Tora (torakowalski) wrote,

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Ficlet: Something Quiet and Minor and Peaceful and Slow (Avengers)

Since I can't post the 60k Jesse/Andrew fic I want to post right now, I thought I'd post this instead. Oh Clint and Coulson, you are like a palm to my soul.

Title: Something Quiet and Minor and Peaceful and Slow
Fandom: Avengers (movie 'verse)
Pairing: Clint/Coulson
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2780 words
Summary: On a normal nights, it takes Phil three minutes, seventeen seconds to go from dressed to bed but tonight he’s working much slower than that, an unusual hesitance between movements.

Something Quiet and Minor and Peaceful and Slow

Clint is deep asleep when the handle starts to turn but he’s on his feet, bow up before the bedroom door opens.

“Hey,” Phil says, raising his eyebrows and flicking on the light. “Did I forget the secret knock?”

Clint lowers his bow, tucking it back behind the bed before throwing himself down onto the comforter with a groan. “Yeah,” he says, burying his face back into the pillow so his words come out muffled. “Work on that.”

“Pardon?” Phil asks. Clint waves a hand in the air, telling him that it’s not important. He listens to the slide of Phil’s jacket coming down his arms, the quiet click of buttons unfastening, the louder metallic click-clack as he lays his belt and gun aside.

On a normal nights, it takes Phil three minutes, seventeen seconds to go from dressed to bed but tonight he’s working much slower than that, an unusual hesitance between movements. It’s weird enough to get Clint rolling over onto his back, squinting against the bright overhead light.

“What’s happened to you?” he asks, careful not to sound like he cares or anything, just asking a question.

“Hmm?” Phil hums. He finally drops his pants onto the floor and crawls onto the bed in just his boxers and t-shirt. He looks exhausted, blue shadows under his eyes, but there aren’t any visible bruises, at least.

“You’re stiff,” Clint mutters. He hates having to spell it out, and he hates even more the look of surprise on Phil’s face.

“Sixteen hours of paperwork,” he says, leaning over Clint, one hand on either side of his head, “and Fury stole my ergonomic chair.”

“That bastard,” Clint rumbles, reaching up and squeezing Phil’s shoulders.

“Mm,” Phil agrees. It’s always a sign that he’s tired when he doesn’t actually bother with words, just sounds. He leans down, kissing Clint slowly, all two a.m. slickness and need.

Clint doesn’t say anything else, just uses his grip on Phil’s shoulders to roll them both over, straddling his hips.

Phil blinks up at him, smiling slowly. “Sorry I woke you up,” he says because he isn’t and because he’s a bastard.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Clint agrees. He pushes Phil’s shirt up and leans down to bite at the solid muscle of his chest, the soft skin over his belly.

Phil kind of shivers all over, which is an interesting reaction that Clint definitely wouldn’t mind seeing repeated. Clint is fucking tired though - Phil might have had sixteen hours of paperwork but Clint was doing the shit that generated all those reports – so he decides he’d better move things along before one or both of them falls asleep mid-fuck.

Phil makes a short, choked noise when Clint straddles him more firmly and shoves both their boxers down, lining their cocks up and wrapping his hand around them both. It feels fucking amazing, even to his sleep-dulled senses.

“Jesus,” Phil sighs, catching the front of Clint’s t-shirt and pulling him forward. “Come here.”

Clint lets his head fall forward, stopping just short of Phil’s mouth, leaning back when Phil tilts his face up toward him. “Say please,” he says, laughing at the expression on Phil’s face.

“Go to hell,” Phil tells him and fumbles his hand between them, wrapping it around Clint’s and making him fucking squeeze on their dicks.

“God,” Clint groans and drops his head, bumping their mouths together in an honestly pretty shitty attempt at a kiss.

Phil’s other hand curves around the back of Clint’s head, holding him still so Phil can lick at his lips, slide his tongue into Clint’s mouth and just, generally, turn a bad kiss into a damn good one.

