A/N: Part of the possessive!coulson series, follows Hands Off. Warning for collars and vague D/s themes. To a prompt for Clint needing to go undercover and flirt for info.

But I Don't Have to Like It

"We need to change the plan," Natasha announced.

Phil should have realized right then it was going to be a rough night.

It should have been an easy op, the kind Natasha complained about doing because they were boring. Phil was only there because it was so important - not that anyone doubted Natasha's ability to pull it off beautifully on her own, but… it was important. Clint was only there because, in his words, there's fucking nothing going on, sir, please just let me come and be back-up. Clint wasn't actually a big fan of downtime, you see. At least not by himself.

It was supposed to go like this. Natasha would be her charming self and sweet-talk the mark (known cell member of a HYDRA revival group) into giving up whatever information she could get, with Clint in the area in case things started to go south and Phil playing his usual role of handler. Purely recon. Unfortunately, Natasha ducked into the club's bathroom when it appeared that her particular brand of charming wasn't going to work.

"You got that, too?" Clint asked. "It's okay, we'll just switch."

"Yes, that was my thought as well."

Phil resisted the urge to sigh. Clint and Natasha being so in sync with each other was eminently useful but he did hate when they left him in the dark. "Please enlighten me if you're changing the plan in the middle of an op."

"The mark's gay, sir," Natasha bluntly explained.

"Luckily I am very charming myself," came Clint's smug voice.

"That's highly debatable," Phil said.

"I've never had any complaints, sir."

You'll be getting some later tonight, Phil wanted to say but of course he didn't. Professionalism and everything. "You're confident you can get what we need?"

"Have you seen me flirt?"

It was a rhetorical question. They had a drawer in the bedroom reserved specially for those occasions when Phil saw Clint flirt.

"Wish I'd known though, I would've worn tighter pants."

Clint's pants looked plenty tight from where Phil was standing. The little pat on the ass he gave himself was certainly for Phil's benefit.

Phil watched as Natasha came back into view, brushing by Clint and discreetly accepting the collar he gave her. It gave Phil an uncomfortable twinge, thinking of Clint, uncollared and seemingly available, strolling through the club and getting ogled. Of course, Clint was about to do a lot more than just get ogled but Phil was attempting to not think about that.

SHIELD was more important than anything personal.

As Natasha settled at the bar and Clint made his way to the back table where the mark was sitting, Phil weaved through the crowd for a better position. Of course Natasha had found the perfect angle and technically she was Clint's real back-up but damned if Phil was going to let Clint cozy up to this guy without even watching.

Then again, as Clint unceremoniously planted himself at the table, sprawling against the surprised but certainly not protesting mark, Phil thought maybe watching wasn't the best idea.

Watching Clint and the mark felt like being pricked with a knife, over and over, individually not hard enough to do any real damage but hard enough to hurt, a slow pain that could turn into a big problem if it continued.

Clint wasn't quite as good at playing drunk as Natasha, who could go from convincingly stumbling on her feet and giggling like a coed one second to roundhouse kicking someone in the face the next. Still, Clint was easily good enough to pull this off. He was slurring his words ever so slightly and getting right up into the mark's personal space, leaning in and touching him and generally giving off the impression that he'd be an easy lay if only he could manage not to pass out.

It was good work; Phil had to admit, even if he hated it. Clint was unobtrusively insinuating himself into the conversation, just a hot drunk guy who would never remember anything anyone said so why should they worry?

Phil tried to concentrate on their words (but not the low, flirty sound of Clint's voice because it made his skin crawl, and not the suggestive things the mark said because it made his fingers itch to go over there and punch the mark in the face) because watching Clint's fingers dance over the mark's arm, watching Clint press himself against the mark to murmur into his ear made him feel sick. He took slow, deep breaths and told himself it wasn't anything, it was a game, it was work, it was the same thing Natasha did all the time. Sex was a tool; sex was a weapon.

Clint was his and sex was a weapon.

When he heard Clint say, "Wanna take this someplace more private?" he blinked, thinking perhaps he had misheard.

But the mark said, "Yeah, baby, let's go back to my place."

Clint kissed the mark's neck. "Thought you'd never ask."

