Archive of Our Own

“If you ever do that to me again, I am going to murder you, Phillip J. Coulson.” Clint’s voice broke, hard, on the last name, and he glared over their clasped hands.

Phil didn’t move, but his gaze, bloodshot and dilated, softened a little as a weak smile broke up the lines at the side of his mouth. His hand spasmed in Clint’s, weak as a mouse, and tried to grip back. Clint leaned closer as he started to whisper.

“Might hurt less,” he breathed. Clint could feel his face breaking down, collapsing, and Phil swallowed, then grimaced at the pain, and tried again. “I love you,” he said.

“Love you too, you asshole.” Clint didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t crying.

____

The only good thing about the heart attack was that it had happened at SHIELD, just after a consultation with Agent Amador’s team. Phil’s heart was kinda custom-built, after all, and even if the specialists that had worked on it were permanently unavailable, their methods (the ones that were able to be de-classified and didn’t involve alien juice) had informed the training of a whole generation of SHIELD surgeons that came after them. Phil was on a table having a catheter threaded in through his thigh practically before the emergency call had made it to his partner.

Given everything, Clint was grateful for the speed, but it was not lost on him, not at all, that the sutures on Phil’s chest from where the surgeons just “had to check” were snuggled up to that older scar that had nearly-- no, had actually --taken Phil from him, however temporarily, years before. None of the doctors thought the attack had been because of the (experimental, insanely traumatic, possibly just insane) work their predecessors had done, oh no. No, certainly not. Fascinating, though, how healthy that heart looked after everything. Ghouls, the lot of ‘em.

No, they'd been careful to reassure Clint, a heart attack was just one of those things that became more likely as one aged. Mr. Coulson had not exactly lived a quiet life. He did not exactly live one now, even in retirement. Maybe as he recovered, he should consider going a little easier on it. Oh? Yes, yes, he was likely to recover fully. It was just a small heart attack. Hardly anything, really.

Clint quietly put his fist through a wall.

After all the years they'd spent in running in and out of each others' lives, not even daring to whisper "later" because they didn't think they'd make it there, he'd only just begun believing they'd made it out alive. Only just begun to believe they could be each others' home. And now this.

He’d nearly missed out on Part Four.

That’s what he got for leaving things to Phil.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t fair.

Didn’t particularly care at the moment.
____

What Clint meant by “nearly missed out on Part Four” was that he’d been waiting, patiently, for Phil to ask him since, well, since the afternoon he’d moved himself into Phil’s apartment lock, stock, and quiver-- which happened to be the same day he’d retired as an Avenger. It had seemed kind of important to Phil to get to do the asking, and Clint loved watching Phil make plans. Loved the calculating look on his face when he looked at Clint, the little envelopes that got secreted away, the laptops that got shut quickly when he walked behind them.

Phil was, as he’d always been, fucking adorable when he was plotting. Well. Adorable and hot.

The anticipation, knowing that it was coming, that was pretty fucking good too, in that prickly heat-building kind of way. But it had been ages already.

Well. Okay, months. But:

Part Four!

Part of Clint thought that Phil was doing this on purpose, just to get him back for being spontaneous. The rest of Clint knew perfectly well Phil was just as anxious to have this done, sealed, as Clint was. He just… liked to do things properly.

So Clint understood the look of frustrated resignation he found on Phil’s face when he stumbled in at 3 am after having been at the Mansion sitting up with Morales after he’d arrived too late at a burning tenement. They’d been going to catch the Cubs at Met Stadium-- Phil’d taken Kate instead.

Phil’d turned that same frustration on Antoine Triplett when the man had called him in a panic about a high-stakes interrogation just before he and Clint had been about to take a Corvette club tour upstate for the weekend.

The freak storm the day they’d been going to wander through Central Park to try and find the spot they’d first, um, come back together after everything? Phil had just sat and stared at the rain for hours, his chin pillowed on his hands like a kid missing a ball game.

It wasn’t that Phil hadn’t been planning.

But Clint was fucking done with waiting for Phil to propose, because it turned out that when Clint Barton wasn’t smashing Phil's plans, his own heart was prone to doing so, and Clint was not letting that goddamn bastard die without marrying him.

However.

Phil deserved more than Clint just coming out with it over the first pot of coffee some random morning.

Or asking him while he was still pale and exhausted from, you know, nearly fucking dying.

This was Phil. Phil liked plans.

