, but he wouldn’t be able to stand Captain Rogers blushing every time they’re in the same room together.

“Smart man,” Clint says, and then drags Phil to the stool in the corner of the ring, pushing him onto it. “How’s the heart? Good?”

“Are you planning to give me a check-up?”

Clint actually chuckles, shyly hiding his smile against Phil’s thigh and shaking his head.

“Then stop asking about my heart. It’s good, Barton,” he says. And softer, “I’m right here.”

Clint’s silent, but he unties Phil’s shorts, forces his fingers beneath the elastic of the jock he’s wearing and dragging them along sweaty channels of muscle and skin. Phil’s breath catches in his throat when Clint kisses him low on his (regrettably softer, thanks to being bed-ridden for a month) stomach and scents his way down below his shorts. The feeling is glorious, the smells around them mouth-watering, and Phil wants too much to tell Clint to stop.

So he doesn’t.

Taking Phil’s words, well, to heart, Clint doesn’t ease him into the blowjob. Clears a path for his mouth and sucks Phil down like he’s more comfortable having something thick and solid in his mouth than not. Lips rolling up and down his cock, saliva and sweat making a mess at the base, but Clint noses through it when he goes deep and exhales.

Blowjobs aren’t listed as a specialized skill in Clint’s S.H.I.E.L.D. file, but they ought to be. With a few encrypted notes tacked on about how amazing and uninhibited he is (only with the right partner, he hopes). His precision is deadly here, too; Phil wouldn’t be surprised if Clint came into this scenario having researched Phil’s cock and all of its vulnerabilities. Maybe he’d practiced…

“God…” Phil shivers at the whisper-tease of teeth along his shaft when Clint lets him slip almost all the way out of his mouth, lips sealed around his glans, tongue flicking its way across his slit.

Clearly, Clint is insisting that he focus in the here and now.

Clint’s palms are surprisingly cool on his thighs, thumbs stroking circles into his skin, and it’s an appropriate sensation to focus on when Phil feels himself sliding too close to the edge. His hands slip over Clint’s shirt, unable to fist the material as an anchor, so he pushes his fingers into Clint’s hair, short cut rasping against his knuckles.

Sagging back against the corner post, Phil pulls Clint further onto his cock, no resistance telegraphed in the archer’s posture. He submits to Phil’s thrusting, encourages it by pulling Phil’s legs tighter around his shoulders.

“Clint,” he moans, riding the wave of pleasure that crawls up his spine and settles in his heart, fit to bursting. “Clint, I’m—”

He never gets a chance to finish. Clint reacts quickly, letting Phil’s cock drop from his mouth and wrapping his hand around it as Phil comes all over his stomach where his shirt’s been rucked up.

“Gonna fall asleep on me, boss?” Clint asks when Phil hasn’t moved after a few minutes, perfectly content to laze between the solidity of the post as his back and Clint between his legs. “Or are you coming down here to take care of this?”

‘This’ being Clint’s fully aroused dick, stretching the limits of his training shorts. Phil’s heart is inexplicably linked to his desires; it gives a mighty lurch in his chest and sends blood into his sated limbs, propelling him into motion. They topple back onto the mat, Phil stretching to find Clint’s mouth and lick his own taste right out of it.

“Guess that’s a yes,” Clint says, and then opens his body to Phil’s counter-attack.



He humors the S.H.I.E.L.D. appointed shrink twice a week during his scheduled appointments.

In today’s session, Phil’s thoughts are occupied with the Avengers’ last mission, mentally cataloging a handful of things that went wrong and drawing up a counter-list of solutions.

“And there’s the issue of your guilt,” the pants-suited psychiatrist is saying.

“I’ve dealt with that,” Phil tells her without looking up from his tablet. His conversation with Barton had shaken loose his guilt, and more disappears every day. When he passes his sniper in the passageways of the helicarrier, or sees Barton in briefings or on the range, there’s a small nod of acknowledgement. A question returned with a gesture of thanks. Long stares that are translated when they’re alone in Coulson’s office.

“Phil—”

“Agent Coulson.” His first name sounds strange coming from someone acting in an official capacity.

“Agent Coulson,” she corrects herself, “It’s my job to evaluate you for duty. Going through a near-death experience would disturb even the most dedicated agents. You’re coming along well, but I can’t clear you for mission-status until certain issues are resolved.”

“I’ve been active for the last two Avengers ops.”

She stares at him. “Who cleared that?”

I did. No one else is capable of dealing with a team of super-egos, an introverted genius, deadly loners, and Rogers. And this is my job.

“The director,” he says, because repeating out loud what he is thinking wouldn’t get the shrink to release him any faster. “I’m sure he’ll confirm it if you want to contact him.”

