Archive of Our Own

This time, it’s not like Thanksgiving. This time, when Phil rolls to a stop in the empty parking lot of Stark Hall, the first thing his eyes rest on is Clint, huddled in his huge dark purple parka, cheeks flushed fetchingly with the cold, eyes bright under his hat. Phil is so happy to see him, he can’t get out of the car fast enough.

“Hi,” Clint breathes, clinging to him for dear life, the same way Phil is clutching at him.

“God, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Phil muffles in his neck, drawing into his lungs the familiar scent of sandalwood and home.

“Coffee?” Clint asks, threading their fingers together. Phil is about to moan his answer when it registers just how cold Clint’s hands are.

“You’re freezing,” Phil accuses, grabbing Clint’s hands in both of his and briskly rubbing some life back into them. “How long have you been out here?”

Clint shrugs, avoiding Phil’s eyes. He doesn’t pull his hands away from Phil’s grasp, though, so Phil decides there’s no sense in panicking unduly.

“A while,” Clint says. “Wanted to clear my head.”

“Everything okay?” Phil asks, a tiny bit concerned. “Having second thoughts?” Which would be – okay, he’s gonna get put through the wringer by his nearest and dearest, but if that’s what Clint needs…

But Clint is shaking his head with a slow, soft smile, and then he’s liberating one hand from between Phil’s, and he’s putting it on the back of Phil’s neck and pulling, just a little, and finally, after weeks of constantly aching for this, at last there’s the relief of Clint’s slightly chapped but familiar lips on his, cool at first and then warm, hot to the touch from Phil’s tongue, and Phil loses himself in this, feels taken over, claimed, wanted.

“I told you, you’re stuck with me,” Clint murmurs roughly into Phil’s mouth, after several blissful minutes of kissing him breathless.

“In that case,” Phil says, reluctantly stepping out of the circle of Clint’s arms, “we’d better get going. Ma is likely chomping at the bit already for us to arrive.”

He wishes, oh how he wishes that he could just stop, just for a minute or ten to linger close to Clint’s chest, his body, cherishing Clint's arms around him. But if he does, he’d probably drag Clint to bed and not move for the rest of Christmas break, and then Connie Coulson would skin him alive. He is too tightly wound, too wired with the anticipation of seeing his folks and finally introducing Clint.

So they get two enormous coffees to go, load Clint’s backpack in the trunk, and Phil points the nose of his truck south-west, home. The roads still feel achingly familiar, every turn and stretch weighed down with the poignancy of bringing him closer and closer to his family. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Clint smiling at him, the force of it crinkling his eyes, shortly before Clint takes over the radio and tunes it to the cheesiest pop station playing all the cliché holiday songs.

Phil should really stop getting taken by surprise with the force of the emotions knocking around his chest when Clint is nearby – yes, even when he is treating Phil to “Driving Home for Christmas” sung at the top of his voice. Phil smiles, and keeps driving, and thinks that in a little over an hour, he will have all his dearest people under the same roof, and if that isn’t enough to make him feel lucky to be alive, well, he’d be beyond redemption.

---

His mom opens the door elbow-deep in grease.

“Mom, what on earth?” Phil asks, alarmed.

“Pfft, think nothing of it! The generator broke, your father’s been fixing it and I had to hold things for him. Hi, baby,” she finishes with a bright grin, throwing her elbows over his shoulders to tug him in for a kiss. He goes gladly, holding her tightly in his arms.

“Hi, Mom,” he says roughly. It’s been six months since the last time he was here. He’s allowed.

His mom lets him go, and just stands there cleaning her hands on the rag she’d brought with her and beaming at him for a minute. Neither Phil nor Clint are uncouth enough to mention the brightness in her eyes. Which—

He turns, throwing one arm around Clint’s waist and prodding at his back discreetly to get him to move to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him.

“Mom,” he says, trying not to let the lump of emotion in his throat choke him – it’s not every day you introduce your parents to the man whom, God willing, you plan to spend the rest of your life with. “This is Clint.”

Clint had spent the last twenty minutes of the drive here getting progressively quieter, hunching in on himself – seemingly unintentionally, because when Phil had thrown him a worried look, Clint had blinked and straightened in the seat, sending Phil a small smile. Which is when it had finally dawned on Phil what meeting his parents will feel like for Clint, who hasn’t had any practice since he was eleven. These are people who might well end up being in his life for years and decades to come. Phil hasn’t doubted Clint’s commitment to them for a long time now, but seeing him this nervous about the upcoming introductions was an eye-opener all the same.

Now, though, when the time is upon them, Clint plasters one of his sweetly charming smiles over his face, hiding behind it as he holds out a hand to Phil’s mom.

“It’s great to finally meet you, Mrs Coulson,” he says, voice steady if a little subdued.

Phil smiles to himself when his mom, as is her wont, completely ignores Clint’s hand in favor of drawing him in by his shoulder for a half-hug and a kiss pressed to his cheek.

“Hello, darling boy,” she says warmly, smiling at him. “It’s about time I met the kid making my son so happy.”

Clint, to Phil’s amusement, flushes from the tips of his ears to what can be seen of his neck under his parka.

“Uh,” he hedges, because seriously, Phil sympathizes – Connie Coulson tends to have that effect on people. “Thanks? I mean, I hope I do.”

Phil shifts his hand to the back of Clint’s neck, cooling his heated skin. “Mom, stop torturing him. Or, can we at least get inside before round two?”

Connie lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at him, but she does concede to letting them into the house. “That’s very poor manners of you, Phillip Coulson, implying I’m being a bad hostess; I’m sure I taught you better. I’m just saying, a mother knows those things. Clint gets it, don’t you?”

“Don’t answer that,” Phil advises, trying to save Clint from further prying. Clint, however, gives him a look, squares his shoulders, and smiles at Connie.

“Your Mom only does it because she loves you, Phil. Don’t be horrible to her.”

His badass, hard-as-nails, high-school-teacher-cum-dictator mother all but melts on the spot. Phil tunes out all the subsequent cooing and approving looks and “Call me Connie”-s bestowed on Clint’s person, but is quite unable to shift the small smile that appears to have taken up residence over his face as he carries Clint’s bag upstairs into the spare room and his own down the corridor into his old bedroom. (He had scoffed when his mom had told him where Clint was sleeping – “Mom, we’ve been dating for a year and a half, you know what goes on when the door’s closed—“ but his mom had dug in her heels about that one. “My house, my rules. Not that I expect that to stop you,” she’d added when Phil had sulked. He could hear the smirk in her voice. He should really stop thinking he knows what his mother’s saying even when she’s saying it.)

His bedroom hasn't changed an inch. He still has the Spitfire poster on his wall, the Churchill bulldog his aunt brought him back from a visit to England sitting in pride of place on his dresser, reminding him to never give up, never surrender, keep calm and bugger on. It has served him well in the past, and Phil can see no reason why it shouldn't in the future, too. After all, Clint seems to find that part of him strangely appealing. Phil isn't fool enough not to take as much advantage of that as he can.

God, the thought of Clint sleeping in the same bed as him, in his old bed in his parents’ house, it makes his heart give an odd flip-fumble. So it won’t be official – and Phil is really going to have to have that talk with his mom because the old ‘not till you get married’ doesn’t exactly apply to them, seeing as they can’t actually get married, and he’s damned if he’s going to be separated from Clint for the next fifty-whatever years by a fucking wall in his own house.