For Phil, Clint could plan.
___

Several weeks later, Phil was mostly recovered from the heart attack, and somewhat less recovered from the way the surgeons had dug around in him as a so-called precautionary measure. Clint had begun planning his attack nearly the moment Phil had made it home, largely to prevent himself from dwelling on how badly he wanted to hit a round half-dozen people in SHIELD medical, or how lucky he was they’d been there.

Clint hated to admit, but all this long-term planning it was a lot harder than it looked-- and it had always looked plenty hard to him. Even when he’d been leading teams, he’d preferred to do it kinda-sorta on the fly, or bring in people who did like all that spiderweb building shit. Tactics were fun, in a plot-all-the-trajectories way. Long-term strategy he left to… well, Tony or Cap or Maria Hill. Or, for the really important things, the vital ones, Phil.

The brochures that had arrived in the mail, because apparently some things were still done in paper mail, had ended up on the very top of the pile Phil was reaching for, perched precariously on the one clean spot on their hall table. Clint’s hand arrived on the top of the pile mere microseconds before Phil’s, and Phil grabbed thin air with a startled blink.

“Junk mail’s not good for your blood pressure, babe,” Clint told him, and kissed him on the cheek. Phil narrowed his eyes.

“And that kind of shock is, dear?” It was too fucking sweet by half, nearing the danger zone really, and Clint’s backpedal half-step was an instinctive reaction-- he was pretty sure his balls were retracting just a titch, too.

“Well, if you wouldn’t try to get the mail I wouldn’t have to-- oh, damn, is that the spaghetti boiling over?”

(It actually was, and Phil couldn’t argue with the likelihood of it-- pots boiled over on average twice a night in their household.)

Clint beat a sound retreat into the kitchen.
____

“Clint, where’s that whatsit we use to get these damned thingies open?”

Clint jumped a little, realizing Phil had come up behind him while he was listening to what was probably the Best of Peruvian Flute Music interspersed with “you are the third caller in line” in a voice so serene the voiceover artist was almost certainly a supervillain. Clint would have bet anything on a former AIM Scientist Supreme.

He opened a drawer, rummaged, and produced the whatsit. Phil looked at it, then back at the thingy in his hand, and sighed. He also completely failed to take the damned object and just leave Clint alone.

“No, no that’s too big. I need the smaller one. The blue one?” Phil was looking better these days, and had pretty much insisted on taking most of his household chores back. It was a relief, even if Clint didn’t want to admit it-- and even if at times like the present it was more trouble than if Clint had opened the damned thingy himself to put in the new batteries (which Phil was probably gonna ask about next).

Especially because Clint was now the second caller in line, and he was trying hard not to glare Phil out of the room.

“I don’t know where the blue one is,” he hissed at Phil, “have you looked in the other drawer?”

“Which other drawer? The one in the bathroom or the one in the bedroom?”

“Either, both, I don’t know! Phil-- I’m kind of busy here, could you just hold your horses for half a second? No! No, not you, I need to talk to you-- damnit, Phil!” He threw the phone down on the couch, the useless damned thing. Phil looked down at the phone, then up at him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize-- what was that?” he asked, and Clint sighed and ran his hand over the back of his neck, hoping that hid some of the frustration that he was sure he was radiating.

“Nothing, just… checking on some stuff. I can do it later.”

“I could help?” There was an eager edge to Phil’s voice, almost, and Clint looked up at him. SHIELD was being weirdly patient about giving him new consulting projects-- something Clint attributed to the fact that Natasha Romanov had paid a few quiet visits to some important people in the hierarchy and suggested that perhaps if they wanted Coulson at all they’d better be least in sight for--at a minimum-- twice as long as they considered reasonable.

He might have asked her to do so.

Several other agencies had also been given that bit of advice, so Phil had been spending most of the time he wasn’t spending working in catching up on his reading, or his movie-watching, or his background research in any number of areas (and really, Phil, Transdniestrian politics is not appropriate post-heart attack reading), or tooling around just a bit in the Corvette. (Only the Corvette-owners club always found someone who wanted a ride-along or a little instruction, and so Phil hadn’t really been able to cut loose, not in his old way. Not without giving someone else a heart attack. (Okay, that wasn’t funny yet.))

“No, that’s fine,” Clint said, and watched Phil’s face fall. “It’s nothing, really, just a thing with a guy, trying to straighten out some stuff. Nothing worth your idiot-wrangling skills, babe.” He reached out a hand to stroke the side of his lover’s face, intending it to be brief.

