"Gold stars and headpats all around," Phil announces, as he pulls open the door to the surveillance van, giving it a good yank because the whole vehicle is a shitbox, on grudging loan from local PD. He'll be glad to get back to SHIELD's smooth, sleek, high budget maintenance. "I'm supposed to tell you that our records will show that we've all been very good boys and girls."
It's hot in the van. Stale. The air smells like sweat and vaguely of smoke and recently discharged weapons, but mostly like half his team's been sitting in an enclosed space for hours, breathing each other's air.
"It came with that smell," Kelley says, reading Phil's expression, and not moving from his place on the low seat against one wall. He's slouched with his back against the metal, legs stretched out in front of him and SHIELD jacket hanging casually open. "If it was us, it would just smell like Helicarrier in here."
Like machine grease, Phil thinks. Faint whiff of jets and food and cleaner circulated by the closed air system, despite the filters, creating an ambiance that's a mix of garage and airport.
"It's growing on me, though," Kelley goes on. "Police Academy was going to be my first choice."
"We can hand you over with the van if you like," Phil tells him, still standing in the open doorway instead of stepping inside where he'd have to hunch to clear the low ceiling, and then keep ducking to avoid hitting his head on the equipment and brackets fastened about the space, making it even more cramped. Across from Kelley, Clint's sitting on the floor, with the toes of his boots propped on the support bar running under the bench, elbows resting easily on his knees. Relaxed, except for the way he's got the fingers of one hand in his own hair, making small restless movements, his head ducked. Kelley's got a little notepad out, which means the two of them are playing endless rounds of tic-tac-toe, coming to a draw every time. For no logical reason, it annoys the hell out of Phil, but he's refrained from saying anything, and just frowns as Kelley passes the pen back to Clint, fingers brushing for a moment as Clint takes it and turns his attention to the pad, studying the board like they haven't got the game down to a ritual.
"I think I'd miss our talks, sir," Kelley says, dry, watching Phil watch Clint.
Clint's uniform jacket is closed, only undone at the throat, and with his arms in the way Phil can only just make out the (n) stitched over his chest pocket. It's clearly bullshit, considering he's been assigned to a dom, but the label is more administrative than anything, to keep anyone from treating Clint as a sub who isn't specifically cleared to. A buffer and a warning, now that Clint's doing some field work and not enclosed in the relative safety of an office floor.
The pen passes back. Phil pretends not to see it, even as Kelley swears and draws another board. Clint's head dips. Phil pretends not to see that either, or hear the impatient huff that has nothing to do with the stupid game he's playing with Kelley.
"We'll get you back to base," Phil promises. "As soon as we get the all-clear." Considering the good jobs have come down the line, it shouldn't be much longer. Just a last check that everything is secure and everyone is really alright, or to let medical clear out any injuries, even though as far as Phil's aware, it had been a clean operation. "Hang in there."
Clint nods. Barely acknowledging it. It gives Phil the urge to do something reassuring--pat his shoulder or offer praise--but he tamps the feeling down and lets Kelley deal with Clint, the way Phil had assigned him to do. It had been a purposeful move to separate the lines of authority--dom and friend from handler and field leader from medical--until Clint really gets the concept of boundaries and a chain of command. Until then, it's as much Phil's job to refrain from unnecessary contact and casual overtures as it is to command and coordinate.
It's another hour before they're let go, and not even back to SHIELD, but to a personnel carrier parked on an airport backlot and made to look like a cargo plane under repair, with blue tarps half draped over a wing and one side, and crates on wooden pallets stacked around, to obscure the entry. It wouldn't be a bad disguise if there weren't two other planes set up in a similar style. Too many and too large for the small airport and the city it's serving. Suspicious as hell, if anyone stops to think about it.
"Home sweet home," Phil announces, tossing his field bag onto a counter. The on-board quarters are unexpectedly decent, with a small common area complete with a kitchenette and single electric burner to cook on. A couple sleeping areas open off from it, more nook than bunkroom, and on one side a narrow door leads to an office and sleeping space for Phil, giving him the precious luxury of privacy. Clint, like he always does, gets busy stowing the fold-away table to get to the bunk built into the bulkhead above it. An auxiliary space that makes Phil think of overhead storage and that his team has mostly used that way, unless they had add-ons for special missions or a rookie they wanted to give an extra hard time. Phil's not sure if Clint gravitates to it because there's no competition for it, or because the bunk areas are too claustrophobic for him. If nothing else, the extra bunk is open to the whole common area, if Clint doesn't pull the privacy screen.