Phil doesn’t avoid her gaze despite the fact that his tablet is flashing with unread messages and he still needs to go over some new tech specifications before this afternoon’s meeting with Stark and Dr. Banner. He looks dead-on at the psychiatrist, his multi-million dollar heart steady in its rhythm. He lets her see that he was being truthful about the guilt, but he doesn’t want her to ask how he was able to deal with it.

He employs a distraction.

“However, I’m having trouble sorting out some of the interpersonal relationships on my team.”

He’s not. Well, he is, but these days Phil just tells them to suck it up and get along. His days of dying for their cooperation are over.

“As a matter of fact,” she says, “I’d given that some thought, given the range of personalities you’re working with…”

Phil knows he’s off the hook now. No one passes up a chance to share their opinion on the Avengers. Leaving her to dissect Tony Stark’s narcissism and how it’s affecting the rest of the team and, by association, world peace, Phil looks down at his tablet and opens a message from Barton. One sentence, straight to the point (as if there’s any other way), asking Phil to come down to the lab and check out the new arrow-tips Stark’s been developing for his arsenal.

He has plenty of time to swing by the lab before his thirty-six hour scheduled leave from the helicarrier. Then he’ll catch the jet to New York City, grab something from the diner down the block from the seldom-used apartment in Lower Manhattan that’s rented in his name, and sit on the couch pretending he doesn’t miss the constant hum of the carrier’s engines. The thump-and-drone that pumps through the helicarrier’s metal skeleton reminds Phil of his new synchronic heartbeat, steady and unshakeable; it’s remarkably comforting.

And if Barton decides to share the downtime with him, maybe Phil won’t have to pretend.

When Phil’s finally released from the session—his last according to the paperwork signed in his hands—he makes a note on his tablet to ask Director Fury about eliminating S.H.I.E.L.D.’s personnel psych department. If nothing else, they could repurpose the office space for additional weapons storage.



Barton agrees to join Phil on leave, and by 7:30 they’re eating Italian on a sidewalk in Manhattan. Instead of missions and intel, they talk about visiting the sights in foreign cities and movies they want to see but will never get around to watching (at least until Stark gets his hands on the DVDs months before they’re released and arranges ‘movie night’ in his penthouse).

Clint’s in civilian clothes: leather jacket worn like a mantle across his shoulders, t-shirt clean but rumpled, and his jeans are fraying at his feet and around the pockets. Seeing him like this, Phil is suddenly very glad he didn’t die two months ago.

They eat like regular guys—guys who haven’t fought battles in this very borough. As if Clint’s bow and Phil’s planning never saved the lives of the people sitting around them.

It’s nice.

It’s even nicer when Clint walks with him to the apartment, sunlight giving way to the artificial neon glow of the city at night. Once they’re inside, there is nothing to see that can’t wait, so Phil leads Clint straight to the bedroom.

“Straight down to business, huh?”

“We have”—Phil consults his watch—“thirty-two hours left before we’re scheduled to go back. If you want to watch TV, have a drink, or read a book, be my guest.”

“Nah.” Clint shrugs out of his jacket and Phil considers telling him to put it back on so that he can peel it off. “What I want is for you to fuck me on this bed. Everything else can wait.”

Phil had wondered how tonight would go, what positions they’d end up in, but now that Clint’s thrown it out there, his reel is stuck on the image of Clint, on his hands and knees, throwing himself back into the cradle of Phil’s hips. But there’s a lot Phil intends to accomplish before they get to Point B, starting with getting Clint completely naked, something he’s been denied until now.

Clint’s idea of stripping is a two-man activity; he returns the favor by tearing into Phil’s suit with an enthusiasm that says he’s pictured this scene before. Thankfully, Phil own plenty of suits so he won’t mourn the loss of one jacket (ripped at the shoulder), an unremarkable tie (snagged by Clint’s teeth), his dress shirt (useless without buttons), and a pair of pants (zipper torn from its track). All sacrificed to Clint’s zealous exploration. Phil takes greater care with Clint’s shirt and jeans—they flatter his chest and ass too much to ruin.

Naked, in bed, Clint rolls beneath Phil and offers his mouth, smiling as Phil swoops down to claim it.

He’s got a birds-eye view of Clint’s skin against navy sheets: flush spreading between his collarbones, stomach taut as if he could jackknife and reverse their positions at any moment. Phil wouldn’t complain if he did, but he’s not wasting his opportunity. Reluctantly breaking their kiss, Clint lets him slide down the bed, hands ever attentive where they splay across Phil’s back, curve around his neck or card through his hair. Clint moans and growls and gives filthy praise for the things Phil’s doing, more vocal the lower Phil goes.