The stubble on Phil’s chin prickled under his palm, and he found himself rubbing in, sliding his hand around the back of Phil’s ear, pulling him close. Clint’s mouth had gone dry; he felt it slide all the way through his body, the slick fear of losing this man, the desperate need to hold tight.

He froze.

After a long moment, Phil bopped him on the nose, a rueful smile twisting his lips, and stepped back.

“I’ll just leave you to it,” he said then. “And go check the drawers. Have we got any AAs, by the way?”

Clint wasn’t sure exactly why he felt like the world’s biggest asshole, but it was definitely a thing he was feeling.

_____

By early June, about two months after the “little” heart attack, Clint’s trap was very nearly ready to be sprung, and his intended had graduated from a wee bit bored to frantically scratching at the apartment walls. They’d fought more during Phil’s recovery than any other time Clint could remember-- and that included those first days at SHIELD when Clint had barely been housebroken (as he saw it now).

They were little fights, sure, but frequent. The better Phil got, the worse they seemed to chafe at each other. Every returning pound that smoothed out a plane on that strong-jawed, beautifully-crinkled face, every step further Phil could walk without getting out of breath, every curve of muscle rebuilding itself under the iron-gray hair on his chest, was also increasing his restlessness.

It was the first time Clint could remember actually likening him to a bear, body fuzz aside. In Clint’s own defense, he’d only realized how caged Phil was feeling this late in the game because a) he’d been kind of busy trying to put together the best proposal plan ever and b) he hadn’t been around the last time Phil had been in recovery from having his heart broken.

Which Clint needed to not put that way, because every time he remembered just how close he’d come to losing the crotchety, scruffy, muttering, irritable man in front of him at the breakfast table right now, he wanted to jump up and search for the bubble wrap.

Instead, he looked past Phil, out the window.

Songbirds didn’t just flutter past windows singing sweet spring songs that often in New York, not in any of her boroughs. And they certainly weren’t doing so now, but Clint smiled out at the way the sun warmed the balconies of the building opposite theirs anyway. It looked like it was probably a lovely day.

“Wanna take a walk in the park?” he asked, and Phil glanced up at him.

“I swear, Clint, if this is about making sure I’m complying with my exercise regimen again, I’m going to--”

“No,” Clint cut him off, “this is about I really want to get some fresh air and spend some time with you, babe. Is that okay? Or, you know, you can, I dunno, bring reading or something. I’ll make myself scarce and go throw things at squirrels. You don’t even have to see me.” A well-timed gulp or two kept the hurt out of his voice, he hoped.

Or maybe not, given the way Phil winced.

“Yeah, let’s… let’s get out of here,” he glanced away. “I’ve got some things I can bring.”

_____

The sun was warm, the breeze gentle, and the grass was only very lightly crunchy-- and remarkably free of dog-leavings. Clint sighed quietly as a stiff gust rustled the leaves above him and lifted his eyes to watch them play across the sky, sunlight turning them greenly translucent.

All this damned nature made it hard to hang on to the last remnants of the injured feeling he’d left the apartment with. Phil had been so careful with him as they’d walked off down the path that led to a broad lawn, and Clint had been careful right back, both of them playing the part of a couple who had no problems at all and were scrupulously courteous of each other.

It kinda worked, actually. Phil kept glancing at him sidelong, and vice versa, and by joint accord they stepped off the path and found a quiet place at last to spread themselves out.

Phil pulled out his tablet and Clint prepared to wander off, only to be stopped by a grip on his ankle. Phil was looking up at him, his sunglasses hiding his eyes but his mouth somehow managing to look pleading and regretful and also a little challenging.

No mouth on earth was that expressive naturally, not even one as mobile and well-trained as Phil’s; how long had they known each other so intimately, for Clint to be able to read such complex emotions in the curves of Phil’s lips?

He spread out, just within Phil’s reach, feet at Phil’s head, and kissed the smooth pale skin at the top of Phil’s foot.

Phil’s fingers massaged gently at the knob of Clint’s ankle; dedicated for a few minutes, then fitfully, then not at all as he got interested in whatever he was reading. (Or napped-- Phil was perfectly capable of napping while propped on his elbows.)

Clint, for his part, had chosen his position so that Phil couldn’t see the checklist and notes he was marking off.

