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"Phone." Nick deadpans the word, tossing it into the end of his sentence like he was shooing a fly away, and it takes a second for Phil to figure out it isn't code for anything.
Something like, 'There is a sniper outside the window and he's got a red dot on your jacket you should probably move'. No, he was pretty sure the code word for that was 'trapeze'.
For a second, Coulson loses just enough focus trying to remember what the code for 'killer swan attack' is that Fury takes it upon himself to become a secretary and answer it.
"Phil? I'm hot."
On speakerphone.
He makes a grab for the device, only to have Fury calmly slide it to his side of the desk as Clint purrs through the speaker.
"Fucking... God, I need you to get back to your bunk and touch me. You've been gone all day, and I wanted to-"
"Clint. Clint, don't-" He wants nothing more than to dive across the desk and wrestle Fury to the ground like two twelve year olds fighting over an Xbox controller. But the eyebrow arch that lightening-strikes from Fury's face forces him to stay in his seat, hands to himself.
"Been thinking, mm, that I want you to fuck me up against the sink, just, god... just take me apart and-"
Phil breaks perimeter and leans forward in his seat, not making a grab for the phone but certainly throwing his best verbal effort out there.
"Clint, now is not a-"
"Shut up, I'm trying to fantasize about you. Okay. I'm on your bed, got everything off but my boots, was gonna wait for you to get back after your meeting thing, but hey, you know I don't have the patience."
Clint is just growling into the receiver, and Coulson can't help curling his toes up in his shoes. He's not entirely sure whether it's from arousal or desire to go the way of the wicked witch of the East under the gaze of his superior.
"You can do anything to me when you get back here, god, I don't even care," Theres a heavy breath against the phone, and he's starting to sound like he's speaking with his lip trapped between his teeth, "Just want you to- fuck, want your mouth on me, wanna ride you so hard I get rugburn on my knees, grab me by the hips and not let go 'til you finish inside me-"
"CLINT."
Finally, finally the phone quiets, and the buzzing in Coulson's ears and itch at his hairline are almost audible in the silence.
"...you want me to call you back when you can get a hand in your pants?"
Before Phil can stop that sentence, the Highlander of quiet focus takes it for him, that fucking eyebrow staying just as steady as a flamingo on one leg.
"No, Barton. Please continue."
All things stop. Traffic in New York ceases to exist, all batteries in TV remotes die simultaneously, and somewhere, a polar ice cap starts to crack in half.
Coulson doesn't think he can buy Fury enough cookie bouquets to make up for the seat he's about to set ablaze with his shame.
"Um... no hablo english." click
After ticking off how many birthday presents Clint isn't getting this year, along with installing the world's biggest firewall on his computer, Coulson finally meets Fury's gaze, waiting to be told he's being demoted to doing whatever it is Tony's little robot arm thing does.
"So. How stable is the sink in your room? Because mine creaks an awful lot, and I'd think, under the pressure, it would-"
"Permission to be excused, General Fury." before I either cum in this office chair or meld with it's molecules to render myself invisible
"Granted."
Coulson practically leaps out of his chair at the word, most of his usual grace still trying to flow into his limbs when suddenly, Fury's glass-edge voice booms out his name again and he's forced to meet his gaze.
"You forgot your phone."