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“Fucking shit!” Clint’s curse cut through the dark room, loud in the night’s silence. The pain sliced up the bottom of his foot and he almost lost his balance. All sorts of those flitted through his head – traps, knives, one of Tony’s tiny bots – and he cursed again, quieter this time, as he rubbed the spot on his bare skin, wishing he hadn’t taken his boots off by the door in order to be quiet.
Phil came through the doorway, gun drawn, grey sleep pants and soft worn black t-shirt with a S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem on the pocket. His hair was askew, and his eyes wide. “Clint,” he said, voice pitched low. “Sitrep?”
“God damned Lego.” Clint sat on the rounded arm of the couch and bent to pluck the offending pink plastic piece from the floor. “I’m telling you, I need a Lego arrow; spread these babies all over the street and we could take down armies. Thor was reduced to tears, remember?”
“Jesus, Clint, I thought we were under attack.” Phil lowered his weapon and glared at his husband. “Just be damn glad you didn’t wake …” The cry sounded from the nursery. “Aw, shit. You woke him; you go get him before he wakes Bella.”
Bella swung her legs, the bright blue fabric covered with red and yellow whimsical flowers cradling her body as she sat in the umbrella stroller, specially designed safety straps by Tony Stark himself. Her fists were clenched, tear tracks running down her face. Wide open mouth issued cries that echoed in the concrete rafters of Stark Tower’s garage.
“Sweetheart, we’re not going to let you out. I know exactly what you’re going to do if you get loose,” Clint told the upset little girl.
“Down, down, down, down, down, down,” she screamed, flinging her arms out and shaking the stroller. Bella had a temper to rival the Hulk’s when she set her mind to being angry and she held a grudge for a good long time, pouting for hours until she’d come back, hiccups shaking her little voice and beg to be hugged. The therapist – a wonderful young man whose office was filled with toys and pillows, the fourth one they’d tried, had clicked immediately when he dragged out Legos and helped Bella design a monstrous castle during their first appointment – said she was working through her fear of being abandoned. The anger was a way to lash out, drive Clint and Phil away before they left her again. Even at her young age, she’d learned to not trust people when they made promises. What Clint and Phil had to do was both simple and amazingly difficult; stay calm, love her, and keep coming back. They were making progress; after six months of Bella living in the Tower, the episodes were fewer and further between. But keeping his cool while she screamed was one of the hardest things Clint had ever had to do.
Today, she was exhausted from too much excitement. Bruce had gone with Clint to take her and Josh to the Arts Faire in the park, and they’d spent far too long wandering through the stalls and food vendors, watching the puppet show and the performers. Now, Joshua was sleeping in the backpack Bruce was wearing, cookie smears on his yellow button up, and Bella was having her meltdown as they waited on the elevator.
“Want out!” she shouted. Clint ignored her, the best strategy. Giving in would only encourage her to use do this again when she realized she could get her way. Bruce just grimaced at the piercing sound and kept his eyes on the numbers as the elevator descended.
It happened in between heartbeats. She threw her head and bowed her back, lifting her whole body into a straight line. The straps pulled the material up with her, the collapsible struts unlocked, and she was twisting as she fell over, legs pulling up, arms pushing down until somehow, like Natasha escaping from zip ties by unseating her thumbs, Bella was tumbling free and taking off at a run right into the driving lane.
“Holy hell,” Clint cursed under his breath, reaching for the little body; Bella turned and slid out of his grasping fingers. “BELLA! Get back here right now!”
His voice was loud and sharp; Bella’s eyes widened and she darted across the concrete, skittering around the corner, between two Stark Industries Suburbans. Before Clint could grab her, she was under the big SUV, cowering by one of the tires.
“JARVIS, warn us if any cars come,” Clint said as he dropped to the ground and stretched out on his stomach, heedless of the grease and grime. His heart contracted when he saw the wide eyes in the pale face, the fear that lurked there. “Hey, Bella baby. It’s okay.”
“Papa mad,” she whispered.
“I was scared, baby. Cars are big and heavy, and you’re so tiny. That’s why I yelled at you; I don’t want you to get hurt.” Clint didn’t move towards her, waiting patiently for her to come to him.
“Want Daddy.” She cowered, her pretty sundress smudged with black now.
“Daddy’s not here. How about Uncle Bruce? He’s right here.” Clint tamped down the hurt; he knew she was remembering her own fears. Too many boyfriends and temporary homes; when he’d yelled, it all came back to her.
