The sun sets and they keep driving. Gold ignites the sky, painted with purple and red. The sunset fades into navy and silver, and Clint can't help but count constellations. Memories of the old days - the circus days - come rushing to the foreground. Lying in fields and staring at starlight until the sun came up.
The smell of crisp desert air carries on chill winds. Clint stretches out as best he can in the passenger seat, closes his eyes and leans his head back. He's got a key between his lips, and it rolls against his tongue.
"If you fall asleep, there will be consequences," Coulson says quietly, in his most commanding tone. Eyes still closed, Clint grins as the smell of freshly laundered suits and Phil's favourite aftershave drift towards him.
"You gonna spank me, sir?" he asks, voice husky and thick with fatigue. "Just a nap? You picked me up straight off an op."
"I know." Phil flexes his hands over the leather steering wheel, sparing a glance at the archer dozing next to him. "Just a nap."
"Or there'll be spanking," Clint murmurs, already beginning to doze off. The taste of slick metal bites into his tastebuds, and he has just enough sense left to deposit the key somewhere safe.
Phil drives onwards, bumps up the headlights when they've passed the only other car in sight. His wedding ring gleams - freshly polished that day, while he was dealing with Stark, in fact - and he looks for Clint's. It's hanging on the chain around his neck, where it will stay until Clint deems it safe to put it back on his finger. His left hand looks oddly bare without it, in Phil's opinion, and he makes note to put the ring back on himself. As soon as they find somewhere to sleep for the night.
The fuel light blinks on. Phil pulls up at the first gas station along the way. When he leaves the car, Clint is fast asleep. There's a holdup, dealt with efficiently. He's almost a little disappointed that Clint isn't there to witness it.
When he returns, none the worse for wear, Clint is still in the passenger seat, eyes shut. Phil suspects he's awake now. Clint smiles, doesn't open his eyes as he murmurs, "That's my man."
Phil hands over the donuts. Clint is done with sleep, apparently, and starts on the first packet. Then he tells Phil about the op - everything, even the stuff written in his mission report that Coulson already knows - and the older man listens patiently. When the words run out, and there's no more left to tell, Clint asks about Stark and Tasha. He gets the whole story too, because he didn't read the mission reports (his husband is a walking, talking mission report, Clint only has to ask.)
They come to a hotel, stuck in a small town with barely a house to its name. It's a little run down, but somehow charming. Phil corrects the woman behind the desk when she tries to give them firstly two rooms, then two beds, and they ignore the look they get when she's finally talked down to one bed. Clint just throws an arm around his man's shoulders and smirks.
Their room has a certain charm to it, too. It's clean and neatly set up, with no chipping paint. Both of them consider it an added bonus that the bed has clean sheets. Phil deposits his things next to Clint's and waits all of three seconds before he's got his nimble fingers on the archer's buttons.
"Well, aren't you keen," Clint says, a devious gleam in his eyes, and he tugs on the hand that's currently undoing his shirt. Phil falls into the kiss, savouring the taste of donuts and the way Clint's hands ghost across his hips. They pause at his sides and press firmly against his skin. "If you wanted to get me naked, you only had to ask."
Phil chuckles against his lips and reaches for the ring. The chain is easily unhooked and the silver band falls into his palm. He pushes it gently onto Clint's finger. It looks brighter now than it did a moment ago, and Phil's insides finally uncoil in relief.
Contented, he slides onto the bed next to Clint and murmurs, "Much better."
"How long have you been waiting to do that?" Clint asks in amusement as he reaches up to hook the chain back around his neck.
"Too long," Phil says tiredly. "Now shh. Time for sleep."
Any other day, maybe Clint would disagree. But they've both had a long day. They strip down (helping each other out of heavy clothes) and crawl into the warmth of the clean sheets.
"I love you," Clint whispers in the darkness.
"Love you too," Phil murmurs, already half asleep.
Their legs tangle together, a mess of limbs and finding as much contact as they can. Clint always lies on his back, and Phil curls in against him, lips resting at the younger man's neck. Their hands clasp together and rest on top of Clint's stomach, like they always do, every night. They fall asleep in this position every night they have together, without fail, and without fail they wake up the next morning on opposite sides of the bed. Ninety percent of the time, Clint's also stolen all the blankets. He tucks Phil back in on those mornings, and lets him sleep while Clint goes about the morning routine.
That's how he wakes the next morning; snug in the blankets, Phil shivering on the other side of the bed. Clint extracts himself from the tangle. With gentle hands, he pulls the blankets over Phil and tucks them in against him. Out of habit, he leans down and kisses him on the forehead. He savours it, but reluctantly leaves Phil to sleep as he heads out to find breakfast.
When he returns, Phil is just waking up. They eat, and when they're done Clint can't help but pin his husband to a wall and kiss him senseless. Phil certainly doesn't complain. He soaks up the kiss, the contact, everything he can. He leaves a mark on Clint's neck when they fuck, quick and gentle against the wall. They shower together, clean up, and then it's back on the road. When they hit the halfway point to New Mexico, Clint takes over driving. Phil stretches out like a cat in the passenger seat and admires the mark peeking out above Clint's collar.
"Someone's gonna notice that," Clint tells him, reaching up to run his fingers across the sensitive skin. "Possessive bugger."
"We only fuck each other, they know that," Phil says casually, and damn if it doesn't make Clint's blood burn beneath his fragile skin. He lets his thoughts carry back to red hot touches down his spine, lips grazing his skin and leaving it raw. Being laid bare, everything in him on display for Phil, and Phil only. Yeah, he thinks he can deal with Phil being his one and only.
He reaches out with one hand, finds Phil's, and twines them together. The cool of the older man's wedding ring touches his palm, and for a second he's right back there. Standing in his best (only) suit and saying vows they'd written themselves. Sliding that ring onto Phil's finger and savouring the happiest moment of his life.
When they arrive in New Mexico, neither is really pleased that the trip is over. Clint puts his wedding ring back on the chain, and Phil slips into the role of Agent Phil Coulson. There's still hints of them, though. In the way Clint follows; makes sure that no matter where they are, Phil's never out of his sight. Or the way Phil unconsciously touches his wedding ring whenever he mentions Barton.
After all the drama with Thor, Phil takes them to a hotel. They shower together, clean off the mud, fuck under the water, and at long last fall asleep curled up on the bed. Clint doesn't sleep immediately, not with adrenaline still crawling through his veins. He lies awake, thinks about the day's events, and strokes his husband's hand.
There's a quiet intimacy to them, he thinks, in the moments like this. The moments that matter.
I hope you all liked this little drabble, because I smiled so much while writing it that my jaw hurts.
If you haven't seen A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Thor's Hammer, you should head to YouTube right now and watch it. The holdup referenced in this fic is from that short, and it truly documents Coulson's badassness. A great three minutes.