“Knew you’d be this good,” Clint groans as Phil’s bobbing deep on his cock, acclimatizing himself to the stretch at the back of his throat. “All those missions, I just wanted your mouth.”

Phil could be put off by such blatant objectification, but, hey, Clint’s not the only guilty party. The way Clint’s touching his cheek, opening pleasure-shot eyes to focus on Phil’s expression, reveals the affection between them. And then there’s what Clint says next.

“Never thought I’d get to have you.”

He pulls off Clint’s cock, catching his own saliva on his bottom lip, and stroking so there’s no gap in sensation.

“You do,” Phil says, smoothing his cheek along Clint’s inner thigh. Teases with warm breath and mouths sentiments he’s not ready for Clint to hear. But he shares his secrets with Clint’s skin for the time being.

Clint all but melts back into Phil’s bed for a moment before his muscles seize. He pushes Phil’s hand away from his dick, groaning, “You need to fuck me, right now, before I—” until Phil shuts him up with another kiss.

Condoms and lube are retrieved from Clint’s bag. Prepping is a necessary delay, rushed and frenzied as Clint’s hardly patient enough to lie still and submit to Phil stretching him, but Phil vows to revisit the issue when matters (i.e. the way his cock is throbbing in response to the sounds Clint is making) are less urgent. Phil will be able to hold him down and see just how strung out he’ll get with Phil’s fingers slick and stuffed in his ass.

He’ll do it someday when Clint’s not cursing, “Just fucking do it, Phil. Don’t tease me. Do it, do it…”

He slides into Clint as much to shut him up as to appease his own needs, no longer able to breathe unless he’s doing it with Clint’s body clenched around him, forcing the air from his lungs. Phil’s tucked up behind Clint as far as he can be, with his entire length sheathed and warm. Feels like his heartbeat is centered in his latex-wrapped cock.

“God, you fill me so damn good,” Clint says, arching his back. “Feels fucking amazing.”

Phil sees the perfect shape of a bow in Clint’s spine, draws his fingers down individual vertebra until he’s regained enough control to start thrusting. Clint doesn’t wait for Phil to find his mark, reaching back to curl his hand around Phil’s thigh and pull him up and in, delivering a sharp smack to his prostate that sends his body into a spasm.

“Fuck, Phil.”

“Easy,” Phil tells him. “I want to take my time with you.”

It’s a promise Clint holds him to.

Like a true marksman, Clint’s got a bead on Phil’s reactions, knows when he’s about to go off, and never lets them settle into one rhythm for too long. They change positions more than once, and every switch chips further away at Phil’s resistance until he’s nothing but raw desperation, uncharacteristically reckless with his thoughts and expressions. The secrets he’d whispered earlier into Clint’s skin are leaking out, told to the curve of his ear and the upper bow of his lip—no way for Clint to mistake their meaning.

Clint never slips and, depending on their position, holds Phil in his capable embrace or goes loose and lets Phil carry his weight. Tonight they’ve stepped beyond the roles of supervisor and subordinate; now they’re partners.

He’s leaning back on folded knees, Clint spread wide around his thighs and rocking down. Phil feels the coil and spring in Clint’s muscles, knows he’s getting ready to tip them backwards and ride Phil like a thoroughbred, but Phil’s at the end of his tether, ready to fall. His pulse kicks up and provides the extra push he needs to drop Clint onto his back, sending his legs akimbo on either side of Phil’s torso.

“Holy shit,” Clint breathes out. “You’ve been holding back.”

“Should I not?”

Underneath him, Clint writhes around on his cock. “Fuck, no. Never.”

Long, fluid strokes into tight heat, Clint clenching up and digging furrows into Phil’s back with his nails. Both slack-jawed and panting, their lips unable to connect as Phil rides into Clint’s body in a rhythm that doesn’t abate, kicked-up and fast, no chance to slow his hips down before he’s coming. He has to pull out before he faints with the intensity, ripping the condom off and letting the cool air calm his nerves.

Realizing he’s been left behind, Clint whines and clamps his legs around Phil.

“Your fingers”—Clint gasps, restless on the sheets—“put your fingers back in me.” Phil obeys, knowing two fingers make a poor substitute for the girth of his cock, but they’re more precise, waggling back and forth over Clint’s prostate until he’s bucking against Phil and coming.

Slick stains all over Clint’s stomach; Phil drags his fingernails through lukewarm come, circles Clint’s navel and settles with his palm over Clint’s belly. Clint leans up and takes his mouth, slow and gentle, sweeping his tongue back and forth until their breathing evens out.

“I think we should go again,” Clint says, “just to be sure.”