“Big Green?” Her voice was shy, barely audible. Clint tried not to smile; she was already learning how to manipulate him and that was a positive thing. Bella was becoming more and more a normal preschooler, blossoming into a well-adjusted child. Every kid learned how to push their parent’s buttons; it was a fact of life.
“Bruce?” Clint looked over his shoulder at the other man. At the answering nod, Clint rolled up and took the sleeping Joshua. Bruce shifted, stepping away from the cars to give himself room, and then the Hulk picked up the big SUV without a thought, laying his big hand on the ground.
“Bella safe,” he said. She crawled onto his palm, and he gingerly moved her as he sat the car back down. Clambering up his arm as if he was a jungle gym, Bella squealed with laughter as he sat her on his shoulder, holding onto his hair. From scared to happy in seconds, Bella snuggled in close and blinked her sleepy eyes.
Clint let out the breath he’d been holding; the biggest problem now was how to tell Phil that Clint had let their daughter run out into traffic.
“Well, that could have gone better,” Clint declared as he walked off the quinnjet.
What should have been a morning of team training had turned into a free-for-all when the Hulk had taken offense at something Thor had said. Not that unusual an occurrence; the problem was the new kids who misinterpreted the situation and started taking sides. Thank God for super abilities, Phil thought; the only long term effects were a broken wrist and a whole lot of aches and bruises.
“I’ll trade you a meeting with the Joint Chiefs with three hours of posturing about budget cuts. At least you got to blow things up.” Phil had been in the teleconference room at the main SHIELD headquarters when news of the free-for-all came in and caught a jet back. He followed Clint into the elevator, his eyes caught by a drop of water sliding down Clint’s neck, hair still damp from his shower. As the door shut behind them, Phil scooped it up with his finger before it hit Clint’s collar. Clint shivered, turned, and pushed Phil back against the wall, pinning him there.
“God, Phil,” he breathed. “When’s the last time we’ve been alone together?”
Phil couldn’t answer, not with Clint’s mouth covering his, kissing like his life depended on getting his tongue down Phil’s throat. One week, two days, seven hours and twenty six minutes. That’s how long it had been. Not that he had an app on his phone to keep track. Between Avenger missions, the upheaval of the WSC members, and two kids who seemed to have tag team refusal to sleep down to a science, they’d managed to grab a few hours of exhausted sleep side-by-side but that was it.
“JARVIS.” Phil managed to get the one word between kisses.
“Slowing elevator and locking down, sir,” the AI replied as if this was a usual occurrence it was. Tony had a thing for continuing an argument right into the elevator, and, sometimes, the only privacy to be found was inside the small box.
“Not going to need long,” Clint whispered against Phil’s neck even as his hands were unbuckling Phil’s belt and unzipping his pants. In seconds, Clint was on his knees, his wet tongue licking along the underside of Phil’s cock before sucking the tip between his lips. Letting his eyes drift closed, Phil threaded his fingers through Clint’s damp hair and enjoyed the push and pull of his mouth, the clench of Clint’s fingers on his thighs. Too quickly, Phil felt the coil of tension tighten in his gut and he groaned, thrusting his hips and biting his lip to keep the noise down. They’d learned the hard way that sound carried in the elevator shafts.
Clint didn’t pause as Phil came, taking it all; he stood and kissed Phil again, sharing the taste. Hips straddled Phil’s leg and Clint rocked his hard cock against the suit fabric, looking for his own release; Phil barely got his handkerchief out and his hand around Clint before Clint’s moves became jerky. Burying his head into the nook of Phil’s shoulder, Clint gasped his name before he came and Phil caught as much as he could in the square of cloth.
“Long slow sleepy morning sex,” Clint said between breaths.
“Is that an offer?” Phil replied.
“I miss it. Waking up with you inside me, taking me apart in that methodical way that drives me crazy,” Clint clarified. Yeah, Phil missed that too.
“Soon as Margaret is back, I’ll take a weekend and we’ll go back to that Inn,” he promised.
“I’m going to hold you to that.” Clint put himself back together; Phil did the same. “What are the odds of us getting the kids down for their nap and moving this to the bedroom?”
“Worth a try. JARVIS?” Phil asked. The doors slid open in reply.
“We’re in here!” a voice called from the kitchen.