Even tired, Phil is impatient about getting to the point and Clint likes a little efficiency himself sometimes so he’s pretty happy to roll with it when Phil starts squeezing their cocks together, rubbing his palm over the head of Clint’s until Clint is groaning steadily.

Clint’s legs are starting to shake, heat running in lines up his thighs and down his chest, pooling in his groin. “Phil,” Clint forces out through gritted teeth, not quite asking.

“Yeah,” Phil says gruffly but then he’s taking his hand away. What the fuck.

“Shit,” Clint protests, breathing hard and dropping his head down to rest against Phil’s. “Shit, I was ten seconds from coming there.”

Phil curls his fingers around Clint’s hips, digging in. “I know,” he says and bites Clint’s bottom lip.

Clint’s still cursing him out when Phil reaches down and palms Clint’s balls, rolling them and knuckling the skin behind.

“You can fuck me if you’ve got the energy,” Clint tells him, because if that’s what Phil wants then Clint is up for it. It’s probably not though since Phil isn’t the type to hint.

“Raincheck,” Phil tells him. “I’m too tired to deal with Banner if we wake him up in the middle of the night.”

“Why Agent Coulson,” Clint drawls, “How loud were you planning to be?”

Phil scratches his fingernail, dry, over Clint’s hole and Clint only manages not to groan as loud as he wants to because he doesn’t want to give Phil an excuse to deploy his smug face. (Phil’s smug face makes Clint want to punch and kiss it off him simultaneously. It’s confusing.)

“Okay?” Phil asks. “Any more complaints?” He’s getting handsy with Clint’s ass so Clint decides that letting him get on with it isn’t the worst idea ever.

“Nope, can’t, can’t think of any.” He tries to say it breezily but his voice breaks in the middle when Phil finally finds his way back to Clint’s dick. “Oh, shit.”

At last, Phil’s decided that teasing time’s over. He isn’t playing anymore: working Clint harder and better until Clint can’t do anything but come, arching down to muffle his groans in Phil’s shoulder.

There’s a wet, red bite mark on Phil’s skin when Clint finally gets back enough energy to roll off him.

“Sorry,” Clint tells him, touching it.

Phil shakes his head, breathing ragged. “Below the collar,” he says, like that’s what Clint’s worried about – how professional Phil looks in his suit.

“Yeah, that’s not – ” Clint pushes himself up on one hand and stops, still. Phil’s jerking himself off, wide, strong hand working himself briskly, just this side of frantic. “Holy shit, that’s a good view.”

Phil laughs throatily, hips starting to force his cock through his fist. “You were busy lolling around so I figured I’d take care of it myself.”

Clint thinks about rising to the bait but doesn’t. “Right,” he agrees, propping his chin on Phil’s shoulder, looking down the length of his body, attention caught. “I’m way too busy, carry on.”

Phil makes a little uhuh noise, barely more than a click in his throat, which is how Clink knows that Phil likes the idea of Clint watching. Which Clint knew anyway; he’s good at a few things and one of them is reading Phil Coulson like a fucking book. (Or maybe one of those mega-thick SHIELD manuals, only way more interesting.)

“C’mon,” Clint rumbles in Phil’s ear. “Just think: first you get to come, then you get to sleep. Hours and hours of sleep. Eight hours, maybe nine, all tucked up here where it’s warm and - ” He can’t help laughing when that’s what does the trick. Sleep is the ultimate dirty talk for a SHIELD agent.

Phil turns his head on the pillow once he’s caught his breath. Their eyes meet and he laughs breathily, shaking his head. “Don’t tell anyone,” he says, still laughing.

Clint kisses him messily. “What, that you’re not a robot who can work twenty-five hours a day with no break? Never.”

Phil swats him clumsily with the back of his hand then reaches around, finding the edge of the comforter and tugging it up over both of them.