Still. He is – of course – going to smuggle Clint into his room, or sneak into Clint’s, because the thought of sleeping away from him, when he’s right there, is physically painful. Clint will be the death of him, Phil is certain, and not even the freshly laundered R2D2 sheets his mom had lovingly made his bed with can help him.

When he gets back down, Clint is ensconced on the sofa, looking animated and deep in discussion with Phil's dad about the benefits of gas-powered versus battery-powered generators. Clint's cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, and he keeps sipping from the eggnog his dad usually fixes gallons of around this time of year. Phil's dad is wearing the same expression Phil recognises from catching it out of the corner of his eyes in mirrors and shop windows, that fond, indulgent amusement at Clint's genuine enthusiasm.

"Right, John, for sure," Clint says. Phil bites his bottom lip and turns away so he doesn't moon like some smitten teenager that his boyfriend is already on a first-name basis with his parents. His dad throws him a knowing look over Clint’s head, and Phil flushes at being caught, but grins back because he’s not ashamed, far from it.

He leaves them to it, safe in the knowledge that Clint can hold his own about anything his dad wants to talk about, from cars to baseball to the weather front that’s coming on. Clint tends to downplay it, but he’s as smart as anyone you care to mention, just a different kind of smart, the one that’s good with his hands and the big picture. He’ll be fine.

“Want some help?” he says, leaning his shoulder on the kitchen door jamb while he watches his mom maneuver a tray of gingerbread men into the oven. Connie closes the oven door and turns, throwing him a smile over her shoulder before checking on the temperature and making a satisfied noise.

“You’re leaving Clint to your father’s tender mercies?”

“Sure. He’s a big boy, he can handle himself.”

“Uh-huh,” Connie says, walking closer until she can brush his hair back from his forehead and look at his face. She’s a tall, imposing woman to John Coulson’s short, wiry guy – she and Phil stand at just about the same height, Connie a couple of inches taller than him in her heels. Phil sometimes wishes he took more from her than his blue eyes and his brain, but that had apparently been reserved for his sister the giant.

“You look well,” his mom says, eyes softening as she takes him in properly. “Tired, but happy.”

Phil fights not to blush again, even though he knows it’s a lost cause. He is itching to ask her what she thinks of Clint, but a) it’s too soon, he doesn’t want to come across as desperate, and b) he knows full well she will let him know in her own sweet time. Connie smirks at him, as if she knows exactly what’s going through his mind – she probably does. She hands him a knife handle-first instead of putting him out of his misery, and directs him towards a pile of peeled but whole potatoes on the other side of the small kitchen.

“Chop them up, please, straight into the pot. We’re having lunch in an hour.”

“You making mash?”

“No, you’re making mash. It’s to go with the steaks your father is grilling. You can boil the broccoli, too,” she adds with a face like she’s chewing on lemon wedges.

“Yum,” Phil replies teasingly, like he always does. She hates it; Phil, Leah, and John love them. Family life is made of compromises.

“So your friend Melinda called this morning,” Connie tells him when he is halfway through methodically cubing the potatoes. He likes cutting things. It’s soothing.

“Yeah?” Phil says, excited. “How is she? Is she back for the holidays?”

“Mmm. She wanted to know if you were coming back, and said to tell you she’s throwing a party for your old crowd on the 26th, and you'll be going and bringing your boy with you or there would be… consequences. She didn’t go into further detail, but I’m sure you can extrapolate,” she adds with a mean smirk. Connie and Melinda Mei have always gotten along way too well for Phil’s comfort. They are both scary, scary women.

Phil grins down at the chopping board. Melinda had been Phil’s best friend all the way through junior high and high school, ever since Phil punched Billy Conroy in the mouth for saying girls are too stupid to do math and science. There is absolutely no one, other than his family, that Phil wants to see more on this trip home. He resolves to call her as soon as lunch is over – and then he is going to have to be a horrible host and abandon Clint to fend for himself, because he’s got a twenty-two page paper that absolutely cannot wait until he’s back in Minneapolis. He resents the living hell out of the imposition – his time with Clint is precious, and little enough as it is, and cutting into it rankles. It’s only made worse because he has no one to rant and rail at for the injustice but himself. He should have started the bastard thing last Thursday, instead of taking that stupid nap that hadn’t helped with anything – he’d been just as exhausted after it as before. And he can’t put it off, either – it counts for twenty percent of his final grade and he’ll be damned if he put himself and everyone around him through hell just so he could fail that class.

He’ll have to make it up to Clint somehow.

The pleasant glow of coming up with ways to do just that takes him through the last half hour of lunch prep and chatting with his mom, dodging her knowing looks. Well, if she hadn’t wanted him sneaking around in his own house, she shouldn’t have bothered separating them like she doesn’t know what’s going to happen as soon as the lights go out.

The first he knows about newcomers to the house is when a high-pitched scream of glee comes from somewhere behind him, and a blur of short legs and hair the color of praline comes streaking past him and throws himself in Connie’s arms. She staggers, since she barely managed to turn to catch the whirlwind his nephew had become in the time since Phil had last seen him.

“Lucas,” Leah yelps from the doorway, sounding harassed. “What did I say about leaping at things?”

Lucas doesn’t seem the least bit chastised, merely grins at her, showing neat rows of teeth in his top and bottom gums, charming gaps peeking through the fence here and there. Then he spots Phil and turns abruptly shy, hiding behind his grandma’s leg.

“Oh, honey,” Leah says, striding further into the room and leaning one bony elbow on Phil’s collarbone (it pinches and Phil wants to shrug her off, but he doesn’t want to startle Luke – damn her, she has always been a pretty badass strategist and the reason the school’s netball team were state champions two years in a row). “It’s only your uncle Phil,” she coos reassuringly. She nudges Phil in the side with her hip. “Say hello,” she grits through her rictus of a grin. Phil hastily complies.

“Hello, Luke,” he says cheerfully. “Remember me? I brought you that set of drums the last time I saw you.”

“Yeah, have I said thanks for that, by the way,” Leah snarks, but Luke’s face clears with the speed of the sun drifting out through rain clouds.

“Bam bam?” he hazards, and when Phil readily agrees, Luke gives him the widest, toothiest grin Phil has ever seen. “Unc’ Phi’!” he yells, launching himself across the room. Phil can’t drop the knife and open his arms fast enough, but luckily Leah steps in and yanks Luke up by his waist, turning him upside down over her shoulder until he screams with laughter. Then she unceremoniously dumps him into Phil’s lap, where Luke wriggles until he’s more or less upright, kneeling on Phil’s thighs and just grinning at Phil for a minute until Phil drags him in by his cheeks to press kisses to his face and muss his hair. He drags his stubble over Luke’s neck, and Luke shrieks and wriggles again, breathless with giggles.

“Unc’ Phi’, no,” he yelps, and Phil is laughing too, and there is a warm, sweet-smelling weight in his arms and his chest is trying to burst with affection and it’s perfect, and it’s even better when he looks up and finds Clint leaning in the doorway, smiling, his eyes soft where they rest on the two of them.

Phil nudges Luke until he looks at the door, too. “Luke, this is my friend Clint. He’s staying with us for Christmas.”

