6. Chapter 6

Phil's car got towed in one morning with a trashed bumper and a broken windshield, and Clint suspected the dark smear over the hood was not mud. The radiator had taken the brunt of the collision, so it was going to be long job with several guys on it.

Because Phil made it clear he was not leaving without his car.

"Man, I can't even guarantee we'll have a replacement bumper in before close," Clint explained as Alexi wrestled the mangled body part off the car. "Fixing the radiator will take less time, honestly. But the bumper? Can't guarantee that."

"Do the best you can," Phil said mildly, which Clint took to mean "do it or I'll cut your toes off, one by one, while you scream." Clint went to his office and yelled at his parts distributor until the guy just took his bribe already to get the fucking bumper there before close. Clint knew he was going to be working late and under pressure (specifically, under Phil's watchful eyes) to get the car put together. Part of him really did not mind that idea at all.

As the day wore on and the car was slowly pieced back together, Phil stood around as usual in his suit, drinking the coffee that Clint sent Sammy to buy next door and looking perfectly content to stand guard the whole time. At one point his hot-headed red-head showed up, pissy and annoyed that Phil was probably going to be home late. She threw Clint a few assessing looks before getting into her little roadster and driving off with as much attitude as a firecracker like her could give.

Phil sighed. "Married life is not quite what I thought it would be."

"Don't see me signing up for it," Clint grinned. He was up to his elbows in grease and his knuckles were bloodied from fighting the car's frame, which had not wanted to let go of the radiator. Alexi tsk-tsked, his head down deep under the hood.

"You do not know good home until it has wife in it," he said in his broken English. "My niece, she is perfect for you, Hawkeye. Good cook, broad hips."

"Stop, just stop right there, Alexi, and get back to your damn job." Clint slapped him with one of the shop rags. He glanced up and caught Phil's amused expression, his eyes nearly twinkling with delight. Something about that look decided it for Clint, because whatever else Phil McPherson might be, he was at heart a good man. The kind of man that Clint admired, and yes, wanted a bit more than a little. A man who deserved not to be piled up under Barney's crazy, suicidal schemes.

"Anyway, Phil, while Alexi gets things done here I wanted to talk to you about the custom work you asked me for."

Phil wasn't fazed at all to find out that he had asked for custom work. Frowning, he put his hands in his pockets, a tell that meant nothing to Clint. "Good news, I hope?"

Clint tried not to burst out with "god you're fucking brilliant" but just shook his head instead. "No, unfortunately. If I can convince you that Alexi won't blow up your car, let's go to my office so I can show you the numbers and talk about options."

Phil paused for a long moment then nodded. Sighing inwardly in relief, Clint led him back to his office.

Phil stopped inside the door, closing it behind them, but his eyes were on Clint's display racks.

"Hawkeye?" Phil asked.

"You don't think I got that nickname as a joke, did ya?" Clint smiled, giving his girls his fondest grin. "Me and Barney, we were in the circus when we were kids. I learned to shoot there, had my own act for a while." Clint reached out to run his fingers over his favorite, an Olympic-style recurve in deep purple. "Still practice on the weekends, belong to the local bow club."

Phil looked over the varied collection with hungry eyes. Clint wondered if he ever shot bow and arrow.

"Do you compete?"

"Kind of pointless, I win every time."

Phil gave him a bland, disbelieving look. Clint shrugged. "What part of 'circus act shooting impossible targets with a bow and arrow while swinging from a trapeze' did you miss?"

Phil gave him the polite shrug of the skeptics. Clint didn't care; he had won too much money from people who didn't believe he was the world's greatest marksman to get upset by yet another doubter.

"You like variety. Recurve, primitive, even compound. That's surprising," Phil commented, revealing just how much he knew what he was talking about.

"I'm no purist. If it has tension and shoots arrows, I like it. My girl here, she's my best girl, but I like it all. Different styles keep me on my toes." Clint patted the recurve.