It was nearly ready, after all the damn planning and being jerked around and hiding shit. He’d found out who you blew-- er, talked to-- at Wrigley Field in order to get a private tour of the ballpark. He’d namedropped-- er, networked-- his way into a tour for two just before an evening game against the Mets. And he’d bribed-- er, well, yeah, bribed-- the grounds crew to leave a little box on the pitcher’s mound. For a brief moment, he’d considered waiting until the anniversary of the first time they’d been at the park together, but decided against it on the grounds he couldn’t wait that long.

So. That was set.

He’d contacted all Phil’s current clients and informed them Phil would be unavailable that weekend.

He’d found the rings, put them on order, and had them shipped to Natasha so that Phil couldn’t accidentally find them while puttering about. (He was like a fucking squirrel himself, sometimes-- he got everywhere.)

What Clint hadn’t figured out was what came after that. (After that weekend, not after the proposal itself-- he had very clear ideas about what happened after that, and had made sure their hotel room was considerably better equipped than the one they’d shared all those years ago. His back no longer appreciated anything less than a pillowtop mattress, never even mind Phil’s recovering body.)

Luckily, he had Phil around for the difficult logistical tasks-- like figuring out how to keep the ceremony quiet, because: Avengers.

Clint had played through every scenario he could think of, and they all ended in tuxes (this was not particularly a problem-- Phil had only grown more suave in his tuxes as he aged) and Captain America walking someone down the aisle and Stark threatening to pay for far more ice sculptures than any three parties needed. Oh, yeah, and a handful of his own exes sitting in dangerously close proximity on the groom's-- er, his-- side of the aisle. (Don’t think of Phil as the “bride,” Barton, that way lies your doom.)

No, you could say what you wanted about Clint’s first marriage (and at one point or another, it had all been said), but he’d never regretted the size-- or complete lack thereof-- of the ceremony. His entire life felt like a production, at times; he wanted this one thing to be something he could just experience without worrying about how he was coming off. (And without worrying about Doombots at the reception.) The important part was supposed to be the person standing next to you, after all.

Moreover, Phil would worry. Phil would worry about every detail, and Clint would worry about Phil worrying. Thank god he’d have Phil on board to figure their way out of this mess.

So, right: staring at the leaves and sighing.

He had two things left to do on his list, and he wasn’t sure which was worse: the email he had to send off to the damned airline, explaining about certain special needs he was going to have regarding shipping their gear (and this was why he tried not to fly commercial, goddamnit); or the talk he was beginning to think he needed to have with Phil.

‘Cause damned if they were gonna travel to Chicago so that he could put Part Four into action with the two of them still so sore and raw around the edges. It was a recipe for disaster. And it would be too easy to be seduced by the sunlight filtering through the branches and the soft sounds of Phil next to him, sniggering at whatever he was reading, into thinking that they could just go along with hyper-expressive lips and little ankle strokes and careful distances that allowed them to be together-with-spaces in the grass, and not have to kinda sorta deal with shit.

It’d be nearly good enough; they’d rub along and given enough time they’d smooth the rough bits away, as long as there were no added stressors.

Stressors like wedding planning.

Clint was contemplating an opening line, when Phil started convulsing.

It took him a long moment to realize that was what Phil was doing, and then remarkably little time to flail himself upright and reach for Phil’s shoulder.

He froze halfway there when he realized that Phil was laughing. He was cackling in fact, so fucking hard he could barely wheeze, eyes watering, face split in half with the force of his grin.

“Phil?” Clint asked-- squeaked, actually-- “Phil?”

Phil looked up at him, teeth all pearly and parted with the breadth of his smile, and squeaked back, still laughing soundlessly.

“What the hell, Phil? Spill!”

That set off a series of sniggers, then Phil pushed himself up on shaky arms and waggled the tablet at Clint.

“This,” he said, only to break out in giggles, “this has to be the only worthwhile thing I’ve ever seen come out of one of those godforsaken intel fusion centers. This… oh god!” He went off again, laughing noiselessly, until he was so shaky he collapsed into Clint’s lap.

Clint went with it, snaking arms around Phil’s waist to pull him back, letting him lean while Clint attempted to remain upright against the sudden weight of gratitude flooding his body.

“Read it to me, babe?” he said.

“Sure, sure, just… let me… aheeheehee… breathe… heh. You know what? I can’t. I'll never make it through. I’ll sum up.” The chuckles subsided and Phil quieted in his arms, but didn’t pull away. “Whoever compiled this needs to lose their job. Whoever edited it needs a reprimand. Whoever approved the funding that allowed this sorry excuse of a so-called intelligence action center to exist in the first place needs... maybe a medal for creating the conditions that led to this. They do an in-depth feature each issue, 'submitted by a partner agency for inclusion in this circular'; this one’s on the results of a fact-finding mission in Macedonia.”