Luke stays where he is, one hand on Phil’s arm around him, gripping him for reassurance. He watches Clint steadily, a little careful, and it fucking breaks Phil’s heart to see it, making the connection when Leah’s face goes tight and a little wrecked. Clint’s eyes flit between the three of them, and then he gets on his knees, sitting back on his heels.

“Hey there, Luke,” he says easily, giving him his charming, artless smile, the one that makes Phil’s heart flip-thump, hard.

Luke stares at him for another minute before, shyly, he says “Hi,” climbing down from the safety of Phil’s arms and taking cautious steps to stand in front of Clint, looking him in the eye. Clint keeps up the easy smile, the unassuming posture, and eventually Luke smiles back, especially when Clint does the whole “Oh, look what I have in my pocket” song and dance and, after a quick look to check with Leah, hands Luke a Hershey's Kiss. It’s a little melted from being in his pocket, but Luke grins and pounces on it, tugging on the end to unwrap it and taking a bite.

“What do you say?” Leah prompts fondly, and Luke obediently turns back to Clint and says a sticky-mouthed, “’nk you.”

“You’re very welcome,” Clint says, smiling, and Luke doesn’t quite cuddle him but he does lean against his arm (almost as big as Luke’s small body, and that shouldn’t be such a turn-on, but fuck, is it ever), watching as Leah plants a kiss on Phil’s cheek and moves on to see what’s cooking.

Lunch is a lively, boisterous affair. It always is, in the Coulson household. The topic of conversation shifts and flows, flipping from baseball to Phil’s studies to Luke’s latest shenanigans to goings-on in town to his dad’s work anecdotes to art to Clint’s art. Phil has, over the time, sent them photos he took of some of Clint’s work, the beautiful piece from last year’s acrylics class, bits Clint has done as practice, the tattoo design they both wear (that last one had earned him no end of ribbing to the theme of, “Aww, you got matching tattoos, that’s precious!” –mostly from Leah, admittedly), and his family hasn’t shut up about how talented his boy (their words, not his) is since. Now, when they have Clint right here, they waste no time in letting him know, in detail, what they think about his work. Phil watches Clint flush in surprised pleasure, fidgeting a little under the praise. Phil hasn’t exactly been quiet about what he thinks about Clint’s talent, but he supposes hearing it from people who are unbiased (hah! right) is pretty different than hearing your boyfriend go on and on about how good you are.

Phil just watches and doesn’t have the words to explain how grateful he is for his family, and how lucky he is that they’re his – and, hopefully, now Clint’s, too. (Judging by the way his dad keeps sending him these fond looks, Phil has nothing to worry about – other than Clint and Leah hitting it off, like it looks they’re well on their way to doing, because good god, that might just be the end of them all).

Lunch over, they’re shooed out into the living room to relax while Connie loads the dishwasher (bought with John’s Christmas bonus last year) and it’s time for Phil to excuse himself and go tackle risk investment strategies. He makes the most apologetic face he can, mouthing “I’m so sorry,” to Clint, wincing as he goes. Clint laughs at him, waving him off. He looks – happy. There’s a pinch at the corners of his eyes, but Phil guesses that’s more nerves about him fitting in and Phil’s folks liking him than it is about him not wanting to be there, and nothing will fix those doubts faster than prolonged exposure to the well-meaning trolls his family are most of the time.

Phil climbs upstairs, sad to miss out on the fun but content to just be here, both of them – and yes, the feeling of everyone he loves gathered downstairs for a quiet-ish drink or five, getting to know each other and learning to be easy in each other’s company, is just as amazing as he expected.

---

“Hey,” Clint says from the doorway.

Phil startles, then flinches when the overhead lights come on, flooding his room. When had it gotten so dark? He glances at his watch and is appalled to find that it’s nearly five o’clock, which explains the gloom.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, nudging his glasses up with a forefinger and rubbing at his sore eyes. “Didn’t even notice. Obviously. Didn’t mean to leave you down there on your own for so long.”

Clint comes further into the room, looking around curiously. His eyes linger on the sheets and he grins, raising a pointed eyebrow at Phil, who huffs and dodges his gaze, cheeks flushing.

“Nice,” Clint comments idly, strolling around the room and shamelessly snooping through every visible surface. “Oh, Cat’s Cradle, I like that book.”

Phil shrugs. He tried to go back to finishing the page after Clint walked in but with him in the room, it’s pretty much a lost cause. He throws his pen and glasses onto the book splayed open next to his laptop and stops pretending Clint doesn’t have his full attention.

“Yeah, that was my hipster phase.”

Clint eyes him disbelievingly. “You? A hipster? I can’t see it.”

Phil shrugs. “I never was particularly cool, true.” He ignores the tiny sting in his gut at the thought, even after all these years, even knowing he shouldn’t care at all. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t. (And maybe if he keeps repeating it, he’ll finally believe it, too.)

Clint gives him a look that tells him plainly that he’s fooling no one, but stops nosing around the room and comes over, bending at the waist, leaning in until he can push their lips together. He kisses Phil slow and thorough and then a little dirty, licking into his mouth when Phil opens up for him without hesitation, crowding in until he’s sitting astride one of Phil’s thighs, hands curled around Phil’s head, fingers scrubbing gently at his scalp. Heat licks down Phil’s spine just from that; he imagines for a second tugging Clint more firmly onto his lap, spreading his knees to bracket Phil’s hips, reaching into Clint’s pants and flicking one button open, and another, and another, until his knuckles brush the hot, sticky head of Clint’s dick—

Clint pulls back with a gasp, shuddering in Phil’s arms.

“Oh, god, we can’t,” he whispers, sounding wrecked. “I was supposed to call you down for dinner, Connie said Lucas is starving. And anyway, the door’s open.”

Phil throws a look over his shoulder, flushing hotly when he realizes Clint is right – the door gapes wide open, and anyone passing by would have seen them making out on his desk chair like a couple of high-schoolers whose parents aren’t home yet. Clint squirms in his lap, and Phil chokes back a groan.

“For the record, this? Not helping in the least.”

Clint smirks at him, ducking in to lick at his bottom lip. Phil’s mouth falls open, half from surprise but mostly because fuck, he wants Clint so badly, wants Clint’s tongue back in his mouth and to slide his cock between those lips and to hold him and kiss him deep and wet forever.

“Asshole,” he grunts. Clint blows him a kiss, which should not make Phil’s pants feel even tighter, but there it is. Crap.

“Dinner, you said?” Phil grits out, regretting his snark immediately when Clint nods and pulls back, out of Phil’s arms (which is completely horrible).

“Yeah. Connie says to remind you to call Melinda if you haven’t yet.”

There’s something around Clint’s eyes, something – kind of tight. Phil can’t read his expression, even though he’s gotten pretty good at reading all of Clint’s faces. He’s not unhappy, Phil knows that one all too well, but—hell, he doesn’t know. Something.

“You okay?” he asks softly, because well, Clint might actually tell him for a change.

Clint’s mouth turns up in a smile. “Sure. Everything’s great.”

Or pigs might fly. It’s a nice smile, good, cheerful. Phil just can’t shake the certainty there’s something going on, but it’s pretty clear that Clint Isn’t Talking About It, so. Phil will have to make sure to watch him closely just in case he lets something slip to make the pieces shift together.