"It's nice to be back," Kelley agrees, hurling his own bag into one of the dark nooks, not bothering with where it lands. "I was getting tired of my apartment."
He's too green to be complaining about living on missions, but they don't have any old hands on the team at the moment to adjust his attitude for him, and Phil prefers the crabbing to fresh-faced eagerness, even without the experience to back up and justify it.
"I miss the cafeteria," Clint offers, casting a dubious look towards the kitchen area. The cabinet contains a pot, a pan, and a few plates, minimalist as a camping trip and with about as much variety in dinner options. There's a shelf that will be stocked with easy to fix, non-perishable meals--boxed soups and canned noodles, maybe some freeze dried fruit and candy bars--and while the airport has a coffee shop, Phil's sure it's going to be full of agents already, in plain clothes and watching their perimeter. Practically annexing the only source of real coffee and a hot meal that doesn't come from a box.
"You need to get a place," Kelley says, too loud. Almost shouting from the bunkroom, even though it's just around a corner and has no door. "Tell him he should get a place, sir."
Clint's not getting a place. Clint is SHIELD's, or maybe Nick's by extension, and both of them would like him where they can keep an eye on him. Phil plays along anyway, absently saying, "Get a place, Hawkeye," while he's busy unfolding the office and folding it back up into a tiny bedroom.
Clint huffs. Phil can tell he's genuinely annoyed but pretending not to be, the same way they're all pretending that giving him bullshit orders is just teasing and banter. The fact that Clint's humoring them is already improvement. A sign that he's learning to filter the difference between orders and just any shit a dom might tell him. Phil can tell he's not happy about having to do it and not happy with them for making him. His jaw is set in a way that means he's gritting his teeth, and whatever he's doing with his gear, he's way too intent on it, head down, eyes fixed.
"Then you can start flushing rent money down the can like the rest of us," Phil adds, defusing the order. He yanks his tie off and undoes his top button before rotating his shoulders, stretching them out before he decides to get rid of his shirt entirely and change into a t-shirt. He could use a shower, and the rest of them need a shower, but Phil's pretty sure SHIELD won't want four teams of agents blowing what exists of their cover trying to compete for hot water. If the planes are prepped, they might be able to swing a thirty second a piece rinse-down in the tiny on-board bathroom, but that almost doesn't seem worth the trouble, considering Phil had spent most of the op on comms in an air-conditioned command center. Outside the office, he can hear Clint moving around, shifting gear and maybe starting to get cleaned up, and a bit more distantly, the rest of the team arguing over bunk space and complaining about shower access. A hubbub that fades out slowly into occasional mutters and the odd curse. Someone grumbling about something. By the time Phil emerges to at least wash his face and maybe eat something, the plane is dark outside of rows of dim safety lights, leading the way to the exits and marking fire extinguishers and escape gear.
The kitchen looks clean and the tiny sink is empty and dry, which means no one's eaten, but just changed and crashed. Phil can hear someone snoring from one of the bunk areas, a deep rumble-snort that he doesn't recognize and that means someone from another team's been bunked with them. "That's going to be annoying," he says, nodding in the direction of the sound, when he notices Clint awake and watching him. The table is still folded up and latched in place, leaving a space Phil can step into, to rest an elbow on the edge of Clint's bunk, leaning against the wall. "I know I said we were heading back to base," he starts. "And now we're stuck in this sardine can." Most likely, SHIELD was going to start flying teams out over the course of the night and next day. Staggering their exit to be as unobtrusive as possible, as if their whole operation hadn't involved a firefight and a half burnt down city block.
"We could transfer to clean-up," Phil muses. "Sit around coming up with cover stories. Invent the occasional news report."
Clint snorts. "Maybe after I get a place," he says. It's prickly, for Clint. Phil's not sure if that's his personality coming through, or if he's just tired and strung out. Phil smiles in case it's the first, but if it's the latter, there's not much they can do about it, stacked on top of each other and with unfamiliar agents in their space.
And not much Phil could do about it anyway. Not personally. Not without renegotiating clearance that would take time anyway and, frankly, is probably best left as is. He doesn't think Clint appreciates SHIELD's concern, because his expression stays flat, the corner of his mouth twitched up in a cynical smile.