"Reasonable enough; Macedonia has facts. They exist there. ” Clint nodded, settling in, and trying to remember if it was Macedonia or Mauritania where Natasha had brought a live goat back to the safe house.

“Yes, and some of them are even relevant to world affairs, or were ten years ago. I don’t know who the original author or agent in charge was, but it’s a summary of the mission, as reconstructed through mission reports.”

“All right…” Clint wasn’t sure where it was going, but Phil’s shoulders were ratcheting up with anticipation.

“The agency in question is searching for a set of law documents from the late civil unrest. They're supposed to contain information on a couple of possible enemy combatants the agency thinks were active at the time. Only after the dust had settled, the documents were carted off to remote sites for storage. So it sends in agents to the site in question. With me so far?”

“I am.” To the end, however short or long that was. (And Clint didn't just mean the end of the story.)

“The site houses a religious order now, and is naturally reluctant to entertain an intelligence agency (so-called), so the agents go in undercover as archaeologists.”

“Do they? Why?”

“This is Greece, you could really claim any site is a potential archaeological dig, and it explains lots of odd equipment. In this case the claim was certainly legitimate; it was the site of a temple that Attila the Hun invaded back in the fifth century--”

“Did the report mention that, or do you just know that off the top of your head?”

“I refuse to answer that on grounds it might incriminate me. Shall I keep going, or do you just want to read this yourself?”

“No, keep going,” Clint said, because he was enjoying the relish with which Phil was telling the story too much to want to cut it short.

“Where was I? Archaeologists. They brought in two independent contractors, as well, who used to work with the Earth Resources Observation and Science Center--”

“Why, for Chrissake?”

“Something about using Landsat to possibly identify the exact location where the separatists buried the documents, I wasn’t really clear on that-- I’d already started to figure it out, then.”

Phil was looking up at him expectantly, and Clint racked his brain. It was, God knew, a very convoluted mission for fairly low-value intel, but he’d seen agencies do far worse in his time. Hell, he'd participated in absurder missions himself. So he nodded, and squeezed, and generally indicated Phil should keep going.

“So," Phil said, with the force he used to bring to briefings that had gone so far off the rails they'd wandered down the block and into a bar, “the supposed archaeologists arrive and find… nothing. The site no longer exists-- it was razed to the ground during an earthquake two weeks before they arrived, so there's no way for them to pretend they're searching for Attila, much less the documents they're really after. The ex-Earth Resources contractors never showed, probably because of the quake. Absolutely the only thing they find is a lone old lady in a habit waiting for them, sitting on top of this big old square of granite that used to hold a statue. She's the last member of the order, and she was only waiting to tell them to go home. The agents pack up and start writing their initial report back to their headq--”

“No” Clint interrupted, in dawning horror. “No. They did not. Phil. Phil.” Phil was grinning again as he twinkled up at Clint, radiant with amusement. It was the most fascinating thing Clint had seen in months. “Oh, god, NO, Phil, you are fucking with me, I see what you are doing, there is no way--” and he pulled the tablet from Phil’s hands. Phil's shaking turned to little helpless snrk, snrk sounds as Clint attempted to read the report around him.

“It’s not me!” he declared happily. As he read, Clint shook his head.

“Oh my god, they did… they really… how could they have never heard… is it there? Did they actually?”

“Oh, yes!” Phil nodded at him. "It’s all there in the initial mission debrief. They found nothing: no Huns,” he squeaked, and Clint’s arms tightened around him, “no writs,” another squeak, “no EROS,” then a set of chortles that burst forth around his attempt at the last words. Clint finished for him:

“And nun left on base,” he groaned.

Then he was laughing too, helplessly, hopelessly, harder than he had in years, in forever maybe. Laughing at the intelligent, ultra-competent man in his lap whose sense of humor had never grown out of feeble wordplay. Laughing at the sheer haplessness of an agency that passed a shaggy dog story along as fact through multiple layers of bureaucracy without red flags. Laughing at the excuse for an intelligence center that accepted it from them and published it, and even laughing at the tired, pissed off, sophomoric, sarcastic agent who must have filed the faked mission report in the first place.

Clint would have been that agent, once.

And Phil might well have thought about passing it up the ladder, in one of his not-infrequent fits of pique at the analysis arm. He could just imagine the way Fury would have reacted when it finally reached his desk.