Hell of a hardship, that one.

“I did call Melinda, actually. She’s invited us to a party on the 26th, if you want to go? I’d really like to see her,” he adds when Clint looks undecided. “She was my best friend growing up; I barely get to hang out with her anymore.”

“Well, looks like it’s decided, then,” Clint says. That smile is back on his mouth, the one with something tight underneath. Phil hates it, but it’s not like he can just pin Clint down and hold him there till he tells him… can he?

“If you don’t want to go, we won’t,” he says carefully.

Clint’s smile cracks, letting something rueful through. “It’s fine, baby,” he says wryly, wrinkling his nose in… apology? Acceptance? Resignation? “’Course we’ll go.”

“Clint,” Phil starts, determined to get to the bottom of this and not let it fester and take over, but then his mom is calling up the stairs for them to get their backsides to the dining table and he’s out of time. Clint rushes out of the door like the room’s on fire, leaving Phil to stare thoughtfully after him and ponder the complexities of family life.

Shit. He scrubs at his face, digging his thumbs into his eyes. Was it a mistake to bring Clint here? Is it hitting him harder than Phil imagined, just how much he’d missed over the years? Is it... not something Clint wants anymore? He feels so lost, floundering in the mire of his own making. He resolves to spend more time around Clint for the rest of their trip, and fuck the paper to the depths of hell.

---

Clint does not sleep in Phil’s room or his bed the night of the 24th, to Phil’s desperate disappointment. He’d fully intended to sneak Clint inside; not even to have sex, necessarily, although that would have been a nice bonus. He’d just wanted to cuddle his boyfriend close, was that a crime? But Clint had disappeared up the stairs as the play date broke up and Leah took Luke off to put him to bed. By the time Phil had tidied up the living room and put all the toys away, Clint had been nowhere to be found.

Phil tried really, really hard not to be upset. Clint had probably been exhausted; when Phil peeked into the spare room on the way to his at the end of the hall, Clint had been fast asleep on top of the covers, shoes still on his feet. Maybe he’d intended to come to Phil’s room once everyone had gone to bed. Maybe Phil was being ridiculous, giving attention to the weird feeling that Clint was avoiding him. Clint had been happy over dinner, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed; he’d chatted to everyone, he’d laughed, he’d sent Phil delighted looks full of affection. He’d run his fingers over the back of Phil’s neck on his way to the bathroom and touched Phil’s shoulder when he came back, so Phil really had no reason at all to complain.

Still, Phil’s bed had felt empty and chilly and strangely unfamiliar when he’d climbed into it, and god, he missed Clint like a physical ache even though he was only two rooms away.

And then it’s morning on Christmas day, and Phil is woken up by an overexcited yell in his ear and a small body throwing itself on top of him.

“Unc’ Phi’, come, Santa!” Luke insists, shaking Phil’s shoulder harder than someone so small ought to be able to.

“Huh? Really? You’re sure?”

“Yes!” Luke yelps, then slides backwards off Phil’s bed until his feet hit the floor and runs for the door. “C’int,” he tells his harried mother, trying to get around her.

Leah’s hands are fast and sure, probably honed from spending most of every day keeping her wayward son from getting into mischief. “No, honey, he’s a guest, we shouldn’t barge in on him,” she tries, but Luke sets his face in stubborn lines and stomps his foot.

“No! C’int!”

Leah sends Phil a ‘now what?’ face. Phil shakes his head reassuringly and climbs out from under the covers, tugging a sweatshirt on and holding out a hand to Luke. Luke eyes it suspiciously, likely worried that Phil might try to bamboozle him from his quest.

“Come on. Let’s go wake Clint.”

“C’int!”

“Yeah, darling. Clint. And then presents.”

“Eeeeee!”

“Good god,” Leah mutters behind them, giving Phil’s bed a covetous look. “It’s gonna be a long day.”

Clint, when Phil cautiously opens the door to the spare room, is a big burrito of blankets and covers and pillows, tufts of hair sticking out the only thing indicating there’s a human under there. Sometime during the night he must have woken up cold and just rolled the covers up and around himself. Luke clings to Phil’s leg now they’re here, suddenly shy because Clint is still a virtual stranger, albeit one Luke seems to like a lot.

“Unc’ Phi’ wake C’int,” he demands, pushing at Phil’s knee, propelling him in the direction of the bed. Clint stirs, because it’s not easy sleeping through the ruckus a two-year-old can produce, but doesn’t seem to wake.

“Hey,” Phil says quietly, tugging the covers down enough to uncover the side of Clint’s face and planting a kiss there, twisting his chin to scratch his stubble over the skin – a move that Clint loves to pretend to hate but initiates himself if Phil neglects to do it. “Good morning.”

“Mmm, mornin’, baby,” Clint mutters, turning and curling himself around Phil’s hip when Phil sits down. Phil doesn’t move away, relishes the intimacy of the gesture, lets himself grin stupidly and thread his fingers through Clint’s messy hair.

“Rise and shine, buddy, there’s someone here to see you.”

Clint opens one eye, face breaking into a thrilled, beaming grin when he spots Luke hanging back by the door. Luke grins too, showcasing the charming gap in his top teeth.

“Mornin’, scamp,” Clint says, while Phil holds an arm out to include Luke in their cuddle, if he wants to come. Luke potters over, puts both hands on Phil’s thigh and stares at Clint in the way small children are wont to: gravely, giving him his full attention.

“Moni,” he says. “Pres!”

“Good morning, and there are presents downstairs,” Phil translates. He’s surprised how easily it comes, when this is his first time doing it.

Clint’s eyes sharpen, and he throws Phil a look full of anticipation. “Christmas morning!” he declares.

“Mhm. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you too.”

And then, at the speed of light, an arm sneaks out from the burrito and winds around Phil’s shoulder and neck, reeling him in. Clint plants a solid kiss right on his mouth, holds him in place for a few heart-melting seconds before pulling back and unwinding the covers, revealing boxer shorts and a t-shirt that must have been under his jeans and sweater. He whimpers as the cool air hits his sleep-warm skin, jumps around Phil and drags a pair of sweats and a hoodie from his backpack, throwing them on with all due haste. He rubs at his eyes, his face, runs his hands through his thoroughly disheveled hair.

Phil has never in his life seen anything more beautiful, or anything he wants more in the world.

“Aw, Christ, put that face away, you’re in public,” Leah complains, sticking her head around the door and smirking at Phil, who promptly and very annoyingly blushes. “Come on! Presents!”

And then the mayhem descends, and by the time Phil begs off to go get himself a sorely-needed cup of coffee, the living room is a mess of wrapping paper and ribbons, styrofoam peanuts and toy packaging, and everyone is red-cheeked and bright-eyed and looking so at home that Phil’s heart fills up and threatens to brim over. He carefully cradles his own present in his hands – a tie, Clint had gotten him a tie, a beautiful navy blue with pinstripes the exact shade of Clint’s eyes that Phil wants to put on and never ever take off. It’s soft and silky and feels delicious over his skin, and he stops for just one second and imagines what it will be like when he puts it on for the first time, two weeks from now when he interviews for a part-time paid internship in one of the biggest investment companies in Minneapolis.