"Or we put it on rush when we get home," Phil says. "Your call."
Clint makes a low humming noise in acknowledgment, but it might as well be another snort. Phil tries a smile. "Get some sleep."
There's no answer, but Clint rustles around obediently, making a show of settling in, even though he'd obviously made himself comfortable long before Phil had come back to disturb him. Phil ignores it to go rummage around the kitchen area, looking for something easy and not too repulsive, aware the whole time of Clint watching him while pretending to be going back to sleep, one arm folded under his head to prop it up for a better, but believably unintentional viewing angle.
Phil pushes back the temptation to sigh, then tries to make it sound like it's about the bag of vacuum-packed soup he'd have to find a bowl or mug for, to nuke it warm in. "Or you could forget the apartment," he says, waving the foil bag at Clint, letting on that he's not buying the pretense. "It's pretty much like this anyway, except I'd know where I had scissors."
"I'm not sure I believe that, sir," Clint says, then clarifies, "I've seen your office."
Phil pauses in his attempt to tear the soup packet open to look at him, surprised that Clint's joking with him, then laughs a little and turns his attention back to the soup. There's no little pre-cut notch to start a tear from. It's a terrible choice to stock a field jet with. "I'd say an apartment's got the upside of no one stealing your office supplies."
Clint laughs a little, and shifts around, settling onto his back. When Phil looks over, he's looking at the bulkhead above him, one hand raised to poke at something. Maybe a seam or some numbering on the panel. He's not bothering to keep an eye on Phil's movements, yawning at his little stretch of personal ceiling, and Phil hadn't realized how constant his watchfulness was until it was suddenly relaxed. Maybe he'd let his guard down with Kelley like this, but now that Phil's thinking about it, he's not sure he's seen that, either.
"You want to split some soup?" Phil asks, holding the packet up again, then putting it down on a counter to find a knife and a couple of bowls. "I'm sure it'll taste as bad as that cafeteria food you're missing."
Clint laughs again, just a snort, and lets his arm fall away from whatever he'd been poking at. "Sure," he says. "You want help?"
Phil's pretty sure he can handle finding a couple of microwaveable containers, but he picks the soup packet up again to toss it into Clint's bunk. Just a gentle lob that Clint fumbles in the cramped space. It hits him in the ribs, then falls to the thin mattress. "Aiming, not catching, huh?" Phil says, as Clint feels around for it, then holds it up to examine.
"Fuck you, sir," he says, without heat and tries to tear the top off the same way Phil had. The material doesn't give. "Jesus," he says, frowning at it and putting it closer to his face in the dim light. "Who picks these things?"
"There's some bars of something," Phil offers, but he, at least, wants something hot. "And instant coffee."
"Now you're talking," Clint says, and starts to climb out of the bunk. His exit is sort of ungraceful, but Phil doesn't comment, because at least it's quiet and that's already more than a lot of agents would bother with, whole team sleeping around them or not. "Any sink water I can nuke?"
Phil starts to raise an eyebrow, then stifles the urge. Maybe Kelley's new sardonic attitude is coming to him by way of Clint, which isn't exactly the direction of influence Phil had been hoping for, even if it's made Kelley marginally more tolerable. "There's some mugs somewhere," Phil directs, even though Clint's already rummaging for them.
He finds a knife while he's at it, and hands it over to Phil, to deal with soup and bowls while he gets hot water arranged. The microwave beeps after a minute and Clint pops the door open, feels the mugs and throws it on for another minute, watching as Phil pours thick, condensed soup out of the bag, then squeezes the remainder out, trying to get even volume and consistency into both bowls. Clint trades him a spoon for two sachets of coffee, and tears them open to shake into the mugs when the microwave beeps again.
Phil adds water to the bowls, stirs, then hands them to Clint to heat once he's done with the mugs.
"Not bad, right?" Clint says, as Phil tries a sip of coffee. It's terrible, but just the expected level of terrible. It's not like there's a lot of ways to screw up dumping premeasured coffee crystals into hot water.
"Not bad," Phil agrees.
Clint nods, but doesn't drink. He holds his mug for a bit, then puts it back down when the microwave timer goes off and pulls the bowls out. He stirs them both into something resembling an even texture, then pushes one down the counter towards Phil before picking the other up and immediately starts shoveling food into his face.
"Not bad?" Phil asks.