Darcy was wearing an apron that said “Agent Agent” – Tony’s sense of humor – over her denim shorts and Thor t-shirt. Hair pulled back, she had smudges of flour on her face and her bare feet were standing in one of the puddles of water that littered the tile floor. On the granite countertop, bowls and spoons leaned in unstable towers, broken egg shells in a cup, and a pile of baking bits disappearing as small fingers pinched them, one-by-one, and popped them in his mouth. Seated in the kitchen sink – not beside it, but in the sudsy water that came up to his waist -- a naked Joshua held a sippy cup full of dark liquid in the hand that wasn’t shoveling chocolate into his mouth. Standing on a chair pushed up to the counter, Bella’s red hair looked like she’d been out in the snow; shoving a handful of raw dough in her mouth, Bella turned her eyes away and refused to look at her fathers.
“We’re making cookies for the daycare. Tomorrow’s Ms. Janine’s birthday,” Darcy said, turning to put a full cookie sheet on another counter where two more awaited their turn in the oven. “Don’t worry, they ate their veggies at lunch … and by the way, did you now if a kid eats enough carrots they poop orange? … and they’ve had their vitamins.”
“What’s Josh drinking?” Phil asked, tamping down on his exasperation. He could see the way Josh was bouncing and knew what that meant – sugar overload. At least it was early afternoon and they could let him run it off in the playroom so they could get some sleep tonight. Clint snagged Bella before she could slip another bite to squirrel away in her chipmunk cheeks.
“It’s all organic! Jane found it at that specialty market. No high fructose corn syrup or preservatives or chemicals. All natural soda. Half the calories, doesn’t taste that bad.” She brushed her hands on her apron as she put the last of round of dough on another pan.
“Sugar? Chocolate?” Phil could get angry, but what good would that do? Darcy volunteered to babysit on rare occasions, usually busy as Jane’s assistant and an occasional treat wasn’t going to hurt them. Margaret was due home tomorrow from her vacation; she’d get things back in order. Still, he needed to say it. “We talked about this last time, Darcy. The kids need a routine and a regular diet.”
“Yep. That’s why I’ve been dolling the treats out little by little; you said they could have sweet snacks if I kept it small.”
Now that Phil looked, the small pile of chocolate bits kept Josh busy picking up one at a time and there was only an inch of soda in the cup. Bella had her own dough to play with and eat, maybe one cookie’s worth.
“C Cookie!” Josh laughed and pointed at the plate of warm from the oven treats, his fingers covered with smeared chocolate.
“Yeah, Cookie Monster, c is for cookie,” Phil agreed with a sigh. So much for naptime and continuing their elevator activities.
Phil paced as the doctor looked over the squirming little boy; Joshua hated being poked and prodded, too many bad memories of white coats and long needles. Seated on Clint’s lap, Josh was registering his protest vocally, big fat tears squeezing from the corner of his eyes as the doctor tilted his head back and used an endoscope to see inside his nasal passageway. Only Clint’s strength kept Josh from throwing himself off the table to get away.
“Ah.” The doctor gave a satisfied sigh.
For the first time since Phil had heard the screams and found Josh sitting on the floor with streams of red snot running out of his nose, he let his shoulders relax slightly.
“What is it?” Phil asked, tone calm and even despite the racing of his heart and tight band across his chest. His mind had proved so many worst-case scenarios; Clint had to talk him down, taking away his Starkphone after he’d put Josh’s symptoms into webmd.com and come up with meningitis.
“Did he have access to any colored candy? Something small?” the doctor asked.
“There’s still some Halloween candy left, I think, but it’s in the cabinet in the kitchen, on the top shelves, in a childproof canister.” Phil thought about it then shook his head. “He’s not a climber like his sister.”
“Bella had some. From Tony’s stash. A little box of Nerds, strawberry and grape, I think. You know the ones he keeps for them? The individual serving size.” Clint looked over at the doctor. As soon as the man stepped away, Josh turned and buried his face in Clint’s chest, hiding his eyes.
“I don’t understand. Why would a piece of candy make him sick? Is he allergic to the dye or is it his hypersensitivity? He’s eaten those before,” Phil asked the doctor.
“Eating them isn’t the problem, Mr. Coulson. Shoving them up his nose, well, that’s different.” The man tried to hide his smile. “He’s not the first kid to see what fits. At least Nerds melt … that’s the colors you’re seeing … and are relatively harmless. One kid shoved a button up there and had to have surgery to remove it. As the candy reaches body temperature, it will dissolve. Burns a little and irritates the passageway lining, thus the fever, but it will pass shortly.”
“How did he … I was right there in the room!” Phil protested. He’d been working on his tablet, sure, but Josh had been perfectly content with knocking over the block towers Bella was building for him.