He hangs it over his neck in the meantime, careful to brush it out of the way as he pours himself a cup of coffee and doctors it with sugar and cream – it’s Christmas, he can damn well indulge himself. The kitchen is filling up with the distinctive smell of roasting bird anyway, and he knows that by the end of tonight he will be utterly unable to move and he should enjoy his empty stomach while he can.

“Kinky,” Leah says from the doorway – hell, what is it with her and doorways, she’s always skulking in one, delighting in making Phil jump and sweat ever since they were little.

“Crap,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “Kindly desist. And FYI, there’s nothing kinky about an undone tie, Jesus.”

Leah hums, something wicked in her eye. “So he buys you a tie, and you buy him fingerless leather gloves. I sense a pattern here, bro.”

“Would you stop?” he grumbles, and damn it, if his neck gets any hotter he might set his new tie on fire. “They’re archery gloves. I told you he’s an archer, right?”

“Only like fifteen hundred times. You failed to mention how damn cute he is, though, you sneaky bastard.”

Phil bites his lip against the ridiculous urge to insist, ‘Mine’. Leah doesn’t need warning off; she’s his sister, damn it.

Though, since they’re on the topic—

“I meant to ask, what’s going on with—“

“There you are – and you’re hoarding the coffee, that’s deal-breaker territory, that is,” Clint complains, marching right into Phil’s space and stealing his mug to take a long, slow swallow with his eyes locked on Phil’s. Phil gulps reflexively, and Leah chokes on a snorted laugh.

“Oh, yeah, nothing kinky at all.”

“Leah,” Phil protests, but she’s gone already, slinking away as silently as she turned up. Phil sighs in frustration.

“You okay?” Clint asks. His voice is dark and liquid-hot, just like the coffee, and Phil pushes thoughts of no-good husbands out of the way and leans in, pressing his mouth to Clint’s, flicking out the tip of his tongue to chase the taste of coffee between his lips. Clint grunts a cut-off moan and crowds him against the counter, angling his head and opening his mouth and it’s perfect, it’s—

“Ah. Sorry. I’ll—come back, although can I just take the coffee pot with me, thanks so much.”

Phil slumps against the counter, glaring at his dad as he winks and leaves again.

“Why did I think this was a good idea, again?” he groans.

Clint smirks at him, but he’s close, close enough for the heat of his body to chase away the chill in Phil’s legs. “It was a great idea. Thanks.”

He says it so quietly that Phil almost doesn’t catch it, takes a moment to parse through the cluster of emotions in Clint’s voice. Then he wraps his arms around Clint’s shoulders and tugs him in, kisses him deep and thorough and desperate, does not give a good goddamn who sees them.

“Thank you,” he says breathlessly when he’s done, and Clint is all rosy cheeks and puffy lips and glassy eyes. “They love you already.”

Clint ducks his head, shyly pleased, and something in Phil’s chest flips over and pangs.

“They’re really great,” Clint says, a world of emotion in his voice that Phil wants to tuck between his hands and keep safe.

“Okay, I’m sorry, you two, but out. Out out out, I have a whole bucket-load of stuff to do before lunch, so take yourselves elsewhere, watch TV or go for a walk or something.”

Phil smiles apologetically at his mom and does as he’s told, one hand wrapped around his mug and the other around Clint’s wrist, holding on.

“Walk?” he suggests, and Clint smiles back, inexplicably delighted.

“I’ll just change into my jeans,” he says, pecking a quick kiss to Phil’s mouth and running up the stairs. He seems to be in a rush, but maybe he needs to get out of the house for a little while, just like Phil. Maybe he wants Phil to himself just as much as Phil wants to have him free of distraction for a few minutes, all his, and Phil’s heart really shouldn’t pound like that at the idea. It’s not like he doesn’t know how Clint feels about him. He distracts himself with stepping into his sneakers and tying up the laces.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully – or as uneventfully as Christmas day can. They go for a walk, and Phil points out a bunch of places where he used to hang out when he was in school (and got beaten up a time or two, but he only mentioned it once because Clint’s face had gone quietly murderous and Phil didn’t want to have to deal with fielding questions about last names and social security numbers). Then, they go home and they eat until they have a choice of stopping or bursting, and then they sprawl out in front of the TV and mock Christmas movies (a group sport), and perve over Alan Rickman in Die Hard (Phil, Clint, Leah, and Connie), and snooze the afternoon away (John and Luke). Phil feels a twinge of anxiety about not spending at least a couple of hours working on his paper, but he squashes it as far down as he can. He deserves a day off, damn it. He’ll spend a few hours on it tomorrow before the party.

Then, they have a last snack, and pretty much turn in for the night at ten in the evening – and this time, Phil doesn’t let Clint sneak away.

“Come on,” Phil says quietly, pushing Clint ahead of him into his room and shutting the door.

Clint winces, but looks far too excited to stop. “What if they check in on you?” he stage-whispers, and Phil has to stifle a laugh.

“They won’t. It’s not like my Mom doesn’t know what’s going on. She’s just a little old-fashioned about letting us sleep in the same room before we’re married.”

Clint makes a weird gulping noise, eyes huge. Phil blinks, and replays what he said, and feels his eyes go big and round, too. “I mean—not that—well, it’s—we’ve got time—“

Clint stops looking shell-shocked and starts sniggering.

“Shut up,” Phil grumbles, punching him in the arm.

“Oh my god, you actually stuttered, that was amazing,” Clint says, biting on his fist to muffle his giggles.

“Asshole,” Phil complains, but isn’t fool enough to push him away when Clint leans in and presses his laughing mouth against Phil’s, then removes it again only to press small, slick kisses to Phil’s jaw, the side of his neck under his ear. Phil’s embarrassment abruptly fizzles out, to be replaced by an aching, thrumming need to get closer.

“Can we—ngh, yes—get horizontal, maybe?”

Clint hums like he’s thinking, then stops kissing Phil (Phil manfully doesn’t whine) to eye the bed.

“Really? On your R2D2 sheets? You sure you want to debauch them like that?”

Phil narrows his eyes at Clint’s far-too-gleeful grin, then pushes him down onto the mattress. Clint doesn’t try to fight it, just lets himself fall gracefully, bouncing in a boneless, utterly enticing heap. He’s all long lines and muscles and hipbones peeking over his jeans and arms thrown around his head, framing his face and half-lidded eyes, and fuck, Phil wants him, wants him badly.

He drops to his knees in front of the bed, tugs at Clint’s thighs until they fall open and curl over his shoulders. Clint isn’t smirking anymore; he looks blindsided, eyes wide and dark, chest rising and falling a shade too rapidly. Phil can’t hold off any longer; he buries his face in Clint’s crotch, breathes open-mouthed and heavy over the bulge there, delights when it twitches against his cheek.

“Phil, fuck, Phil,” Clint mumbles, slow and drugged. Phil can’t stop; it’s been so long since he has had Clint’s cock in his mouth, reveled in the weight of it over his tongue, swallowed the taste of him down his throat, and all of a sudden Phil is starving for it, needs it like he needs to breathe.