"Godawful," Clint says, around a mouthful, not really slowing down. With the smell of food filling the cabin, Phil's suddenly feeling his empty stomach too, and he'd done a lot less running around than the others. He almost expects them to wake up at the first whiff of even instant, SHIELD ration soup, but there's no movement from the sleeping areas, just the occasional snore or grunt.
The soup is, as promised, pretty horrible. But it's hot and it's food, so on those merits alone, Phil decides he can't complain. They stand there in the small kitchen area, leaning against the narrow counter, eating in silence. "Not drinking that coffee?" Phil asks, when Clint's scraping around the bottom of his bowl, still without having touched the mug again.
"Huh?" Clint asks, then looks over like he's forgotten about it. "Oh." He gives it a little push, towards Phil. "You want? Jason thinks it makes things worse."
It takes Phil a second to place the name, and this time he doesn't suppress his dubious tone. "You mean Kelley? You two on a first name basis now?"
Clint shrugs, not looking up from his bowl. "I didn't realize we weren't meant to be," he says, giving it a last scrape, and shoving his spoon in his mouth. "Sir," he adds, around it. It's not how Phil had meant it.
"I just didn't realize you were close," he says, ignoring the flat look Clint's still giving him, somehow managing to come off dangerous even with the spoon still sticking out of his mouth.
"Well. You won't play tic-tac-toe," Clint says, still watching him. Back on guard. "So what are my options." He drops the spoon into his bowl, careful that it doesn't clatter, then picks his mug up, frowns, and puts it back down.
It's restless fidgeting. Phil had noticed it already in the van and now it's hours later. It seems like they're low on the bug-out roster, which is the sort of routine inefficiency that Phil's become used to as a part of SHIELD routine. The bigger the op, the longer to shift all the pieces and tie off all the strings, unless they had some cause to scramble. SHIELD could move fast, when it had to, but Clint jonesing for subspace isn't the kind of thing that's usually considered a priority.
"I can make some tea," Phil offers, the next time Clint picks up and put down the mug again. He's not even sure the jet has any in stock. "Or see if I can get out to the building and see if anyone has decaf."
"If I get that desperate, I'll make hot water," Clint says, and finally takes a sip, then sighs. "Fuck Kelley anyway."
It's not exactly rebellion, because Kelley's not that convincing an authority, whatever he might have been assigned, but Phil raises an eyebrow at it anyway. Clint's been low-key on the ops he's been on. Serious, and focused on getting the job done, and mostly keeping his mouth shut. This long down time after the fact might be what's loosening him up.
At least, loosening him up in regard to Phil. It's looking like Kelley's been on the receiving end of a lot more opining than Phil has.
Clint gives him an innocent look over the rim of his mug. Kelley's probably right that slugging caffeine might not be the best thing if Clint's feeling jittery, but it's also not the kind of thing that's really anyone's business, or that should be, so Phil leaves him to it and digs around until he finds a protein bar. "Sawdust and peanuts?" he offers, "Or sawdust and chocolate chip?"
"I'm good."
Phil leaves it on the counter anyway, and after another second, Clint picks it up and tucks it into a pocket. Silent and not looking at Phil as he does it. Phil doesn't mention it and doesn't mention when Clint dumps the rest of his coffee either, then immediately starts to wash up.
"I can get those," Phil says.
Clint shrugs. "You cooked."
Clint had manned the microwave, which was at least as much as Phil had done, but it doesn't seem worth arguing the point, so Phil lets it stand, gathering and dumping their wrappings into the trash, then gives the counter a quick wipe-down while Clint dries and stows their dishes. He reclaims what's left of his coffee while Clint finishes up, then retreats across the small common area to his tiny room, where he pulls out a tablet to check for updates.
There's nothing yet. Predictably. Phil takes a sip, sets his coffee aside, and changes tabs to start on a report while it's fresh in his mind and since he's up anyway. He can hear Clint clattering around a little, trying to be quiet, and then nothing except the muted sound of snoring from across the plane.
The tablet is a bright rectangle. Even with the screen turned down low, it's glaring, making Phil's eyes swim as he re-reads what he's got down. Just bullet points to expand on later, when he's got a real, full keyboard and a solid night's sleep behind him. Maybe a chair with real back support.
He's not sure how long he's been working when there's movement by his open door. Just a shadow blocking out the dim illumination of the safety lights. Phil looks up.