That's a terrible idea, absolutely not, don't you dare leave this club, Phil wanted to say, but he was a professional.

Phil hated being a professional.

"We'll be in the next cab," Natasha was saying, already finding Phil in the crowd. She gave him a blinding smile and said, "Nathan! Oh my God, is it really you? How long has it been?" as she linked her arm through his, tugging him to the door.

Natasha was sinking her weight against him with the familiarity of an old lover and Phil forced himself into the role, letting his expression morph into what it needed to be rather than what he felt.

They followed the mark five blocks to an apartment complex and had the cab pull over on the corner. Phil scooted out the door and held his hand out to Natasha. She grabbed it, accepting his assistance, and curled around him as she stood up.

They half-stumbled back around the corner, Natasha's hands wandering as Phil put up a half-hearted protest, as he supposed that was all that could be expected of any man if they had Natasha groping them. From here they had a clear view of the mark's apartment building and they pretended to be just your average couple necking in a dim corner on the street while they listened to Clint through the comms.

In between the laughing and the smacking sounds and Clint's damned moaning (when they brought this guy in Phil was going to hit the bastard, rules be damned), Clint was actually getting the mark to give up intel, seemingly harmless bits and pieces that SHIELD was going to be able to do a lot with. Phil knew he shouldn't be surprised - if anyone was in a position to know just how good Clint was at sweet-talking, it was Phil.

Just when Phil was starting to wonder exactly how far Clint was taking things, the comms went silent. "What the hell is he doing?" Phil muttered.

And then they spotted him coming through the doors. Clint strolled nonchalantly down the steps, taking them two at a time, scanning the street until he spotted Phil and Natasha. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked over to them. "What?" he asked at Phil's look. "I roofied him, he's passed out. He won't even remember me tomorrow."

Phil just sighed. "We'll debrief tomorrow. Everyone head home."

Natasha's gaze was too sharp, too knowing, as she slipped Clint's collar back into Phil's hand. He turned his back on her. He could hear Clint's footsteps following after him as he went down the sidewalk, checking carefully to ensure no one was tracking them. "What?"

Two more seconds and Clint matched Phil's pace, sliding his arm around Phil's waist. "You said to head home. Don't you want me there?"

"I suppose I can't stop you."

Clint's arm tensed and then he withdrew it. He didn't leave but nor did he say anything for the remainder of the journey to Phil's apartment.

Phil dropped his keys on the stand in the hall and kicked his shoes off. He could sense that Clint was hovering, anxious and unsure.

Phil stood in place, closing his eyes for a moment. It wasn't Clint's fault. He had only been doing his job. He couldn't help that he'd made Phil's blood pressure spike unbelievably.

"Clint," Phil said, turning to face him.

Clint took a small step closer. "Yeah?"

"Come here."

Clint closed the distance between them.

Phil held up the collar and Clint's uncertainty faded into a tiny, hesitant, but relieved smile. Phil snapped the collar back around Clint's neck, smoothing his fingers over Clint's skin.

"That feels better," Clint said.

"You're still mine, you know," Phil said, because he had to, he knew it hadn't been real but he couldn't help that it had made him see red anyway.

"Always."

For a moment they simply stood there, watching each other, and then Phil slammed Clint back against the wall because he honestly couldn't stop himself. Clint's head knocked against the wall with a low thud but he only gripped Phil's hips, trying to pull him in closer. Phil was biting at Clint's neck, knowing he was going to leave marks and not caring one bit. He sucked and licked a path up Clint's jaw and kissed his mouth, swallowed all the sounds Clint was making, kissing so hard he started to wonder if it would be possible to leave bruises.

"Fuck, Phil," Clint moaned, hitching his leg up and wrapping it around Phil's waist. "I've wanted you all night, you have no idea."

Phil growled into Clint's throat, bracing himself with one hand against the wall and clutching Clint's ass with the other. He wanted to touch every inch of Clint, mark him with his hands and his mouth, cover every bit of skin and wash away the memory of the mark, of that man who had no right to touch Clint because Clint was Phil's.

"Yes," Clint was saying, "God, yes, please, Phil," every mumbled word like a caress.

"Clint," Phil whispered into Clint's skin, digging his nails into Clint's hip. Be mine always, he thought, and held on tight.

End