Clint collapsed back onto the grass, gone weak with breathlessness. Phil came with, sprawled over his chest, still convulsed with giggles.

“Tell me there’s another issue out, Phil, please,” he managed, lost in enjoyment. “I wanna see the retraction.”

“Oh,” Phil sighed, wiping his eyes, “there won’t be a retraction. Everyone will quietly pretend it never existed. Even this couldn't make the Center more of a joke than it already is, but the Pentagon loves it. No one will dare react."

"The Emperor's new fusion center isn't wearing clothes. I mean, its pants are showing."

"It got caught with its slip down," Phil agreed, twinkling at him. "At any rate, everyone who knows anything about Balkan affairs reads this damn circular; it's going to be fodder at lunches for weeks. Oh, love, I needed that. You have no idea how much I needed that.”

Except Clint thought he did have an idea, because the man lying on him now, with his crinkled eyes and relaxed shoulders, was, for the first time since the heart attack, fully, delightfully, Phil. Clint felt his own heart expand and shed the scabs it had grown over the last months, his own back unwind from the tension all that damned planning and worrying had twisted into it.

He very nearly proposed right then. Opened his mouth to, even, before shutting it with a snap and shaking his head.

“It’s good to have you back,” he said fondly, and Phil tilted his head up and smiled at him, rather sheepish.

“It’s good to have you back,” he responded.

“Yeah, well, I’ll try to stick around, if you do the same.” It came out gruff and half-formed. Phil’s return nod was solemn, and he stretched a hand out to pull at Clint’s, bringing it to his mouth to kiss.

“Deal.”

After a stretch of time in which the two of them just lay together, breathing in the day, Phil continued. “‘S funny, how easy it was to get lost even though we couldn’t seem to get away from each other.”

“Yeah, about that, I’ve been underfoot a lot, haven’t I?”

“I kind of thought I had been. But, yes. Mutual underfootage, maybe. You really don’t need to wait on me anymore; I'm not held together with twine or anything.”

“I know. I know. Tell you what, there’s kind of an informal Avenger’s reunion tonight; Captain Britain's in town and all the old guard is coming out. The usual suspects have been bugging me to put in an appearance; you know how hard it is to say no to Steve’s Teambuilding Eyes. Would you like it if I went and got out of your hair for a while tonight?”

Phil pushed himself up on his elbows so he could look Clint in the eyes. Clint tried to convey no seriously, there’s no trap and no wrong answer through the force of his gaze. After a moment, Phil nodded and rolled off Clint’s chest, though he only went as far as the crook of his arm.

“I wouldn't mind it, if you want. Though I’m enjoying you in my hair right now.”

Clint took that as permission to thread his fingers into the hair in question, and Phil stretched against him, aging joints growing languid as he relaxed into Clint’s arm.

“Aw, well. You’ve got me all day, if you want me.”

“Have I?” Phil’s voice was practically sleepy, and Clint wasn’t going to object to a nice doze in the sun, not under any circumstances. He cuddled Phil in closer, taking the opportunity to fondle his rear as he did.

“Sure. What do you want to do?” Apart from nap.

Phil shifted, yawned, and looked up at him, his eyes heavy-lidded and satisfied.

“I’d like to marry you. If that’s agreeable.”

Clint froze with his hand in mid-grope.

“What?” he asked faintly. And then, slightly more eloquently: “What-- today?”

“Yes.” Phil was alert now-- trying to catch Clint’s eye as best he could while tucked against his armpit.

“This afternoon?” Just in case Phil’d meant… Clint wasn’t sure what he might mean.

“Yeah. Any reason to wait?” It would be a good idea to say something, it really would, because Phil had to be a little worried by now, but Clint couldn’t form the words.

All he could do was sit up,dislodging Phil, bury his face in his hands, and laugh. And laugh, and laugh, until Phil reversed their former positions and wrapped his arms around Clint’s shoulders, all warm from the cuddling and the sunlight.

“Clint?”

“This…” Clint managed to say after a struggle, waving a hand in the general direction of his own face, “this isn’t a no. I promise it isn’t a no. Just… why now? Why did you ask now?” He looked up to find Phil smiling at him, another of those eloquent little presses of the lip, and this one was so very clearly saying I love you, you nut that he might as well have been beaming it out by satellite.

“The time seemed right, I suppose,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes!” Clint shouted through renewed laughter. “Yes, goddamnit, you jerk, something is definitely wrong. Jeez, you couldn’t wait two weeks? It was gonna be great, I was gonna take you to Wrigley, and I had a tour planned, and Nat has the rings, and I had it all planned out!”