"You could turn a light on," Clint says, shoulder against the door frame, but not really leaning. "No one's around." Except for Clint, sleeping out in the main area. Phil doesn't mention it, but after a second Clint adds, "And you have a door," anyway.
"You should get some sleep," Phil says, turning back to his tablet. "We probably won't have clearance until morning."
"Yeah."
Clint doesn't go. Instead he shifts his weight a little, kind of restless, kind of indecisive. Phil can't tell if it's because he thinks he's been given a direct order that he's not in the mood to follow, or if he's hesitating for some other reason.
"What is it?" Phil asks, after another minute, when it becomes obvious Clint's not going to clear out and that he's come over for some specific reason and not just to shoot the breeze or kill time while they're both up.
Clint hedges for another second, then looks over his shoulder, out across the plane like he expects to be caught at something, even though if anyone on board would be acting as the long arm of SHIELD law, it would be Phil. Phil raises his eyebrows at it, a little amused.
"Okay. Look," Clint starts, then stops to clear his throat. Obviously nervous about whatever he's about to say. Phil lets himself smile at it, then tamps it down and makes himself look as professional as he can, while stripped down to a rumpled t-shirt and in his socks.
"Spit it out, Agent."
"Yeah. Well." He winces. Makes a non-committal bob with his head, like he's acknowledging a questionable opinion he'd rather not be judged for, then opens his mouth and shuts it again.
"What, Hawkeye?"
Clint huffs, then makes a face and reaches for his shirt pocket, fishing around for something small until he tugs out what looks like a small square of foil. He hesitates another second, then flicks it towards Phil, landing it tidily by his knee. "I know it's not regulation--" he starts, then shrugs and doesn't finish. Leaving it for Phil to put together.
It's the end of a blister pack. Just four small tablets, dusty pink and unassuming. Somewhere between oval and diamond shaped, rounded but thicker at the middle. For a second, Phil thinks he's looking at antibiotics, but then he looks at Clint and realizes what he's asking.
"I know," Clint says, before Phil can remind him what rules they have in place and why. "I'm not asking you to do anything."
Phil eyes the pills, where they're still resting on the thin mattress by his knee. "Aren't you?"
"No."
"Isn't this Kelley's jurisdiction?"
Clint snorts. "We just spent twenty hours staked out on a roof, Coulson. Sir. You think I should wake him up so he can pat my hair, whisper sweet nothings, and pretend I'm not pissing him off?"
"I thought you weren't asking me to do anything?" Phil asks, picking up the little square of foil and plastic and turning it over. The name written on the back isn't familiar, but he's pretty sure it's push, because there's not a lot else there could be, considering what Clint's asking. "Where did you get this?"
"Medical."
Obviously. Phil gives him an unimpressed look, and after a second Clint asks, "Why? Are you planning to rat me out?"
"You do realize I'm your superior officer?" And as such, had decided on at least some of the rules Clint's admitting to circumventing if not outright breaking. "I'm the guy you get ratted out to."
Clint scoffs. His lean in the doorway gets a little more comfortable, weirdly. "Sure," he says, agreeable. "But we both know you're not like, a stickler."
"Excuse me?"
"Or I wouldn't be here." He shrugs, unbothered. Confident that they're on the same page with that. "So, are you gonna help me out or not?"
"You wouldn't be--?"
He's talking about the mission. The one that Phil had finally caught up to him on. Clint's memory of it must be incomplete, or else blurred and with his understanding twisted through a drugged haze, softening the reality of what Phil had been about to do and how close he had come to doing it. Phil swallows. His mouth and throat feel dry, suddenly, and he coughs to try to clear the feeling.
"You don't have to do anything," Clint repeats, misreading it. "It's just--better if someone's there. Unless you wanna play some tic-tac-toe?"
"Pass."
"Hangman?"
They're still on a mission, technically, but it's also pretty obvious that they're just waiting on fuel and a flight team, and then for their turn on the runway with nothing to do in the meantime but cool their heels. There's not really any reason to torture Clint with it, outside of protocol.
Phil turns the square of pills over in his hand. They look like they've been cut off the end of a longer strip. The edge of the foil is a little uneven, so Clint must have been in a hurry when he'd nicked them. Medical was getting sloppy with him to not realize he had a knife and then to miss that their inventory was being pilfered. "What happened to, under medical supervision only?"
Clint snorts.
