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Clint is usually okay. Everyone in his line of work is pretty fucked up, and they all have their ways of coping and Clint is usually okay. This makes it all the more obnoxious when he's not okay, and he leans on the tiled wall of the shower and tries to take deep, even breaths. He's home, he's safe, why the fuck does this shit have to happen now? It has to happen now because he can afford it, of course, but it's like a kid being sick during summer vacation. This shit is cutting into trio time, and it's really pissing him off. Especially because Fury is DTT (Down To Touch) now. Not all the time, of course, but who is? After that first blowjob he had shut right down again for three days. Phil had warned Clint that he would probably do that, though, so Clint had just hugged him a lot and taken good care of Phil without teasing Nick at all.
On the fourth morning he had greeted Clint with a kiss, and by that evening had been willing to jerk off onto his chest for Phil to watch. On day five he had cockslapped Clint again before coming on his face, and now here it is night seven and Clint is all fucked up. It's the worst timing ever. The hot water starts to cool, and he turns it off, feeling like an asshole for using it up for almost no benefit. He towels off and shuffles out, feeling cold that's not entirely physical. He hugs himself and takes a deep breath, walking briskly into the bedroom. Phil is waiting for him there, looking homey and touchable and sweet in the golden light of the desk lamp. He smiles, and Clint manages to smile back, mostly because of how much he loves Phil. He goes to him and fights the urge to just curl into a fetal ball while tucked as close to him as possible, sitting down on the edge of the bed instead and running the towel over his hair again.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Phil says softly. “Are you okay?”
“...Fury fucking told you, didn't he?”
“I do still work here, you know,” Phil says, putting an arm around him and pulling Clint close to his good side. He sighs, and then curls up and cuddles close, soothed by the soft warmth of Phil's bathrobe.
“Watching racist shitheads is never any fun, but talk about carving swastikas into black people makes me think of all Nick's scars and how fucked up he is over them, and I... fuck, man. I see a lot of bad shit, but I'm more used to hating on my own account.”
“And there was that time the Swordsman tried to autograph you.”
Clint hadn't let him finish even one fucking letter, but the straight line that didn't get to curve into a J on his shoulder burns like it did when it was new and he shudders, hiding his face in Phil's shoulder. “Yeah. That, too.”
“Baby,” Phil says softly, holding him close and rubbing his back. “You want to just do this tonight?”
Nick is on his way over, but he won't mind. Clint knows that neither of them would mind if he decided to lock himself in the bathroom all night aside from their natural anxiety for his well-being, but dammit, he wanted to get laid tonight, and he still does. “No,” he mumbles, doing his best to drown himself in Phil's scent. “Just... maybe take it slow?”
“Anything you want,” Phil says, and he actually sounds a little guilty.
Clint raises his head, squinting at him. “What?”
“I... you've done so much for both of us. I feel like we're not taking care of you.”
Clint snorts. “Well, now's your chance to fix it, then.”
Phil chuckles and hugs him tightly, kissing the top of his head. “Okay.”
They're still snuggled up like this when Fury comes in. “Barton all right?”
“We just need to be gentle with him,” Phil says, petting Clint's hair as he nestles even closer.
“Poor baby,” Fury says softly, and it hardly sounds mocking at all. He sits on the edge of the bed and starts rubbing Clint's back, sleek leather caressing his skin. He sighs, relaxing even more, and they just stay like this for a while. It's nice to bathe in their combined scent and feel safe.
“Better?” Phil asks, and Clint nods, nuzzling him.
“Mmm, yeah. Mind if I start calling some shots?”
Phil chuckles, tipping Clint's chin up to kiss him. “Hell, no.”
“How much contact can you stand tonight, sir?” Clint asks, loosening his grip on Phil so he can comfortably look up at Fury.
He smiles. “With you, Barton? A lot.”
“Kiss me?” Clint asks, sounding a bit babyish to his own ears and not caring at all.
He shifts onto his back and reaches for Fury who just murmurs, “Yes,” and leans down to kiss Clint for a long time, tender and searching and slow.
Clint whimpers and clings to him, nails digging into the leather of his coat. In some hypothetical future he's tired of kissing Fury, but it's pretty hard to imagine. He moans as Fury's tongue pushes into his mouth, sucking on it for a messy moment and then letting Fury withdraw just enough to gently bite his lower lip before sealing their mouths together again and swallowing up Clint's quiet moan. He shivers and strives for more contact, wriggling until Phil helps him onto his back where Fury's even weight can sink him into the mattress. It's like those heavy blankets for autistic kids or a thunder jacket on a dog or something, so immensely and immediately calming that it should be creepy. Instead Clint just makes a high-pitched little noise and melts under him, grinding up against his belly.
“I think it's time for Phil to take over,” Fury murmurs. He sits up, but has the decency to take Clint with him, tucking him into the coat for warmth. He settles against the footboard and Clint straddles his lap, arms around his neck.
“You're so cute like that,” Phil says softly, and Clint knows that he means both of them together.
“Hear that, sir? You're cute.”
Fury chuckles. “You are the sun to my moon, kid. How do you want it now?”
“You're a poet and you don't know it,” Clint mumbles, and looks over his shoulder at Phil, who's just lying there propped up on his elbows, beaming at both of them. “Finger me?”
“God, I thought you'd never ask,” Phil says, carefully getting onto his knees and taking a moment to make sure that he hasn't pulled anything loose. That's getting less likely by the day, but better safe than sorry. He manages to get onto his knees and get the lube with no major mishaps, and soon he's plastered against Clint's back, kissing Fury as he strokes lube over Clint's hole, not pressing in yet. For a while just being between them and held and touched is more than enough, but at long last Clint is compelled to push back onto Phil's fingertips and get things moving again.
Phil chuckles, working two fingers into him. “Right, right, we'd better stay on schedule.”
“Yeah,” Clint breathes, “we'd better. Ffffuck...”
Fury chuckles into his ear, biting at his jawline as Phil gets a third finger into him and sets up a delicate twisting motion that was probably mathematically derived specifically to drive him insane. He can just see Phil, lurking somewhere with a fucking graphing calculator and pencil tucked behind his ear, tapping away at the keys and assigning numerical values to different approaches to his prostate and, “You've probably color-coded them, you bastard,” he gasps, realizing that he's speaking aloud. They both laugh at him, but in a loving way. And then Fury has one gloved hand on his cock and Clint is coming so hard and so long that it's ridiculous. He doesn't make a sound, just bucking in Fury's lap and hanging on for dear life.
When he's finally still again, they arrange him on his side and Fury wraps around him from behind as Phil kisses him. Normally Clint would at least be giving them each a hand, but now he catches his breath as they take care of themselves, Fury grunting and growling as Phil pants softly, both of them moving faster and faster until Fury makes a noise like someone punched him in the gut and comes all over Clint's lower back. Phil takes a little longer, and Clint is half asleep when he lets out quiet cry and paints a stripe of his own on Clint's belly as Fury grumbles incoherently and reaches for the box of wet wipes beside the bed.