Chapter 7
"I want to talk to you about Ronald Slater," Phil said casually from his side of the bed, and Clint immediately stopped moving his hand under the sheets.
"I can't believe you brought up that name while we're doing this," Clint complained. His cheeks bore pillow marks, his hair was sticking wildly on end, and the pout on his lips was, in Phil's opinion, adorable.
"While we're doing what?" Phil asked, purposefully bland and with one raised eyebrow.
Clint rolled onto his side, the rumpled white sheets bunched around his waist. Sunlight through the window blinds striped his bare torso in gold and shadow. Beneath the sheets he was gloriously nude. Phil, at least, had pulled on his favorite Hawkeye T-shirt before venturing out of their bedroom for the Sunday newspaper and the breakfast tray. The newspaper was currently spread across his lap, and they'd finished off their bagels with only a little cream cheese still smeared on Clint's chin and a few crumbs in Phil's lap.
Clint's hand moved up and down again inside his thigh, fingers curved against skin. "While you're ignoring me in favor of the editorial pages."
"I like the editorial pages," Phil said, adjusting his reading glasses. He hated wearing anything on his eyes, but Clint said squinting was giving him crow's feet wrinkles and Phil was vain enough to want to stave that off as long as possible. "If you need help, I'll get you some lotion."
"That crap doesn't help."
"I warned you not to roll around drunk in that field."
"Tony and I were making snow angels."
"In the summertime."
"For a good cause!" Clint protested. "Who else is going to throw a party for Natasha and Bruce's one month anniversary? How were we supposed to know there was poison ivy?"
"Hmmm," Phil said, and scanned above the fold. He was fairly sure he knew which shadow government agency had funded today's hawkish editorial, and wished they'd hired better ghostwriters. "I wonder how you could possibly have known. Could it have been the super-smart handler telling you so?"
Clint put his head on Phil's thigh and looked at him through long lashes. "Super-smart handler?"
Phil scratched the side of Clint's head with his free hand. "Super-smart senior agent?"
Clint kissed Phil's fingers.
"Super-smart boyfriend?" Phil asked.
"My super-smart boyfriend," Clint agreed. "Warned us not to go rolling in the moonlit field of poison ivy. We should have listened to you. Would you like me to show you just how much I appreciate your super smartness?"
Clint's mouth moved dangerously close to Phil's groin before Phil caught on and swatted him lightly with the newspaper.
"You're trying to distract me from the topic of Ronald Slater," Phil said.
Clint rolled away and sighed. "Because why would I want to talk about him ever? He's a dick. So what. SHIELD is full of assholes, in case you haven't noticed."
"I've noticed." Phil put the paper aside in favor of his coffee cup. "I don't think you always notice, however."
"I notice everything," Clint said. "I just don't care."
"You don't care if he leaves you freezing and soaking wet overnight when he could have extracted you safely?"
Clint slid him a sideways look. "Where'd you hear that?"
"Iron Man Pizza Delivery Inc."
"I hope Tony's got poison ivy on his balls," Clint said vehemently.
Phil sipped his coffee. He was tempted to say that Tony hadn't gone around spreading information about that night. Natasha had overheard him talking it, had quizzed him in her own subtle and not-so-subtle way, and then pulled the mission and weather reports.
"I know what you're thinking," Clint said. "You think I'm bad at prioritizing myself over other people or mission parameters."
Phil hummed a little.
"You wouldn't want me to make myself the center of the universe, would you? " Clint asked.
"You are the center of mine," Phil said simply, and Clint gave him a long look They both knew Clint's history of abandonment and neglect by people who should have prioritized him--his parents, his teachers, the social workers who rotated in and out of his early years. It was hard for Clint to believe anyone truly would stay with him season after season, year after year. They'd been together almost four years now, but Phil thought they could stay together for forty years and Clint would still have a tiny voice in his head warning him against calling attention to himself, of asking for help, of expecting people to give him what he needed.
Clint finally looked away to the ceiling. "Slater's a dick, but it's not like I don't know how to disobey orders or walk away if I have to. I can put up with a lot of shit when it comes to SHIELD."
"But you shouldn't have to. You're an Avenger."
"Yeah, that world doesn't exist," Clint said. "I don't know if you've noticed, but there's a lot of people jealous they're not on the team. Resentful. Or the opposite. They suck up to be my friend just because they want Thor's autograph or a selfie with the big Green Guy."
Phil put his cup aside and slid down further on the pillows so that he and Clint were side-by-side, gazing upward at the high white ceiling. "People want selfies with the Hulk?"
"A lot of people."
"More than Steve?"
"More than Steve and Tony combined."
Phil spared a moment to be indignant that Captain America was not the number one choice of selfie-seeking civilians everywhere. But then he rolled against Clint and kissed one sweet, bare shoulder.
"You're slotted for that assignment in Ghent next week with Slater, while I'm away," Phil said. "I get that you don't want people to think you're pulling strings or asking for special favors, even though you regularly risk your life against killer robots and crazy supervillains and anything else the Avengers go up against. But promise me that you won't let him pull crap you wouldn't allow him to pull with me or Natasha."
The side of Clint's mouth curved up. "Oh, that's sneaky."
"I'm your super-smart senior agent handler boyfriend," Phil said. "It's my job to be sneaky. Promise?"
Clint looked thoughtful. "You got any incentives?"
"Like what?"
Clint took Phil's hands and showed him exactly what he meant. Incentives were offered, and a promise made.
But the assignment in Ghent went to hell anyway.