“They’re fast little buggers,” the doctor laughed. “Probably swiped them behind his sister’s back. Seriously, Mr. Coulson, this kind of thing happens. He’s fine. No, he’s more than fine. This is very normal, so that’s a good thing with Josh. He’s beginning to feel safe enough to be a child again.”
“I should have seen it,” Phil grumbled as the doctor left and they packed up their things. “Called in an emergency for candy snot.”
“It’s okay, Phil. I let Bella escape in the garage; you let Josh stuff his nose full of Nerds. We’re even.”
“How long?”
Clint yanked at his tie, slipping it out of its knot and tossing it aside.
“Fifteen minutes, twenty or so if I bribe JARVIS to change the lights to green.”
Phil’s belt rasp out of his pants’ loops, and he tugged his jacket off, tossing it across the back of the chair.
“Time enough?”
Clint shimmied out of his pants and briefs at the same time, stepping out and leaving them where they fell, moving on to the buttons on his shirt.
“How much prep do you need?”
Shirt, tie, pants … Phil was damn efficient when he wanted to be and Clint had always admired that about the man. In less than a minute thirty, Phil was opening the bedside drawer and tossing the lube on the bed.
“Not much. Had a long shower this morning.”
He might have blushed at admitting he fingered himself open earlier, but that was before kids. Now, he was damn glad to be ready to go at a moment’s notice. Aside from scheduling sex, they rarely had moments like these – kids down for a nap, both of them home, and no one expecting them anywhere soon. Phil had a meeting, but a whole quarter of an hour? That was an unexpected boon.
“Bed. Now.”
Both still had their socks on, but neither one care as Phil pushed Clint back into the mattress with an aggressive kiss and squirted lube on Clint’s stomach, enough for both of them to coat their hands and reach for each other’s cocks. Mouths locked together, hands stroking, they applied their single minded focus on their goal.
“Need this. Need you. So good, Phil. God, yes. Right there.”
Clint had worried, on some deep level, that this feeling wouldn’t last, the overload of sensation that washed over his brain every time Phil touched him. Passion had been a passing spark, blown out quickly by day-to-day realities of personal baggage and general fucked-up backstory he carried into each relationship. But Phil, Phil was different. Sex wasn’t just sex anymore; each time they touched built upon the last, history and future wound up in something more important than passion. Love -- not the romantic kind like a novel, but the kind that survived all the ups and downs, the nightmares and the simple joys. Clint would never get tired of Phil, couldn’t survive without him. Phil was his life in ways that Clint could never explain.
“You ready? I need …”
Phil pressed in and Clint moaned, low and quiet. With hushed voices, they whispered back and forth as Phil slipped out and back in, building speed slowly until he was thrusting with an easy slide and they were rocking the bed with the motion. Cock throbbing, muscles tensing, Clint’s body responded to the snap of Phil’s hips and he wrapped his legs around Phil’s waist and held onto the head board.
There’s a man who lives a life of danger. To everyone he meets he stays a stranger.
The music sounded from the bedside table as Phil’s phone vibrated.
“Damn it,” Phil cursed under his breath. “Damn Stark and his sense of humor.”
When he paused and reached for the phone, Clint grabbed his hand and tugged it back. “Don’t. Just two more minutes. It’ll go to voicemail,” he begged.
“Fuck it,” Phil muttered, bracing his hands on the bed and getting back into the rhythm.
With every move he makes, another chance he takes, odds are he won’t live to see tomorrow.
Clint bit his lip and shifted his hips until Phil was at the perfect angle to make him see stars. “Yes, just like that. Love you, Phil. God, I love you.”
Secret Agent Man, Secret Agent Man. They’ve given you a number and taken away your name.
“I’m going to kill Tony,” Phil ground out between clenched teeth. He dropped to his elbows and slammed in harder. “Next … time ... I see him.”
The phone grew silent and Clint sighed, getting his mind back into the pleasure of the moment. Lifting his head, he nipped at Phil’s neck. “That’s good. Right there.”
“God, you’re so tight,” Phil murmured against Clint’s shoulder. He grunted and sucked in a breath, a good sign that he was nearing his own climax.
Beware of pretty faces that you find. A pretty face can hide an evil mind.
“Shit.” Phil stilled, eyes flashing his frustration. “Damn it all to hell. That’s Fury calling.”
“Fury can damn well wait until we get off. He owes us for lying about you being dead.” Clint dropped his feet on the mattress, braced himself and rocked up, trying to fuck himself over the edge. “Jesus, Phil, I just need a little more.”