“The mind is willing,” Phil tells him, nudging them both towards the pillows, “but the body…”

Limbs taut in a full stretch, Clint curls his hands through the slated headboard. “The body will catch up.”

For the first time, Clint doesn’t ask about his heart. Instead, he rolls over drowsily—a nap will do them good if they’re going for repeat performances—and sets his hand over Phil’s chest.

Phil’s happy to report, silently, that his new heart is doing just fine.



Tony invites the team to have dinner at Stark Tower, an almost useless gesture seeing as the majority of the team keep suites on the upper floors. Including Clint.

Phil is punctual, which means he’s the first to arrive. The others haven’t returned from training, briefings, or in Romanoff’s case, a solo mission to blow off some steam. Stark walks into the kitchen ten minutes later and finds Phil talking to Jarvis, examining a holo-print of new security measures. (The whole attacked-by-a-demi-god incident had revealed several weaknesses in the tower’s defenses.)

“Stark.”

“Robocop.”

Phil frowns.

“Oh my god,” he says in a rush, “it even pouts like the old Coulson. I didn’t know S.H.I.E.L.D. had this kind of life-like replication technology.” Stark steps up just shy of Phil’s personal space. “Hey, can I take you apart later?”

“Nice try, Tony.”

Phil turns to see Clint enter the kitchen, hair wet and spiked from a recent shower, no doubt taken after an intense workout session. He wonders if Jarvis stored a recording of that.

Stark looks back and forth between them, palms up in a ‘hands-off’ gesture. “Look, I know you were disappointed things didn’t work out with Jarvis, but Barton…really? Where are your standards?”

“Very high, as usual, Stark.” Phil smiles, enjoying the expression on Stark’s face when he does. Clint hooks his chin over Phil’s shoulder and he decides that, yes, he can be comfortably affectionate like this, when they’re away from base and off the clock.

Stark finally rolls his eyes. “Call me Tony, or I’m giving your food to Steve.”

Dinner is pizza and breadsticks homemade and cooked in-house by the crew of Tony’s favorite by-the-slice joint. Pepper Potts is there, looking phenomenal in old jeans and a fitted shirt, as are Betty Ross and Jane Foster. (They’re dates, Phil realizes, which leads him to the conclusion that, yes, he’s Clint’s date.) Jarvis puts on a digital show of blue-prints and schematics for the outfitting of Stark Tower as a fully functional and Avenger-friendly headquarters.

Thor is ecstatic, but then Phil’s seen him overreact for a cappuccino; Bruce and Betty are making notes on their tablets, passing them back and forth; Romanoff and Rogers, huddled together on a smaller sofa, are talking with hand gestures that remind Phil of combat training.

It’s good to see the team getting along and interacting cohesively (for the most part). S.H.I.E.L.D. has compiled dossiers on at least a dozen other Avenger-sized threats out there, up to an including another genius inventor who fancies himself a sorcerer, and whose ego would run circles around Tony Stark’s.

There’s no telling when the Avengers will be needed.

Phil likes the team as it is, and is doubly glad Fury decided against recruiting others for the time being. Obviously, Phil would go where the director asked him to, but he hadn’t been looking forward to the recon involved in recruiting a pair of specialists codenamed after insects.

“And I was thinking we outfit one floor for special occasions,” Tony’s telling them. “Possibly with a champagne bar and hot tubs out on the balcony.”

Phil’s not the only one staring.

“Hot tubs. Can I get a show of hands?” Tony looks at the group. “Jarvis, make a note that Thor. Dr. Foster, and Barton are the only ones allowed in my new hot tub-slash-champagne suite. Add that the others are sissies.”

“I’ll sneak you in,” Clint tells Phil later while they’re all marathoning Christopher Nolan’s Batman series, up to and including Dark Knight Rises (which Tony already has a theatrical copy of).

“I’m not sure I’ll be comfortable soaking in one of Tony’s ‘special occasion’ hot tubs.”

“Mmm.” Clint turns and hums against Phil’s ear. “They’re good for sore muscles and relaxation.”

“So is sleep.”

Clint chuckles. “Buzzkill.”

“What did I tell you about codenames?”

“Hey!” Tony hits them with a handful of popcorn. “No canoodling on my furniture. Jarvis, add that to the list of penthouse rules.”

Pepper vetoes that rule fairly quickly, considering Tony’s slouched against her side with a bowl of popcorn between them, and Clint doesn’t move out of Phil’s space. Across the room, Steve’s smiling at the two of them and Phil swears he sees something cross Natasha’s face that could pass as a smirk; he’d need Jarvis to pull up a replay.

Yes, Phil admits to himself as he leans against Clint, his heart is doing just fine.



FIN.