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Phil woke up to the alarm at six much like he had every day for the past two months and shut it off before rolling out of bed. He glanced back for a moment to see Clint snuggling into the warm hollow left behind and mumbling in a sleepy slur, "Five more minutes."
Clint had the luxury of being able to hit snooze and still get up. Phil sighed quietly and walked to the bathroom. He emptied his bladder and turned on the shower and waited until the water got hot before stepping in.
The shower took six minutes. It was a leftover habit from his Ranger days, timing his showers, and it gave him enough time to wash his slowly thinning hair, shave whatever beard growth had appeared over the past twenty-four hours, and brush his teeth. Then he shut off the water and stepped out, wrapping himself in a towel. He wiped the fog from the glass of the mirror, mentally making a note as he had for the past year that they should really get one of those mirrors that resisted fogging, and checked that he hadn't missed a spot while shaving.
He hadn't, as usual, but it was part of his routine. He looked up to meet his own eyes in the reflection. God, he looked pale and tired. There were deep shadows under his eyes and Phil was certain that more wrinkles were appearing in his forehead.
Self-examination was not part of the routine. He walked out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom, where Clint was rather guiltily shutting off his alarm (hit snooze twice today, it would appear) and getting out of bed.
"Morning," Clint mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. He brushed past Phil on his way to the bathroom and Phil heard the shower turn on. Clint liked his showers lukewarm, almost cool. On the days they showered together, they'd put the water on hot and by the end of it, Clint's skin would be flushed pink from the heat.
But they weren't showering together this morning. Phil opened the closet doors and examined his suits. Two were away at the dry-cleaners and one had been incinerated following a mission, so his options were rather limited.
He didn't care. He picked out an older one, a nondescript grey, and laid it out on the bed while he put on his boxers and undershirt. He was just finishing buttoning up his plain white shirt when the water shut off and Clint emerged from the bathroom, towel around his waist, hair wet and spiked up in every direction, water droplets slowly sliding down his chest and abs.
"Not that tie," Clint said, walking over (dripping water on the carpet again, damn it) and plucking the grey tie with tiny pinprick black dots from Phil's hands. He stuck it back on the tie rack, completely ignoring the system of arranging by color that Phil had, and took out a deep burgundy tie. "You need a bit of color," he said, turning up Phil's collar so he could put the tie around his neck. He looked down and busied himself with tying a half-Windsor. Clint could have gotten a badge in Boy Scouts for knowing practically every single knot you could tie with a rope, but he could only do a four-in-hand or a half-Windsor with a tie. He finished the knot and tugged it into place, then stepped back appraisingly.
"Much better," Clint said, and leaned up to peck Phil on the mouth. Phil could smell the mint toothpaste that Clint had used.
"If you say so," Phil said. He picked up his jacket and put it on, examining his lapel in the mirror and tugging the cuffs of his shirt down. He had to admit, the burgundy tie did look nice, and it even went well with the dark brown belt that Phil had chosen. He glanced over at Clint, who was pulling one of his interchangeable t-shirts over his head, further messing up his hair, and had a pair of slim black jeans ready to put on.
Ogling Clint wasn't – well, it wasn't supposed to be part of his routine. Phil slipped on his shoes and went to collect the newspaper and make coffee. He wasn't reading the newspaper these days, but he still got it out of a sense of duty. If he didn't, well, he might throw the rest of his schedule out of kilter and who knew how things would go then?
He stared out the window while the coffee brewed. It was late summer. The sun had come up a while ago. The city that never sleeps was beginning the morning bustle, when the roads filled up and the subway trains ran more frequently instead of the occasional passes, mostly empty, underneath the stoplights and neighborhoods.
Usually he'd feel... More alive, in the summer, but the anniversary of the Battle of New York had passed and Clint had been gone on a mission and Phil had levered himself out of bed like it was the hardest thing to do in the universe.
It could have been.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and left the pot for Clint. It was an awful habit, but Clint would drink straight out of the pot. Phil had gotten him a 32-ounce cup once and Clint had thanked him but it sat in the cupboard unused.
"Taken your meds yet?" Clint asked as he walked into their small, cramped kitchen and picked up the pot. He tipped it into his mouth. Phil's coffee was still steaming in his mug, too hot for him to touch, but Clint didn't seem to care at all. Sometimes Phil was concerned that Clint had burned all his tastebuds away, but then Clint would gush about some restaurant and when they ate there, he'd manage to pick out almost all the spices and ingredients in a dish.
"I will," Phil said softly, still staring out the window. He had never explained the routine thing to Clint. It was private. If he voiced it, he thought, the magic of how it worked might disappear. Or Clint would try to help, and ruin it – not intentionally or anything, just that the delicate way it kept Phil in working order might all fall apart if someone paid too close attention to it. He finally lifted the mug to his lips and took a sip. It was hot, but he didn't burn his tongue. He managed to drink about a quarter of a cup before he got up and took his pills from their shelf in the cabinet. He tipped the bottle and counted out two, then capped it again. The bottle rattled when he put it away.