Be careful what you say or you’ll give yourself away. Odds are you won’t live to see tomorrow.
Phil growled – literally growled – and began to move again, slowly then faster as the music played the chorus one more time before stopping. For a few moments, only the sound of their heavy breaths filled the room and Clint was so close, right at the moment when his cock jerked and he was ready to come when the damn song started up again.
Swinging on the Riviera one day and then laying in a Bombay alley the next day.
He couldn’t help it. He started laughing, voice strangled and half-hysterical, the intensity of his orgasm postponed once again by the interruption. Phil hesitated then a chuckle escaped, and they were both shaking with mirth, thrusts breaking the sounds into stuttering giggles.
“Oh, fuck.” Clint half-moaned, half-guffawed as Phil’s cock sank deep, nudging Clint’s prostate. The laughs vibrated through Clint’s chest, and he was coming, spurting warm liquid between them in fits and starts. “Oh, hell, Phil, that was brilliant.”
“Secret … fucking … agent … man … that’s …” Phil bit his lip and thrust one more time, spilling inside Clint before collapsing on top of him. He rolled over on his back, slipping out of Clint, and the bed shook with his belly laughs. “Fuck me. That’s funny.”
While Clint gasped for air to stop the fit of giggles, Phil picked up his Starkphone and checked the display. “Three messages from Fury. How many times do you think he says motherfucker?”
“Oh, no, don’t.” That set Clint off again. “Answer the motherfucking phone, Phil. You better not be fucking Clint right now, you motherfucker. Quit banging your boy toy and pick up the motherfucking phone!”
Secret Agent Man, Secret Agent Man.
“Better pick it up,” Clint said through his laughter. “Tell him I said hi.”
“Got to change that ringtone,” Phil grumbled as he answered.
“Oh, I know the perfect one for Tony, don’t worry.”
Bella smeared the purple paint with her fingers, long lines that looked vaguely like the Tower if Clint squinted his eyes just right. She’d used different colors for each floor – bright green for Bruce’s, red for Tony’s, and a patriotic blue for Steve’s, purple for theirs – and was chattering away to the docent, a pretty brunette who had seemed interested in Steve, but had been nothing but polite. It had been Steve’s idea to sign Bella up for the Met’s children’s program that encouraged the arts. She’d taken to it like a duck to water, jumping right into the various activities especially if they were messy ones that involved paint. Today was architecture as art; big bins of tinker toys and bricks of all kinds were strewn around the room, most of the kids hard at work making towers and castles. Bella had gone right to the table and began making her own version of their home, complete with a cantilever swimming pool on the roof and a room for the puppy she was currently lobbying for.
“What’s that?” The brunette asked, pointing at a big empty space in the middle of the green floor.
“For bad men,” Bella said matter-of-factly. “Papa and Daddy catch ‘em.”
“Oh, I see.” The woman looked at Clint. “Are you a police officer?”
Steve grinned as Clint answered with their standard reply. “I work for one of the alphabet agencies.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “I’m actually working on my dissertation about the founding of the C.I.A. and S.H.I.E.L.D. during World War II. You don’t strike me as F.B.I. … not the suit type … and I’ve got a good eye for these things.”
“Dissertation?” Steve asked, the word catching his interest. He loved history; at any given time, his TV was tuned to History International because, as he said, the History Chanel didn’t do history anymore.
“I’m a doctoral candidate at NYU. I volunteer here on the weekends.” She passed a plastic jar of orange tempura to a curly headed little boy at the next table. “My granddad was a famous art historian; he’s the reason I’m interested in history. He was a member of the MFAA; went all over Europe finding and restoring stolen artwork.”
“Monument Men? I saw that movie.” Clint tossed out, but he might as well not have said anything for the attention Steve paid him. So Cap was interested, hm?
“Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives? I know some of those guys,” Steve said then he backtracked. “I know about them, I mean. Amazing work they did recovering Nazi treasure troves.”
“Granddad never tired of telling the story of how he was with Patton and the Third when they found the Reichsbank gold and the Berlin museum stash. That’s when he met Peggy Carter and why I picked my topic. He’d wax poetic about her until Grandma would tease him about his crush. She founded S.H.I.E.L.D. and we need to pay more attention to strong women who changed history.”
“Yeah. I know about her too,” Steve said as a shadow crossed his face.
“Unca Stebe!” Bella crawled up Steve’s leg and planted her hands on his blue checkered shirt, paint oozing between her fingers. “Look what I did!” She pointed at the paper where a stick figure with a shock of blonde wavy hair stood on a balcony, red round on his back with what could be a white star in the middle.