“Lights,” Clint reminds him even though he’s not actually going to make Phil get out of bed. He can be a fucking gentleman and he will get the lights; it’s just fun to tease Phil first.

But all Phil does is tilt his head up to the ceiling. “Can you get the lights, JARVIS?” he asks politely and the damn lights actually dim slowly before going off completely.

“That is blatant favouritism,” Clint complains. JARVIS never does anything for him.

“I can’t help it if the house likes me best,” Phil tells him patiently. He rolls over onto his side, flinging a heavy arm across Clint’s stomach.

Clint grins in the dark, shuffling down the bed and patting Phil’s hand where it’s found his hip, grip loose but just the right side of possessive.

“Good night,” he says once he’s sure Phil’s fast asleep.

Phil mumbles something, turning his head into Clint’s bicep. His breath is warm and moist and it’s easy for Clint to slow his own breathing to match, drifting off to sleep feeling pretty content with the world.


Clint wakes when the sun’s already rising high in the sky. To his shock, Phil’s still sleeping, rolled over with his back to Clint, face buried in his pillow. It’s not that Clint’s never woken up before Phil before, but it’s rare, especially when they’re at the Avengers’ Mansion.

If Clint were a bastard, he’d wake him up, but well, Clint can be a bastard, but not that kind. Instead, he slips out of bed as quietly as he can – so, in other words, silently – and pulls his boxers back on, finds a hoodie from the pile on the floor and creeps out of the room.

Thor and Tony are already in the kitchen eating breakfast, though that doesn’t tell Clint much about the time of day since Tony keeps dumb hours and Thor will eat until they run out of food (and sometimes after if the table settings look tasty enough).

“Fine morning, my friend,” Thor booms, obviously on good form.

Clint waves to him and makes for the coffee machine. The coffee smells burned but he doesn’t give a shit.

“We got a visitor?” Tony asks. He’s eating one handed, doing something intricate on three separate tablets with the other, and apparently still has time to be a nosey asshole.

“No idea, it’s your house, man,” Clint tells him easily. The coffee tastes burned too, but Clint still doesn’t give a shit.

“Okay,” Tony agrees. “Just that there’s a butt ugly government sedan in my parking garage and if we don’t know who it belongs to, I’ll have to call Fury and – ”

“Fuck you,” Clint says mildly. “Fine, yes, we have a visitor. He’s sleeping, so whatever you want to do to him can wait.”

“Do to him?” Tony asks innocently. “I just want to talk to him. Fury needs to let me design us a better helicopter and if Coulson can just – ”

Clint holds up a hand. He’s happy with the helicopter they’ve got. And the plane. And the… hovercraft thing. “Talk to him, man, not me.”

“Talk to who?” Natasha asks, walking into the room with a towel slung around her neck, clearly fresh from a workout. Steve trails her, looking about as worn out as he ever does after a round with Natasha – which is to say, not very, but more so than after anyone else.

Clint shakes his head at her but she’s grabbing water from the fridge so doesn’t notice.

“Hawkeye’s nocturnal visitor,” Tony says then “Hey, is anyone else now having mental images of Coulson as an owl? Anyone? No, okay, just me then.”

There’s a sigh from the doorway and then, “Stark, go to bed.”

Tony jumps but Clint just smirks down into his coffee. Sure, he could have told Tony that he’d heard Phil coming but what would have been the fun in that?

He looks up and grins when he sees that Phil’s back in his usual Agent Coulson uniform, white shirt managing to look pristine despite having spent the night slung over the back of Clint’s chair. There’s even a neat crease down the front of each pant leg. Somehow.

Phil never asked Clint to keep their thing a secret (which is good because you try keeping a secret from an Avenger) but he still likes to pretend that he hasn’t spent the night, doesn’t want to admit to weaknesses like enjoying sleep and sex.