It had been a while since he’d seen Phil that astonished-- probably since the day Clint had moved into his apartment without, perhaps, articulating it quite as clearly as he could have.

“You… had a plan?”

“Yes, Phil, I can plan things!”

“I know you can, babe,” Phil soothed him, but the effect was undermined by the smile in his voice. “Quite well, in fact. I also know you don’t do it unless it’s life-threatening.”

‘Yeah, well.” Clint grumbled, “it kinda was there. I mean, I was being patient, but when you keeled over on me and had to be slapped back together with fish glue and hope, I was done waiting.” He grimaced, bracing for a renewal of Phil’s “it's only a flesh wound” attitude. What he got was a contemplative silence and a hand laid over his.

“That’s valid,” Phil said, and then nosed at his jaw. “So you thought of Wrigley? I like it; it’s a good plan.”

“Yeah, well you ruined it. What the hell was that? What kind of plan have you got?”

“I don’t have a plan, babe.”

Clint stared at Phil open-mouthed, long enough for a gnat to buzz down his throat.

“Bullshit,” he choked.

“True gen. I scrapped my plans after the heart attack on the grounds I didn’t want to wait; figured I’d just ask you when it felt like the right time.” He shrugged. “This felt like it.”

“Your sense of timing is really hilarious.”

“Could be worse; I could have asked you on the plane to Chicago. So, can I talk you into getting married today? We can do the honeymoon at Wrigley. I’d hate to waste all your work.” He nosed at Clint again then began leaving kisses along his jaw. Clint felt joy bubbling up from his ribs, spreading across his face.

“Well it’s one way to avoid a big ceremony, huh?”

“Let’s be honest, Clint, it’s probably the only way to avoid a big ceremony. I must have thought of and discarded a half-dozen strategies to keep the event small once our friends got hold of the news. I’m half nervous Pepper or Tony are going to pop out from behind a tree right now.”

Clint looked around him reflexively, and laughed at himself when he realized what he was doing.

“It’s like you know them. Yeah, god, let’s do it before someone gets hold of it. What do we need? Nat’s got the rings; she’s in town and she could witness. She won’t split on us.”

“Good call; let’s go get her.”

“If we just show up at her door she’s gonna be pissed.”

“She understands operational silence just fine, Clint.” They were helping each other to their feet, supporting each other under the elbows as stiff knees stretched back out.

“All right. Can I ping her burner to make sure she’s home, at least? I—hold up. Phil, can we get married today? Doesn’t New York have a one-day waiting period after you apply for the license?”

(He was pretty damn sure it did—flying straight back from Chicago to the courthouse to get hitched was one of the ideas he’d tried and discarded.)

“Unless you can convince a county court judge to give you a waiver.”

“That what we’re gonna do? They’re just going to have time for us?”

“Between an Avenger and a consultant for the Joint Chiefs? Yes, they’re going to have time for us. I can’t imagine this doesn’t happen frequently. And if they don’t, we’ll just… persuade one.”

“Phillip Coulson!” Clint gasped, “did you just propose kidnapping a judge—a justice of the peace—and forcing them to marry us?”

Phil twinkled at him.

“Only as a last resort, I assure you.”

“Then I think the only thing I can say is ‘yes,’” Clint laughed, and grabbed his hand. “Let’s go pick up Nat and intimidate a judge. Sounds like fun.”

“Persuade, dear. Let’s go persuade a judge.”
____

It was fun. That was the only word Clint could think of, later, to characterize the rest of the day. The only word, at any rate, that wasn’t too sappy to say out loud (to anyone save Phil). To Phil, and Phil alone, he’d admit to “blessed.”

The Black Widow was indeed at home, and happy enough to be collected. She was even happier that the event might end up including a little espionage "just the three of us, like back in the old days." Her obvious glee would more than enough to convince Clint if he hadn’t been: the time was right.

The events occurring on or about the New York County Courthouse on the day of June 10, 20__ are classified by several different agencies, but no charges were filed, which was a minor miracle.

The newly-married couple would later admit to several things, when pressed by friends:

1) The judge was largely unharmed, and declared that she’d often been tempted to crawl out that window, anyway, during interminable afternoon meetings. (Although she hadn’t realized it would be quite that difficult to get up to the roof via drainpipe.)

2) Neither groom was getting any younger, and they’d forgotten how difficult it was to get up to the roof via drainpipe, as well.