“Think you can stay quiet?” he asks Clint. His voice has taken on that tone Phil has privately classified as ‘Clint Barton sexing the sense out of him’, and his throat only feels rougher when Clint keens and bites his lip hard. His cock twitches in Phil’s face, nudging his chin, and Phil can’t help himself; he opens his mouth and presses it against the front of Clint’s jeans, sucks in the smell of his arousal, feels filthy and brave when he draws his tongue over Clint’s denim-clad cock and elicits a hastily stifled moan from the man in his bed. God, Phil had never imagined that he might have someone like Clint here one day, in his room, on his back in Phil’s bed, the same one that saw him jerking off to models who looked not unlike Clint, furtively coming into his hand at the thought of maybe one day getting to fuck one of them.

And now here he is, and Clint is better than any model, more gorgeous than any movie star, and Phil wants him and loves him and has him and he can’t possibly stop, no matter what.

“God, baby,” Clint slurs when Phil opens his jeans and sucks the head of his cock through the cotton of his boxers, making Clint’s hips stutter and jump. “You’re so good at this; fuck, Phil, how are you so good at this?”

Phil grins against the length of him, basking in the heat and the smell and the feel of it pressed to his face. “Practice. My boyfriend’s big on oral instructions.”

Clint actually crunches off the bed, perfect washboard abs visible under the hem of his sweatshirt. One of his hands threads in Phil’s hair; the other grips the sheets next to Clint’s hip. “You fucking—please, god, either do it or stop teasing, I can’t take any more of this, do you know how long it’s been?”

“I do, as it happens,” Phil murmurs into his cock, then relents and draws the band of his boxers over his length, taking a moment to stare in awe at how perfect Clint looks, every damn time, long and flushed and mouthwateringly gorgeous.

And then he stops teasing both of them and draws his mouth over the head and takes him inside all the way to his throat.

Clint moans sharply, then stuffs his fist in his mouth and bites down, chest heaving. He might not speak actual words, but the noises he keeps making are eloquent enough: raw and desperate, entreating and helpless, and every single one of them goes straight to Phil’s cock. He’s so hard he thinks he’ll come on no more than a touch right now, so overwhelmed with gratitude to have this again that he would be helpless to stop it. As much as he wants Clint inside him or to be inside Clint, there is no way in hell that he’ll last that long, even if Clint agreed with Phil’s parents a thin-walled room away. So he gives himself over to this, loosens his jaw and lets Clint slip in further, fills his hands with Clint’s hips and his ass cheeks, opens his throat to let Clint inside and is rewarded with Clint’s whole body twitching as if tasered.

“Phil,” Clint keeps whispering, “Phil, god, I’ve missed you, just like that, baby, you’re so good, so good, fuck, hold off, I’m gonna—Phil, I’m gonna—“

Phil knows, doesn’t need the warning when he can read Clint’s body like his own, the twitching hips, the tightening of his ass, the pressure on his back from Clint’s thighs trying to draw him in closer. He backs off, lays his tongue tight to the underside of Clint’s cock, sucks hard enough for the head to rub against his palate and Clint’s there, spurting into his mouth and down his throat, and Phil takes it, takes it all and swallows it down and he’s never giving Clint up, never, never.

“Jesus fuck,” Clint says, low and hoarse from the strain of keeping quiet. He reaches down and grabs Phil’s arms and reels him in, bends himself in two so he can get at Phil’s mouth without any further delays. The position brings Phil flush with Clint’s spectacular ass, hot and twitching against his dick, and Phil barely manages to shove his jeans and underwear down before his cock takes on a life of its own and starts rubbing against the crack of Clint’s ass, head catching on the rim just so. Clint shudders under him and kisses him harder and god, all it takes is another minute of that before Phil’s balls tighten and twitch and his dick is painting Clint’s hole in come. Clint doesn’t let him move away, just drops his legs off of Phil’s shoulders and curls them around his waist, locking his ankles just under Phil’s ass. They kiss and kiss, slow, languid, drugging kisses that do more to settle Phil and drain his anxiety and the tension under his skin that he can’t quite get rid of these days than anything else Phil has attempted. He’s home; finally, he can let himself relax. He’s home, and so is Clint.

Despite all of Phil’s protests, Clint does wriggle out from under him eventually, kicking off his jeans and using his boxers to wipe himself and Phil’s dick clean.

“I’m going for a shower and you can’t stop me,” he declares, eyes narrowed, daring Phil to even try.

“’Course I’m not. Just… come back here, after?”

Clint looks undecided. “I shouldn’t. I don’t want your Mom mad at me.”

“She’ll be mad at me for coercing you, not you; and this is all hypothetical anyway because she won’t be mad. I promise.”

Clint hesitates another moment, and Phil really thinks he’s lost this one, a heavy weight in his gut at the thought of spending another night alone in a too-wide bed, when Clint smiles his shy, happy smile that Phil loves above anything in the world.

“Okay,” Clint says. “I’m pretty sneaky. No one will know.”

‘Don’t mind if they do,’ Phil doesn’t say, but he thinks Clint gets it anyway. He tidies their clothes, then strips to underwear and a t-shirt and crawls under the covers. All of a sudden, he’s thoroughly exhausted; he doesn’t know how he manages to linger until the door opens and closes softly again, and a clean-smelling, warm, wonderful Clint slips under the covers and into his arms, tucking his face into his neck.

“I love you,” Phil murmurs, letting the last of his consciousness go; thinks he hears a ‘love you,’ whispered near-silently into his neck, but by then he’s out like a light.

---

They sleep in on the 26th, since Leah and Luke have other plans so there’s no one to poke and prod at them to get up – not to mention that Clint has somehow completely failed to migrate back to his assigned room. Phil wakes up tangled in him, head pillowed on Clint’s chest and Clint’s arm wrapped loosely around his shoulders, his other hand on Phil’s thigh nestled between his. Phil rebels against his urgent need for the bathroom because it would mean moving and there are few things Phil wants to do less, ever – but the two glasses of wine from last night are not so easily silenced.

It’s not until Clint’s fingers start drawing lazy circles on the back of his shoulder that he realizes Clint is awake and just as reluctant to move. Phil rubs his nose over the muscles under his face, turns his head to press a kiss to them through the warm cotton of the t-shirt.

“Morning.”

“Hey, baby,” Clint replies. It still causes a bunch of conflicting feelings in Phil’s chest – pleasure at the intimacy, fondness at Clint’s sappiness, irritation at the pet name. But Clint’s fingers are threading through his hair now and all Phil can do is bask – and maybe purr a little.

“What’s the plan for today?” Clint asks lazily.

Phil sighs with feeling, clinging to Clint’s middle possibly harder than he needs to. “I need to wrangle that bastard paper for a while,” he grumbles, burying his face in Clint’s chest. “And then the party tonight.”

Clint is silent. The fingers in Phil’s hair are still moving, but there’s tension suddenly in Clint’s previously boneless body that Phil hates. He kisses Clint’s chest again in apology, reaching down to lace his fingers with the hand still on his hip, brings it up to his mouth to press kisses to the palm, Clint’s fingertips. He feels so fucking guilty about studying through the scant few hours he and Clint have together, but they have to leave tomorrow and Phil is headed straight back to work, picking up shifts from the 28th through to 31st December for the extra cash. He’s got 1st January off, though, has a plan of sorts circling vaguely through his mind, if they can swing it, but this doesn’t feel like the right time to bring it up.

