Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Author's Note: While categorized under "Movies: Thor" this encompasses the entire Marvel Cinematic Universe. It also takes place within the timeline of another story I wrote, Wishing Well.
Half of Something Else
His thumbs don't stop flying over the buttons on his phone even when the motorcycle's frame abruptly dips on its suspension and a wall of living heat presses up against his back, jean-clad knees on either side of his thighs and strong arms wrapping around his waist while a chin settles on his shoulder to watch him work.
"Agent Coulson on my motorcycle," Clint murmurs into his ear. "Two great tastes that taste great together."
"I don't taste particularly good," Phil says as he sends the text. "I doubt the motorcycle will taste any better."
He shivers at the sudden flick of tongue at a sensitive spot behind his ear and his thumb does slip then, almost hitting 'Call'.
"Tastes just fine," Clint says, and he can hear the shit-eating grin on the agent's face. "Since when did you learn to text?"
"Since Dr. Foster refused to remain in regular contact with us," he says as the phone vibrates and its screen lights up. "And Miss Lewis insists that they're both too busy for 'social calls', hence the texts where they get to decide when to reply."
"I think they're just pissed you stole their shit."
"Possibly," he says, frowning at Miss Lewis's sarcastic reply.
It's difficult ignoring the slide of tongue against the side of his neck and the slow kisses that stop short of sucking out bruises, but he is nothing if not a professional and he successfully sends Miss Lewis a brief message to please keep SHIELD updated on Dr. Foster's research on the Einstein-Rosen Bridge, or, as Dr. Selvig calls it, the Bifrost. Wormholes that drop demigods and extraterrestrial machines on Earth are a very serious matter and they'd like to track this bridge if they can.
He allows himself to lean back against Clint and relax for a second, and then the phone vibrates again.
cool it Mr. MiB we got this
"I did what you asked me to," Clint says while slowly rubbing circles over his abdomen. "You mind telling me why, though?"
"Not yet."
"I don't see what's wrong with telling him about Tony Stark-"
"After the incident with Agent Carter-" His breath hitches, a momentary lapse in self-control, when Clint closes teeth on his earlobe and nibbles at it. "The incident with Agent Carter means he's not ready."
"That makes no sense."
"It's not supposed to."
There's a huff of frustration as arms tighten around him, pulling him back against Clint. Fingertips slide down his front, leaving behind a slow-burning trail. They stop short of his belt buckle and Clint flicks against it. Phil shivers and his grip around his phone tightens.
"Always full of secrets," Clint rumbles into his ear. "You're making me curious."
"That's what happens when you set your sights on an agent with a higher clearance level than you," he says.
"You're not going out again, are you?" Clint suddenly asks and there's a trace of concern in his voice. "You just got back."
"I go wherever I'm needed," Phil says simply.
Right after New Mexico he went to Nova Scotia to follow Bruce Banner's trail but it was cold by the time his foot touched Canadian soil. It's been over a week since he's been at SHIELD headquarters, meaning he missed out on the events at Stark Expo, and, if he's honest with himself, he's relieved that he wasn't the one tracking down the mastermind behind Hammer's rogue droids.
"You're tense," Clint says. Fingertips toy with the buttons on his shirt. "You're not needed somewhere, are you?"
He knows exactly what Clint wants to hear. "Not yet."
Which is when his phone lights up again with a message from Director Fury.
My office in ten minutes.
Clint groans. "Why does he always do this?"
"It's nothing personal," Phil says as he tucks his phone back into the inside pocket of his jacket.
"It feels personal." The arms around him tighten considerably. "Not letting you go."
"You're not five."
"Don't care. I haven't seen you in days."
"We've gone weeks without seeing each other," Phil reminds him.
"I've got blue balls."
He rolls his eyes. "Was that really necessary?"
"No," Clint says, and the shit-eating grin is back. "Just wanted to tell you how very fucking badly I want you right now."
He punctuates his words with a somewhat stilted roll of his hips, pressing his erection against Phil's back.
"How very professional of you, Agent Barton," Phil says mildly even as heat flares up in his chest.
"You know me, Agent Coulson," Clint says, mouthing the side of his neck. His words are slightly muffled against his skin. "Always a professional. Professional carnie, professional archer, professional agent..."
His heart is racing and it's all he can do to not grip the back end of the seat as Clint licks a long strip along the taut line of his neck from pulse point to behind his ear. Phil clenches his jaw and shuts his eyes, feels his back arch as Clint slides a hand up his chest and another down to his belt.
"Clint," he warns.
He feels Clint stiffen; it hurts when the agent relents and lets him go. He already misses the heat and strength of the arms around him, and allows himself a few more seconds to savor Clint's presence before slowly - and awkwardly - climbing off the SHIELD-issue motorcycle. He straightens his tie, smoothes down his shirt front, and buttons his jacket. He glances over his shoulder at Clint, who's leaning back against the motorcycle's handlebars, legs spread wide in an open invitation to all sorts of debauchery, and staring at him longingly. The kicked puppy look on his face almost rivals the one on Thor's - what is his life when coming face to face with the Norse god of thunder isn't at the top of his list - and Phil sighs, stalks over to him, wraps a hand around the back of his neck, and tilts his head up to kiss him.
Clint grins against his mouth and mutters, "Knew you couldn't resist me."
"You know me," Phil says. "Always following the trail of the plausible, no matter how impossible it might be."
Because no matter how he looks at it he can never determine how or why he's gotten this far with Clint.
Phil doesn't need a watch to tell him he's going to be one minute late to his meeting with the director, so he leans in and whispers, "I'll see you later tonight," into Clint's ear.
He polishes it off with a tantalizing stroke along the length of the hard-on straining through Clint's jeans, smiling as Clint gasps and his pupils dilate.
It takes Phil a little too long to finally walk to the elevator at the end of the garage. Inside he takes a couple deep breaths to slow his heart down and checks the time.
He's going to be late by two minutes.
Phil can live with that.