Personally, Clint thinks it would be fucking hilarious if Phil were to trail into the kitchen in boxers and bare feet on a zombie hunt for coffee the way that he does when Clint stays at his apartment instead, but Phil doesn’t think that’d be professional.

“Good morning,” Phil says to the room while Tony shuffles past him, muttering darkly about secret ninjas and shooting him suspicious looks, helicopters apparently forgotten for now.

“Good afternoon,” Natasha says with a smirk and Clint watches Phil do the tiniest of double takes, sneaking a look at the time on the microwave. It’s 10.27. Phil shoots her an unimpressed look, which bounces straight off the back of her shiny black workout suit.

“Agent Coulson,” Steve says, “Do you have a mission for us?” Clint can never tell if Steve is ridiculously nice or just ridiculously oblivious. Depressingly, he thinks it’s probably the former.

“No, no, nothing yet.” Phil clears his throat. “Clint.”

Clint leans back in his chair, raising his eyebrows over the rim of his coffee mug. “Phil.”

Phil walks around so he’s leaning against the kitchen table, back to the rest of the room. “Can I give you a ride to SHIELD?”

“Am I going to SHIELD?” Clint asks. To be honest, he doesn’t give a shit. It’s hang out here and bug Bruce until he kicks Clint out of his lab or hang out at SHIELD and bug Phil until he kicks Clint out of his office.

Clint’s downtime is pretty predictable, really.

Phil nods and takes Clint’s coffee, stealing a couple of long gulps before handing it back. “You are. You didn’t fill in your C435 report yesterday.”

“Oh no,” Clint says flatly, clutching a hand to his heart. “Civilisation as we know it will end.” He squints sadly at the dregs of his coffee before deciding, what the hell, and finishing it anyway.

He gets up, smacking Phil on the arm. “Come on then. There’s some poor records clerk writhing in anticipation for my C3PO-whatever form.”

“C3PO?” Phil mouths, shaking his head at him. His eyes light up when he laughs silently, shoulders perfectly still, no tell at all when he turns back to face the others. “Natasha,” he says, nodding to her, “Captain.”

Natasha waves him off and Steve smiles. Clint grabs his spare bow off the hook by the front door, just in case he’s wrong and there actually is something fun to do at SHIELD today.

“So, did you ask Fury for today off are you just being an idiot and going in anyway?” Clint asks once they’re in Phil’s car. (Tony’s right; it’s pretty bland and ugly. Nothing like the damn fine red Mustang that Phil keeps at his parents’ place in Massachusetts and Clint’s not allowed to tell anyone about.)

“Never mind that,” Phil says which means he didn’t ask. “Come here.” He puts his hand on Clint’s jaw, leaning over to kiss him. It’s a slow, deep kiss full of the kind of intentions that Clint knows Phil isn’t going to follow up on out here in the Mansion’s parking garage.

Clint groans, arching a little to rub his chest against Phil’s arm before Phil leans back, smiling self-satisfied down at the steering wheel.

“Okay,” Phil says, “That was all I wanted to say. You can go off and do whatever you want with the rest of the day.”

Clint blinks. “Wait,” he says, delighted, “you dragged me out here just to kiss me good morning? What about the CD-Rom whatever form?”

Phil shrugs. “You did forget to fill it in, but I did it for you last night.”

Clint isn’t sure whether to be touched, because Phil normally makes a point of never doing paperwork for any of the Avengers, or annoyed, because that was another half hour’s sleep that Phil didn’t get last night.

“Thanks,” he finally settles on because he can’t quite decide either way.

“So,” Phil says, drumming on the steering wheel, “Where do you want me to take you?”

Clint shakes his head. “Nowhere,” he says, laying his hand next to Phil’s on the gearshift, “I think I’ll stick with you.”

Phil doesn’t look at him, just squeezes Clint’s hand quickly. “If you must,” he says, not quite hiding a smile, and puts the car in gear.


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Tags: avengers, clint/coulson, fic, nc-17
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