Maybe all he remembers from his capture is being handled and talked to calmly, and then being hauled to medical, where the worst he'd been subjected to had been boredom and Agent Stalwart's opinions on baseball. If that's the case, then it explains a lot about the easy way he's been hanging out with Phil, and why he'd ask this specific favor and think it was anything but a terrible idea.
"Barton," Phil starts.
"Clint."
Phil sighs, and holds the pills up between index and middle finger. "Clint. I'm not briefed for this."
"Or maybe you are a stickler," Clint says, backing down. He looks tired. It's not that Phil hadn't noticed it, exactly, because the whole team had been looking ragged, but making the bid for Phil's company and subspace is a sign he's in worse shape than he's letting on.
He hasn't seen Clint down since that mission. Maybe a little bit in medical, impersonal and through a window. "You haven't been doing this alone, have you?" he asks.
"I'm not saying all the way down," Clint bargains, instead of answering. Reading Phil's concern as an opening. "Just enough to get some shuteye." His mouth quirks, not really into a smile. "I could get on my knees and ask real nicely, if it'd help."
The image of that floods back in a wash. It's not something Phil wants to see again, in real time. "That won't be necessary, Agent." He holds the pills out. Clint doesn't take them.
"I haven't been doing it alone," Clint says, admitting to it like he's giving in to an interrogation and thinks cooperation will get him a deal. "I thought about it, but--"
But he'd been left down and alone a lot, Phil thinks, finishing the thought. And it had probably been unpleasant, at best, and more likely terrifying and painful, if what Phil had seen was anything to judge by. It's no surprise that Clint's not in any hurry to relive it, no matter how wound up and desperate he might be getting.
They're yanking him by the same leash, Phil realizes. Controlling Clint's access to subspace from the opposite direction, and presenting it as concern. Taking advantage of the way systematic drugging had fucked up his ability to go down on his own to turn subspace into a reward to hold over his head.
Phil lets his arm drop, folding the little square of plastic into his palm as he does it. Clint's watching him, face neutral. Holding himself very still, suddenly, even though he'd been restless since the end of the mission.
"Fine," Phil says, with a sigh.
Clint's cautiously bland look doesn't shift. "I'm not asking you do to anything," he repeats, careful, like he thinks Phil might need more convincing. Or maybe trying to hash out terms. It's hard to tell what he's thinking or how he's reading Phil's stance on this, and that's not ideal. On the other hand, Phil's pretty used to not ideal.
"I already said 'fine', Hawkeye," Phil tells him, taking a shot. There's no dosage information on the back of the blister pack. If any had been printed, it had been printed on the end Clint hadn't pilfered. "Give me a rundown?"
Clint lets his breath out, relaxing, his relief obvious and on the surface. The smile he gives Phil is brief but confident, like he's sure Phil won't let him down, and it makes Phil's chest constrict with guilt. He shouldn't let Clint's trust stand, built as it is on a foggy, incomplete memory. No matter how ideal an outcome SHIELD might consider it.
"I just need you to--stand watch or something," Clint says. He nods at the pills, where they're still mostly hidden in Phil's hand. "Those suck, but--" He lets it hang, shrugging. Phil's had enough updates from medical, and listened in to enough discussion to know they'd gone through some trial and error to find what would get Clint down in a way he would tolerate and that also wouldn't leave him hungover or unsteady for too long to be efficiently mission ready. It probably hadn't occurred to medical that Clint might pocket less-than-ideal meds, even just as a fallback. Probably, it hadn't occurred to medical anymore than it had to Phil, that Clint might see their rationed doling out of push as another collar to try to slip.
Phil gives the blister pack another considering look, then carefully presses his thumbnail against the foil backing, splitting it along the edge of a blister, before pushing the pill out and letting it fall into his hand. Clint swallows, then licks his lip. Antsy. Either strung out or nervy, now that he's getting his way.
"Well?" Phil asks, putting the rest of the pack aside along with his tablet. The pill looks smaller in his hand than it had in its little plastic bubble. Unassuming. Clint's eyes stay fixed on it for a second, and then another, and then he checks over his shoulder again, like earlier, and steps in. Moving away from the door without closing it, to settle on his knees at the side of Phil's crappy little fold-out bed, unasked.
His posture's not great. What training he's had obviously hadn't focused very much on looking pretty and even at SHIELD basic obedience was still a higher priority than nice, refined manners. And he'd been up for more than a full day, and most of that laid out on a roof staring through a sniper rifle.