“Bella.” Clint reached for the girl to pull her off. He’d learned to keep his voice even and not yell; the last thing he needed to do was hunt down a three-year-old in the museum. “Let’s let Uncle Steve talk to the nice lady while we clean up, okay? It’s almost time to go. Daddy’s going to meet us for ice cream, remember?”
“Cream!!!” She bounced off of Steve’s lap and Clint caught her before she could do more damage; her hands splayed on his grey t-shirt as she leaned in to give him a kiss. Steve stood, the messy circles of paint leaving drops running down the stripes on his shirt, more splatters on his khaki pants. “I’m sorry,” Clint said. “Bella’s the queen of chaos.”
“She’s a kid,” Steve said with a shrug. “Mess happens. Nothing to be sorry about.”
“Actually, if you get it before it dries, it’s washable. I deal with it every week. In fact, we have a washer/dryer in the back room; if you want, I’ll toss it in. Shouldn’t take long,” the docent offered. She was obvious about her interest now that Bella had called Steve her uncle.
“Thanks …” Steve paused then gave her a brilliant patented Captain America smile, waiting.
“Rose. Rose McIntyre.” She blushed at the wattage of charm. “It’s no problem, Steve. Oh, and your shirt too, if you want,” she off-handedly added to Clint.
“Nope. This is a Bella Coulson original,” Clint said, his hands full of wet wipes and squirming girl as he cleaned up Bella’s hands. “I’m keeping it. You have fun, Uncle Steve, and remember that gelato place is just around the corner. They have good cappuccinos,” he added with a wink.
Clint stretched, arms over his head, back arched, and listened to the pops as bone and muscles protested. He was getting too old for all of it, saving the world, chasing after kids, and night long sexual acrobatics. What he needed was a good massage and a glass of fine scotch, a weekend with nothing to do but … Phil turned his head, opening his eyes as the morning sun seeped around the curtain edges. Seeing Clint sitting on the edge of the bed, he smiled that slow special smile Phil only ever gave to him.
“You getting up?” Phil asked, rolling onto his back and pushing up on his elbows. He glanced at the clock. “We could have an earlier breakfast if you want. Get a jump on the day.”
“You just want coffee.” Leaning over, Clint kissed his husband, a long lingering touch that promised more to come. “Give me five and we can head down. Renee said the menu was stuffed French toast. Fresh fruit and cream. Yeah, I can get onboard with that.”
He scooped his phone up as he grabbed his jeans that had been hastily discarded on the floor. They’d arrived late last night, an unexpected decision to take the weekend that had been the result of Pepper and Natasha’s intervention. The two women had made all the arrangements right down to the bottle of whiskey on the sideboard and box of fresh donuts.
“You still want to go hiking today? Renee said she’d make us lunches for the trail. Pisgah or you want to tackle Mount Monadnock?” Phil called as Clint shut the door behind him. Clint tapped his phone and brought up his contact list.
“I’m thinking Pisgah and we make an appointment for one of those couples massages at the spa – candles, dark rooms, magic fingers. We can work that in before our dinner reservation.” Clint found the name he wanted and pulled up the number. “Lobster and garlic butter. With those rolls. I dream about those rolls.”
“Un-huh,” Phil answered, the floor creaking as he moved around the room. “I’ll call the front desk and tell them we want to move our breakfast up.”
Clint pushed call and waited as the phone rang three times, hand poised over the toilet handle. As soon as Margaret picked up, he flushed to cover his conversation. “Hey, Maggie. Just, um, calling to, you know, check in. How’d the kids sleep last night?”
“I’ll tell you the same thing I was just told Phil on the other line. They are fine. Bring them back a cute gift, but go enjoy your weekend. You’re better parents if you get some time to yourselves. Now tell Phil that if he calls me again, I’m going to rat him out to Natasha.”
The line went dead, and Clint looked up at Phil as he opened the door, his own phone in his hand. “She’s going to bring Nat into it if we call again,” Clint said.
Sheepishly, Phil tucked his phone into the pocket of the pants he’d pulled on. “So, a massage? That sounds like a good way to relax.”
“Yep. Real maple syrup, the great outdoors, a massage, garlic butter, some scotch, and you and me in that big tub. That’s the plan.” Clint grinned. “We’ll have JARVIS monitor them so we don’t have to call.”
“Have I told you how much I love you?” Phil asked, smiling in return. “I’ve already got the app set up on my phone.”