"I'll be needing to refill it in a week," he said, taking a glass from the draining board. He filled it halfway with water from the sink and swallowed the pills one by one. That was the routine.
Clint nodded. He'd opened up the paper and was scanning the articles. Phil was never sure if he actually read them or was interested in them.
The rest of the routine was traditionally passed in silence. Clint would finish the pot of coffee around the same time as Phil finished his cup, and then they'd collect their things and leave. Phil would get his second cup of coffee at SHIELD.
"Ready?" Clint asked, putting down the coffee pot and wiping his mouth with a napkin, which he then balled up and tossed in the trash.
Phil swallowed his last mouthful of coffee and put the mug in the sink. He'd wash it later – or Clint would, because sometimes the things Phil set down for later were hard to pick up again – and stood up. "Ready," he said.
Clint drove them into work, in the black Acura with the radio on NPR. Phil half-listened to it. They parked in Phil's spot, since it was far better than Clint's (seniority was a definite perk at SHIELD) and exchanged one last kiss before returning to professionalism and going their separate ways within SHIELD.
That was just the way it went. It was a routine.
It wasn't that Phil preferred being manic, it was just that it was better than the low swings. He wasn't sure what had triggered the swing this time; perhaps it was that his brain chemistry was just sick of feeling like crap. But he went from quiet and reserved to workaholic and high-speed. The meds kept him from getting too manic, of course; the swings were better than when he was in his early twenties, when he was in the Rangers and in the grip of one of his first manic swings and barely sleeping; doing crazy shit and earning the nickname of Cheese from some mission now long in the past; developing a strong friendship with Fury. The meds smoothed the mountains of his highs and the valleys of his lows into hills and potholes.
They couldn't keep him from the moodswings. It happened mid-day, and it was a noticeable change. It was like the sun coming out, shining bright after a rainstorm.
He was fucking unstoppable.
Phil hated that the docs wanted to completely even out his swings until they were nearly flat. The depression was easier to deal with on the meds, but he missed the high, invincible feeling that his manias gave him sometimes.
He'd been manic when Loki appeared. It helped, he insisted to his psychiatrist (thankfully employed by SHIELD and given a high security clearance). They were in a full-scale emergency op and there wasn't time for him to sleep – and he didn't need to sleep, since he was in the middle of a manic swing.
"You went after a god with an untested weapon," the doctor said calmly.
Phil paced the room (it wasn't that he couldn't sit down, it was that he didn't want to, because it ruined the state of perpetual motion that he loved being in). "Well, now it's been tested," he said. "I think it works well."
That wasn't the point, the doctor had insisted. Phil had nearly gotten killed.
"But I didn't," Phil said. He was practically invincible on a high. Un-fucking-stoppable. "I really have to get back to work," he said, and cut the appointment short.
He didn't have to get back to work. He'd finished the pile of paperwork on his desk and was readying his candidates for a new team. He'd texted Clint and they'd set up a lunch date.
Phil had missed the mania, not that he'd admit that to the psychiatrist. He put in a request for the refill of his medication and worked on reducing the pile of paperwork that had grown during his depression. He worked so much faster when he was manic. He didn't need to take breaks for sleep or food (well, he did need food, but he could eat his lunch in about four minutes). There was no routine to make sure he didn't end up staring forlornly out the window, unable to motivate himself to rise from his chair.
Everyone around him moved in slow motion and Phil, he was full of energy.
"Christ, you're happy to see me," Clint said when he walked into Phil's office at just past five so they could drive home together. Phil had leapt up and kissed him hard and fast and dirty against the wall.
"When am I not?" Phil asked. He pulled on his suit jacket (when had he taken it off? Oh, right, he went down and sparred with Jasper and a bunch of newbies and laid them all flat on their backs on the mat and it was exhilarating), patted his pockets to make sure he had everything, and practically bounced out of the office with Clint following and trying to hide a smile. Clint locked up Phil's office because Phil didn't have the patience to deal with keys (why wasn't it electronic? It was so much faster, and SHIELD had a generator anyway) and followed him out to the car.
"I'm driving," Phil said. He caught the car keys as Clint tossed them to him.
"Just stay below the speed limit," Clint said. He was grinning.
Clint liked Phil better when he was manic. See, there were no downsides to it. Really, Phil promised himself. None at all.
Phil washed the mug he'd left in the sink (and why did he leave it? It would get those brown coffee rings on the inside which were nearly impossible to get out, except he was determined to do that and he could, and he did) and cooked dinner (pasta, loads of pasta, with a home-made sauce and meatballs that Clint made because Phil could never get that recipe right) and then washed the pots and pans and dishes and put on a rerun of Dog Cops while he cleaned up the rest of the apartment. How had he let it get so bad?
"Babe," Clint said from where he was lying on the couch (and Phil would have to clean that too and probably vacuum between the cushions because he was willing to bet that there were crumbs stuck down there), "put down the paper towels and just sit next to me."
