3. Chapter 3

Phil showed up regularly to have his car fixed for minor body work (dents, scratches, cracked headlights, and the occasional totally legit oil change) and would always stand near the car, eyes sharp. He wasn't overtly threatening but Sammy refused to work on his car and both Alexi and Spartak got so nervous under Phil's quiet gaze that they started dropping tools. Clint wasn't about to let his shop's reputation skid into the gutter because some hired gun gave his guys a case of the nerves, so Clint stepped in and started doing the work himself.

"Here," Phil said, holding out a cup of coffee from the coffee shop across the street. Clint was hammering a wheel-well back into shape so they could get the damn ruined tire out to change it. Whatever (whomever) Phil had crashed into had been very, very unyielding. Clint took it the steaming cup of ambrosia, surprised that Phil had left long enough to go get them coffee. Phil smiled, and it almost looked sweet on his boyish face. "I took the liberty of sending Sammy out for us. I hope you don't mind."

"Nah, works for me. You can boss my guys around as much as you like, hell they'd probably listen more than they do to me." Clint held the cup with reverent hands and sniffed deeply. "Man oh man, love their brew over there. Thanks."

Phil raised his cup in salute. He continued to stand nearby while Clint bullied the car body into giving up the tire, then wrenched it off and handed it to Alexi to change out. He was sweating by then, so unzipped the top of his coveralls and let it drop, tying the arms around his waist. He worked in a tank top enough that no one looked twice, except Phil. Clint glanced up to see Phil gaping at his body, but closing down quickly. Clint smirked for a second, enjoying the attention despite himself. Phil caught Clint's eyes and they stared at each other, both knowing that Phil had just checked Clint out and that Clint had been amused (and possibly turned on) by it.

Dangerous waters to tread, for two "outsiders" who worked for the Russians. Clint gave Phil a small shake of his head. Phil nodded as he returned his attention to his coffee, and they both went on as if nothing had happened.

After that, though, Phil was quietly in Clint's space more often, under the guise of handing off or holding his coffee or checking the work or checking for something which he never could explain outside of base paranoia. Clint couldn't blame the guy; he was Irish ex-merc who had sold his soul to the Russians for a nice car, a place to call home and a hot red-headed wife. Paranoia was the only sensible reaction, as far as Clint could tell. Clint certainly wasn't arguing with having Phil in his space, no matter the excuse.