The point is, today is the last free day he has to work on a paper that’s due 4th January and it’s barely half done. If he can power through the rest of it today, he’ll have the 1st free to thoroughly enjoy.

“I need to piss,” Clint says, disentangling himself gently from Phil’s arms and heading for the door. Phil can’t quite escape the feeling that he’s fucked up somehow, though he’ll be damned if he knows what he did. Maybe he should have told Clint about his plans after all? But there’s still the issue of money…

Fuck, he hates being so damn broke. 7th January can’t come fast enough; if he plays his cards right, he could be getting paid enough to make things at least a little more manageable. Certainly enough to be able to afford to take the train down for Easter weekend instead of driving again – or even better, afford a room in Chicago for the two of them to spend the weekend.

A mere two years ago, the idea of all his long-term plans revolving around one person would have been enough to bring him out in goosebumps, spiraling into the onset of a panic attack. Now, it only makes a familiar warmth unfold in his gut and take over his chest, because it’s not just any person that he has chosen to tether his life to; it’s Clint, and Clint is worth everything, any concession Phil can make, any sacrifice required of him.

They have breakfast and drink their coffee under Connie and John’s amused, knowing eyes, but Phil finds he cares not one whit because Connie makes sure Clint has all the pancakes he can eat and John makes a second batch of freshly squeezed orange juice when he notices how much Clint loves it. Phil leaves them once they descend into a mire of childhood stories and terribly embarrassing anecdotes that have Clint’s eyes flashing delightedly but make Phil squirm with mortification.

He buries himself in work, barely acknowledging Clint beyond a distracted kiss when he comes up to sprawl across Phil’s bed with his sketchbook. Time passes quickly while Phil frowns and mutters to himself and types and back-spaces and types some more, unconsciously soothed by the scratch of pencil on paper and Clint’s absentminded soft humming of Christmas-y pop songs.

Around six, when the light outside has long faded and Phil is so sick of squinting at his screen that he could scream, he throws his glasses onto his legal pad and calls it a day. He’s almost done; he just needs to type up his conclusion and proofread the thing and he’ll be done, and he can do that on the 3rd, much as he hates leaving it for the last minute. This is more important.

“Hey,” Clint says when Phil, having waited for a break in the sketching, drops down on his back onto the bed, stretching the kinks away. His neck aches and his shoulders feel stiff and his ass hurts, but it’s nothing that won’t fade after a beer or two and the time to unwind.

“Hey. Wanna watch a movie?”

Clint taps his pencil on the sheet, biting his lip. “We got time?”

“Yeah, we need to be there for nine-ish and she only lives a ten minute walk away.”

Clint’s blue eyes crinkle when he grins, crawling forward until he can drop a crooked kiss on Phil’s waiting mouth.

“In that case, sure.”

They watch How To Train Your Dragon, which is what’s on at six o’clock on 26th December, curled together on the sofa and pretending they aren’t snuggling – which in fact they are, because Clint is melted against his side and Phil has his arm around him and it’s amazing – and then it’s primping time. They take turns showering (shame, they’ve got no choice), then Phil tugs on a clean shirt and his jeans, while Clint stares at what little he has packed, undecided.

“Just put on a button-down or something. Or one of your tight t-shirts, those work.”

Clint smirks at him, looking inordinately pleased. “Oh, those work, do they?”

Phil flushes and busies himself with buttoning his shirt. Knowing just how starved Clint is for proper attention, though, he makes himself turn and face down his embarrassment.

“Yeah. They work,” he repeats, dragging his eyes down Clint’s body and heavily resenting the fact that he can’t just press him against the wall and devour him right this second – because if he does they will most definitely be late to the party.

Clint, however, seems to have other ideas, because he prowls closer and sneaks his hands under Phil’s half-buttoned shirt, catching his mouth in a long, drugging give and take that leaves Phil sweating and thrumming with want.

“Well then, I guess I should go get dressed,” Clint murmurs, stepping back and deftly avoiding the hands that are trying to clutch at his hips and keep him in place.

“Devious asshole,” Phil grumbles, and has no choice but to smile at Clint’s delighted laughter.

In no time, they’re standing outside the Mei family’s house, knocking on the honey-brown door half-covered by a giant Christmas wreath. Phil feels fingers slip inside his left hand just before the door’s yanked open to reveal Melinda’s flushed, happy face, strands of sleek black hair swaying over her shoulders from rushing. Phil squeezes back at Clint’s hand and grins at Melinda, catching her one-handed when she pounces on him for a hug.

“Hey, stranger,” she laughs, clutching at him for a moment before stepping back. “And who is this extremely handsome man hanging off your arm?”

Phil laughs sheepishly, sending Clint an apologetic look that turns amused at how extremely pleased with himself Clint looks.

“This is Clint Barton. My boyfriend. Clint, Melinda Mei.”

“Hi,” Clint drawls, not letting go of Phil’s hand but throwing Melinda a wink instead. “I’m the arm candy.” He preens a little, making Melinda laugh full-out – once upon a time, this used to be one of Phil’s favorite sounds in the world; and it still doesn’t fail to warm him inside, but not as much as how obviously, unaffectedly happy Clint looks to be here with him. To have people know he’s here with Phil, his plus-one. It still sends a shocked jolt of pleasure through Phil’s chest.

“I doubt very much that’s all you are, Phil does not tend to fall this hard for anyone who doesn’t have hidden talents.”

Clint bites his lip, considering. “It’s probably my ass,” he confides in a stage whisper. “It’s got hidden talents all on its own.”

Melinda howls at that, hands on her hips and head thrown back.

“Oh, I like him,” she tells Phil without taking her eyes off Clint, which is good because Phil is flushing brighter than the holly berries in the Christmas wreath. “I like him tons. Certainly like six hundred times more than that asshole Kyle.”

Phil can feel his face fall. Shit, he hadn’t even thought…

“He’s here?” he asks, wincing. Melinda sobers up and makes a face at him.

“He’s dating Jason Waynright from school, Jason brought him. I had no idea he was gonna be here, I swear.”

At his side, Clint has gone very still. Phil looks at him cautiously and cringes inside at the flat look on his face, the hum of tension in his body.

“Is that the guy?” Clint asks tonelessly. Phil doesn’t have to ask to know what Clint’s referring to.

“Uh, yeah,” Phil says, resisting the urge to rub at the back of his neck. "But, look, the house is full. I doubt very much we’ll even run into him, let alone talk to him, okay?”

Melinda is watching the two of them like a referee at a tennis match. Phil makes at face at her when he sees the approving look she’s giving Clint’s anger. Oh, god, this can’t end well. He should have known better than to introduce them.

“Come on,” Clint says, tugging on his hand. “We’re here now. Let’s go get a drink.”

Fuck. Phil knows that note in Clint’s voice, has learned to recognize it early on and mentally prepare to head off one of Clint’s wilder ideas. He sends Melinda an unimpressed look for saying nothing, to which she merely returns a raised eyebrow and a smirk. She is far, far more bloodthirsty than a doctor has any right to be.

…Which is how they end up here, with blood on Mrs Mei’s expensive sheepskin rug, Kyle Davies clutching a broken nose and wailing bloody murder, and Clint looking darkly, viciously satisfied, shaking his bruised hand with murder in his eyes. Kyle takes one look at his face and wisely shuts up, disappearing with his tail between his legs – but not before throwing Phil a filthy, detesting look.