3) The vows were traditional since, as Clint said, "they've worked for a lot of people for a long time now, why mess around?" And, as Phil said, "'for better or for worse, in sickness or in health, to love and to cherish' seems to cover things adequately."

4) The fire was entirely accidental, and was extinguished without harm to any particularly historical items.

5) Whether or not the Black Widow cries at weddings is strictly need-to-know, and she doesn't think you do, Rhodey.

____

Phil ended up coming with Clint to the Avengers Mansion for the reunion that night. They slipped in unannounced, the party already in full swing, and circulated quietly.

Phil found Maria Hill lurking in a corner and they laughed themselves hoarse over the Nun on Base incident. Colonel Rhodes joined them after a little, and Clint would have sworn that he giggled like a schoolgirl. By the time Carol Danvers was doubled-over and roaring, half held up by Rhodey, he knew he was witnessing a legend in the making.

Clint, for his part, got lost in the shuffle of old friends and students. He hugged some and high-fived others, letting the riotous colors of those Avengers in uniform and the questionable fashion choices of those out of it slip past him in an increasingly happy blur as he watched their lips. The crescendo of voices had long since blurred in his hearing aids to an undifferentiated buzz.

After the initial crush of greetings had died down and Phil, Maria, and their cronies had settled into a satisfied silence, Clint came up behind his husband and set a hand lightly on his shoulder. Phil reached up, turned, and smiled. Twin gold bands gleamed in the low light as their hands met. Natasha smirked at them from her position across the room in Bucky’s lap, and then ignored them.

Clint briefly considered actually saying something to someone at that point, but gave it up in favor of grinning at his co-conspirator and spouse. It all felt far too comfortable, too easy; if it was a spell he didn’t want to break it.

Kate Bishop, who’d been leaning on the table in the middle of the room trading secrets with America Chavez, stopped talking even as he had that thought. He caught the movement as she leaned forward, staring hard at Clint’s hand, squinting with the distance and low light. He winked at her, and she shoved her way over to them. She punched him in the shoulder before wrapping her arms around them both and squealing.

The word, and celebrations, spread quickly after that. Clint’s shoulders started to ache from all the back-slapping, his ribs to protest from the hugs. It got a little wild, especially after the four-tier wedding cake showed up and a case of champagne appeared out of Tony-knew-where. (Or perhaps Pepper knew where-- it never did to underestimate the power of that couple. Phil had once given his opinion that the only reason they hadn’t taken over the world yet was they kept getting distracted by each other.)

Clint froze a little bit when Bobbi came up to them, but she only patted his cheek and hugged him, and it actually felt pretty normal. There was an ease and grace to it he hadn’t been expecting, even though their relationship had long since uncoiled from the tension their divorce had produced. She kissed Phil on the cheek, and whispered something in his ear that made him laugh. Phil proved he wasn’t quite over his unfortunate Captain America thing when Steve Rogers did Bobbi one better, and kissed him on both cheeks.

Steve Rogers, Clint had realized long ago, could be kind of a troll when he wanted to be.

___

Sleeping in their own bed that night was both a familiar blessing and somehow new.

They’d both been so exhausted when they got home that they nearly didn’t bother with the traditional wedding-night activities. And then Clint caught sight of Phil starting to unbutton his shirt, pale and moonwashed, and he found himself drifting slowly into Phil’s orbit. He came back to earth tangled in Phil, who was already falling asleep in his arms, snuffling gently as he settled further in. He shook Phil regretfully and whispered “mask” in his ear.

After a moment of hesitation, Phil nodded and fumbled for the c-pap mask. The familiar gestures and adjustments and the hiss of damp air as the machine started began to lull Clint back out of consciousness. Phil settled back against him.

Clint stared at the ceiling just in that space between drifting off to sleep and waking dream, and thought ahead to Wrigley, to standing on the mound with his husband’s hand in his, his head on Phil’s shoulder, and looking up at the bleachers in right.

For a moment, he thought he saw himself staring back from a distance of well over a decade; a not-yet-37-year-old overly-talented, brittle, bright young operative. Thought about the man sitting next to him in the bleachers that day in his incongruous sportcoat and jeans, hairline already receding and security level already expanding, laugh lines creasing his eyes delectably as he frowned over his scorecard. He imagined what they’d say if they were looking back, seeing Older Phil and Older Clint—probably “damnit, ump, get those assholes off the mound, get on with the game.”

Well they were neither of them romantics, Clint or his husband. And it suited them fine.

FIN