Phil's exhausted too. Slouched and disheveled, and not in a mood to correct or control, or do more than the basics of what Clint's asking. He straightens up anyway, absently smoothing down his t-shirt as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, to lean over Clint, pill in hand. When he holds it out, Clint keeps his hands down and doesn't take it.
It's intentional, considered submission. Different than the last time Phil had had him on his knees. He's not sure if Clint's waiting for permission or for Phil to put the pill in his mouth, but the second feels too risky. Like too much of an overstep, even if it's what Clint's expecting, or wants.
"Hand," Phil directs, and waits until Clint catches on and holds one out, then turns the pill over, letting it roll off his palm and into Clint's. "Take it when you're ready.'
Phil hadn't brought water to his room, so he offers Clint his coffee--lukewarm now--to wash it down, smiling apologetically at the face Clint makes as he swallows then hands the cup back.
"You don't have to stay down there," Phil tells him, setting the remainder of the coffee aside and shuffling over on the bed to make space. "If we're not doing anything."
It comes out drier than Phil had intended, but Clint goes along with it, his head tilting a little to give Phil a look as he asks, "Are you trying to rope me into paperwork, sir?" in a convincingly affronted tone.
Mostly, Phil can't bear to see him kneeling and playing good boy while his expression softens and the tension bleeds out of his shoulders, but he laughs and picks the tablet back up anyway. "May as well," he says, relocating all the way to the end of the bed, leaving most of the narrow mattress for Clint. "You're not busy."
It takes a minute for Clint to consider the offer, and then he gets up, slow and stiffer than Phil would have expected of him, and lowers himself just as cautiously onto the bed, sitting for a couple of seconds like he's waiting for Phil to retract the offer, before going down, onto his side. Obviously not in shape to give a coherent recounting of anything, whatever they might both be pretending.
"I'm just going to be here," Phil tells him, pretending to focus on his report and not Clint's movements as he gets settled. Just touching, and then not, and then touching again.
"Mm-hm."
The door is still open. Clint glances through it every so often, guard coming up, then dropping again, the frequency of it slowing as the push kicks in, until he makes a soft, comfortable sound and shifts a little closer. Making more solid contact with Phil, but closing his eyes.
He'll have to write it up. Report it to medical, even if it's just so they can draw up some provisional plan, to keep Clint from desperation measures like going down alone and on stolen meds, and maybe it would build trust with the team if they could spring him from having to listen to Stalwart complain about umpires while he tries to go down. It's the least Phil can do, considering his still-vivid memory of Clint, silent and trusting, eyes closed just beyond the end of Phil's gun barrel as he waited for Phil's next move.
Phil pushes the image back, in case letting it slip destroys what stability Clint's built, at SHIELD and on the team. Layering betrayal on betrayal, Phil thinks, and swallows. There's a sour taste in the back of his mouth, after the coffee and terrible soup. His throat hurts.
"You're doing fine," Phil says, and gives Clint's leg a pat. Just friendly, and just in case Clint needs steadying as he goes under. "Keep--" your eyes closed. Phil doesn't finish it.
"Keep quiet unless you need something."
Clint makes a soft noise. A little huff of breath. Maybe a laugh, almost. Like he's pleased at having an easy order to follow. He's going to fall asleep, Phil thinks. Comfortable and thinking Phil's safe rather than as much of a weapon as Clint, to be aimed and fired in the exact same way, just with a nicer coat of paint and a more appealing story to tell himself about it.
Phil waits, tapping at his screen but not getting any work done. His back is killing him, and he's too aware of Clint moving in his peripheral vision. Just shifting and settling. Checking if Phil's still there, and relaxing a little more each time as he allows himself to fuzz out.
There's no chair in the small room and no way to lean against the wall without reclaiming more of the bed and making Clint move, and that doesn't seem like a good idea. Phil has no idea what he might say if he's disturbed once he's further under, or how unsettlingly familiar it might be. Phil had promised to keep an eye out and he could do that and keep interaction to a minimum, just until Kelley was up and Phil could hand the responsibility over, back to where it had been assigned.
And after that, he'd figure out how to convince Clint that he's misplaced his trust. Or at least, Phil thinks, figure out how to avoid compounding the lie any further than he already has, because whatever Clint thinks Phil is, he's mistaken.