Phil stares after him and wonders how in the world he could have fancied himself in love with him once. He looks back at Clint, magnificent in his rage, and feels suddenly like a princess with two rival clans battling over his hand.

Hey, he never said he was rational when it came to Clint fucking Barton.

“Barton, what the everloving fuck?” he all but screams, feeling all the more confused when Clint actually glares at him, turns on his heel and stalks off towards the kitchen. Melinda gives Phil a look as well and hurries after him, nudging him away from the sink so she can pull out the Meis’ well-overstocked first aid kit. She sets to patching up Clint’s hand without a word, cleaning one torn knuckle with a disinfectant wipe and pressing an ice pack to the back of it. Phil just stands there staring at them, feeling so utterly lost. He has no idea what’s going on; one moment, he’d been chatting happily to Vanya, his former chemistry partner, and the next there’s a commotion in the other corner of the living room and Kyle fucking Davies is flat on his back, Clint looming over him like an avenging angel, cheeks flushed and eyes flashing, and Melinda standing of to the side, glaring down at Kyle like it personally offended her that he lived.

And now Clint’s acting like this is all Phil’s fault somehow, and Melinda is looking like she’s on his side, and Phil doesn’t know what to do with them at all.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he snaps, because he has never dealt well with the ground shifting under his feet.

He knows it’s a huge mistake the second Clint lifts his head and spears him with his eyes, looking hurt and furious and deeply, worryingly unhappy.

“What was I thinking?” he growls softly.

Melinda takes one look between the two of them and takes a step back. “I’ll just—go and see if everyone else is okay,” she says, disappearing through the door and closing it behind her with a tight click.

Phil hasn’t dropped Clint’s gaze, trying to work out what to do, what has gone so disastrously wrong.

“What was I thinking?” Clint repeats. An uncomfortable shudder races down Phil’s spine as Clint theatrically taps his mouth with the forefinger of his left, uninjured hand. “Well now, let me see. How about that when some dickface who did a number on my boyfriend no matter how many years ago has the nerve to come up to me and ask me what was keeping me with you because it couldn’t be the sex, I get a little upset. And how about said dickface not minding a strongly worded request to make himself scarce, and keeping up trash-talking said boyfriend? And how about—“

He turns around sharply, giving Phil his back, which is just as well because Phil doesn’t think he can keep up his impassive face much longer.

“How about,” Clint continues, voice taking on a raw note that tears at Phil’s heart, “said boyfriend spending a grand total of eighteen hours in three days with me, and that’s counting the driving and the sleeping? Why did you bring me here, Phil? Why did you ask me to come home with you, over Christmas, if you’re just going to ignore me and your family? Fuck, did you even know that your sister is getting a divorce? That she’s moved to a tiny house a few streets over so that your Mom and Dad can help with babysitting in between the six jobs they work between them? Did you know – shit, Phil, her husband psychologically abused her, I can’t believe you never said a damn thing about it! I mean, fuck, is this, did you just need to check me off on your damn list? ‘Take Clint home to keep him happy – check.’”

Phil is shaking where he stands. The worst of it is, he hadn’t known Leah was getting a divorce. She hadn’t told him, not on their few chats in between his job and school and her job and Luke. He had always known Michael was a scumbag, but he hadn’t known how bad it had gotten. He hadn’t asked, too wrapped up in his studies, in Clint.

And the second part just sends icicles stabbing through his chest.

“Jesus, Clint,” he croaks. “I never—that wasn’t the reason.” He’s got no words, nothing when faced with the aching hurt in Clint’s voice. Has he really been so oblivious? Has he been the bastard that made Clint feel like he wasn’t wanted here?

“I needed to finish the paper now because I requested the 1st of January off. I was hoping I could get you to come up to Minneapolis with me for New Year’s. I’d be working, but you can stay at my place and go sight-seeing and work on your projects and I’d be home off-shift, and we could spend the 1st together. I mean. If you wanted. But I understand why you might not want to, it’ll be boring for you and you’ll still need to—I got a bit of money saved up, and my parents gave me some cash they’d put aside to make things easier for me, and we can get you a train ticket down to Indianapolis, it won’t be such a trek back for you.”

Clint is staring at him, but Phil can’t look at him any longer. He feels completely drained, suddenly dead on his feet, like he might fall over at any moment. He feels exhausted. He hates what his life has become, even when he knows it’s just a period they all have to push through to get out on the other side.

Clint sighs long and hard from across the room. Phil still can’t look up, can’t see the rejection that might well lurk in Clint’s eyes. He has been a fucking crappy boyfriend. He wouldn’t blame Clint if he did leave him.

“Ah, shit,” Clint says, sounding as tired as Phil. “Look, Phil, here’s the thing. You can’t keep making all these plans and not involve me except to serve them to me on a silver platter. We’re in this together. You said so yourself. I want to be a proper part of this. I want to help set up this life for both of us. I want you to include me when you think about those things. I like surprises as much as the next guy, but I like knowing what goes on in that head of yours more. I’m not clairvoyant. I can’t just divine your intentions. You have to tell me, or I get—I get insecure, okay, this can’t be news to you. I need to know what you’re thinking so that I know I’m still—we’re still in this together.”

Phil rubs both of his hands over his face, feeling like a failure. Clint’s right, of course he’s right. Phil is just so damn used to being in control that he forgets that he doesn’t always have to be, anymore.

“I’m sorry. I know, I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ve been a shitty boyfriend.”

Soft footsteps, and then Clint’s arms around him, drawing him in to lean onto Clint’s chest. “No, baby,” Clint says close to his ear, resting his temple against Phil’s. “You want so much for us, I know that. I trust that. I’d just like to be involved in wanting all of those things for us, too.”

Slowly, Phil winds his arms around Clint’s body, too, possibly clinging a little, he’s not admitting to anything. Fuck, this was close. Too close. He can’t lose this. He can’t ever lose this.

“I love you,” he whispers, and Clint shivers against him, holds him tighter.

“I love you, too, you damn idiot. As if this was a deal-breaker. Like there could ever be something that could be a deal-breaker with you. We made it through the fuck-buddies mess; I’m not budging, and you can’t make me. Just—be with me, Phil. Really be with me. Let me help.”

Phil clutches at him tighter, biting his lip not to let the tears in his eyes brim over. “I promise,” he chokes out. He’s being ridiculous, but god, knowing he’s hurt Clint, however unintentionally, will always be the one thing he can’t ever take.

Eventually, the hug loosens until they’re just leaning against each other, sharing space and smelling each other’s scents.

“So,” Phil asks quietly. “New Year’s?”

Clint huffs a laugh, and starts singing softly, nudging Phil until he’s swaying side to side with him, feeling like an utter sap and not giving a single fuck who sees him.

“’I know it’s much too early in the game, but I would like to ask you just the same: What are you doing New Year’s, New Year’s eve?’”

They dance, just the two of them, until the party breaks up and they go home, where Phil tugs Clint past Connie and John watching TV in the living room, up the stairs, into his room and into his bed and refuses to let him go.

And in the morning, they pack up their things, kiss his (their, really, their) folks goodbye, and Clint sings the hours away as they drive towards the Twin Cities.