Phil finished wiping down the counter because he didn't want to leave the job unfinished and threw away the paper towel. He sat down on the couch and bounced his leg up and down.
"Phil."
He stopped. He watched Dog Cops. A commercial came on. It was slow. He could be doing things.
Idea. He leaned into Clint. He let his hands wander over Clint's body before resting on his crotch, and looked up with a lascivious grin.
Clint had a look of fond exasperation on his face, but he switched off the TV and took them both into the bedroom, where Phil got on his knees and unzipped Clint's fly.
Phil was fantastic at giving blowjobs while manic. He channeled all his enthusiasm and energy into taking Clint deep, tongue swirling around the head of Clint's dick when Phil pulled back, eagerly letting Clint fuck his mouth harder and faster until he came, and Phil swallowed the load greedily, licking his lips when Clint finally pulled away.
"Fuck," Clint whispered, voice ragged.
Phil grinned like the Cheshire Cat. "Yes," he said, and he was proud of how wrecked his voice sounded, because it meant he'd worked hard to bring Clint to orgasm, and it was already getting Clint hard again.
Phil stripped down and laid on his stomach on the bed while Clint snapped open the cap of the lube and slowly circled Phil's hole with one slick finger before plunging it in. Phil keened and pressed back against it, eager for more. Clint just put one hand on Phil's back, between his shoulderblades, and inserted a second finger, slowly stretching and scissoring inside.
"C'mon, just fuck me," Phil said. He'd raised himself onto his elbows and knees, ass pushing back to get Clint to drive his fingers deeper, cock hanging hard and heavy between his legs. "I need to feel it."
Clint wasn't having any of that. He put in a third finger, slippery with lube, and continued stretching Phil out until Phil snapped, "Fuck me," and then he finally pulled his fingers out and rolled a condom down onto his cock. He covered his cock in lube since he hadn't done much prep, then lined himself up and pushed in slowly.
Too slowly for Phil. Phil grunted and impaled himself fully onto Clint's dick.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Clint said breathlessly. Then he started to move, fast and hard thrusts like Phil wanted, like he needed when he was like this. Clint reached one hand around to pump at Phil's cock at the same time, and the sensations nearly sent him over the edge already. But Phil could be good, and he could wait.
The feeling of Clint's dick hitting his prostate was too much. Phil was coming hard all over Clint's hand, his body shaking through the whole thing and then further through the aftershocks. He could feel Clint's thrusts becoming more shallow and irregular.
"No," Phil gasped, "no, I'm gonna be ready in a minute. I wanna come again."
Clint slowed, and Phil felt Clint's hand brush his balls and he knew Clint was gripping the base of his own cock to keep himself from coming. And then Clint was fucking him again, hard and fast and deep like before, angle adjusted to hit Phil's prostate every time, and Phil's cock hardened and spurted again gamely a few times, and then Clint was coming inside him, one hand gripping Phil's hip hard enough to leave fingertip bruises.
"Fuck," Clint said, panting, and he pulled out slowly, cock limp, then removed the condom and tied it off. He threw it away and then wrapped one hand around Phil's dick, which was still hard, and brought him to orgasm again. Phil came almost dry that time, and he knew that would be the last time that night.
Clint put his head down and stretched out for some post-coital cuddling and relaxation, but Phil could feel himself growing impatient by the second. Energy was buzzing under his skin and making it impossible for him to lie still.
"I'm gonna clean up," he said, rising. He walked to the bathroom and came back with a wet cloth, which he used to wipe the cum from Clint's hand, and then Phil went back and took a shower.
Clint was dozing by the time he came back. He'd probably wake up in half an hour or so, and then Phil could change the sheets.
Half an hour was enough time to clean the stovetop (which had splashes of sauce on it from dinner) and probably most of the living room. Phil pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and got to work. There was a pleasant ache from being fucked.
He turned the TV back on and started wiping down the stove. After he cleaned the apartment, maybe he'd go for a run. Then he'd be back by midnight and try to get a few hours of sleep, and if he woke up at five he'd have enough time for another run. Or a morning fuck.
Or laundry, he amended, looking down at the rag he'd been using. There was plenty of laundry to do, and he could probably put most of it up in one load. Then Clint wouldn't have to do the laundry, which took forever because he separated the stuff, and they could have more time to fuck.
Manic wasn't bad, he told himself as he worked late into the night, first on cleaning and then on drawing, because he'd decided that they needed more art to hang in the apartment, and what better than a sketch of Clint naked and asleep on their bed?
Clint disagreed when he spotted it in the morning, but Phil decided to buy a frame – no, better, to make one for it anyway. And then Clint handed Phil his two pills to take in the morning and said, "You have an appointment with the doc today."
And, well, manic wasn't actually better than depressive, in the end. Just two sides of the same coin.
"That's bipolar disorder for you," the doctor said. "Here's the script for the refill. Agent Barton tells me you were up all night. I can up the dose if you need it."
Phil paused with his mouth open to deny it, but then he shut it again, thought, and said, "I think that would be a good idea."