Phil nodded, moving close to inspect the primitives.

"Look, Phil, we need to talk—" Before Clint finished, Phil had pushed Clint up against his desk. Clint gasped for a surprised breath of air. "What?"

"You're a damn tease, Barton, walking around half-dressed every time I show up," Phil said, fisting Clint's shirt in his hands. "I wondered when you would make a move." He leaned in and gave Clint a searing kiss. Phil's lips were soft as a woman's but the scruff of his 5 o'clock shadow scraped against Clint's skin with a flair of pleasure and pain, turning Clint on so hard and so fast he was dizzy with it. He clutched at Phil's waist, trying to sort himself out, but it was impossible with the solid weight of Phil pressing against him, holding him in place. Phil kissed just like Clint thought he would when he had allowed himself to dream about it: hard, deep, and passionate. His tongue flicked out to tap at Clint's, and Clint was gone, sucking Phil into his mouth.

Finally Clint pushed Phil off of him, gasping for air. Phil's arms had wrapped around him, holding him close, but Phil loosened his hold enough for Clint to lean back. "Not that this isn't a fabulous idea, because it really, really is, but this isn't why I asked you to my office." He kept pushing at Phil's chest, which was probably the hardest thing he had ever done because all he wanted to do was tumble Phil to the floor and suck him off. Repeatedly, and preferably reciprocally.

Phil followed his lead, although he did not look happy about it. "I did not misread this."

"No, you didn't, at least as far as that goes." Clint waved down at his hard-on. Phil looked down, then up, and gave Clint a filthy smile. Clint closed his eyes as lust rolled over him like a tidal wave. "Stop. I need you to listen."

Something about his tone of voice alerted Phil to the seriousness of it, and he stepped back completely. "Why?"

Clint rubbed his mouth for a second, trying to pull himself back from the edge.

"Look, you don't know me, and you're one of Grigory's made men. So I'm perfectly aware that telling you this could be a death sentence for me. But I don't think so." He looked up at Phil, whose face had gone utterly blank. "Shit's going down. Soon. Barney's in on it, probably started it, knowing that stupid ass. Anyway, you're in the cross-hairs, and I like you, and if this all goes to hell I'm dead anyway." He crossed his arms and looked at the ceiling.

"Explain," Phil said, his voice soft but sharp, and Clint could hear the military training in the man at that moment. Nodding, Clint laid it all out, everything he had seen and figured out over the past two weeks. It was a huge risk but he was taking a leap of faith, which he hoped had more to do with being a good judge of character rather than just horny.

"And you pieced this all together on your own?" Phil asked, his disbelief clear.

"I'm not stupid, and I know these people and I know how this shit works. I sure as fuck know my own brother. Now, you can call me crazy and ignore everything I just told you, and we can say goodbye now because within a month you'll be hung out to dry and definitely dead. Hell, if this backfires on Barney I'll probably be in the same cement pit with you. Ah, shit." Clint buried his face in his hands. "We need to get back out to your car." He stood up straight, but Phil was there, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"I believe you. In fact what you just told me answers some questions we've had about what is going on."

Clint nodded. "I knew you're brilliant." He shut his mouth, blushing, but Phil smiled at him.

"Takes one to know one, Barton." Phil squeezed his shoulder before letting go. "I have an important question to ask."

"Whether Natasha is in on it? I don't know. She's kept herself out of the social scene here."

Phil shook his head. "No, I know where she stands. What I need to know is if you trust me."

Clint stared at him for a long time, knowing that this was the moment of decision. It was as much about allegiances as it was about trust; Clint had not trusted Barney for years, but he was his brother and Clint had felt bound to him by blood. But it was obvious that, even though Barney might think he was protecting Clint by keeping him out of things, he was not doing what was right by Clint. Power hungry and greedy, Barney was trying to make good for himself no matter what the price.

Grigory was going down, taken out by the new international organization or by Barney's machinations if not both. That was not even in doubt by Clint anymore. Grigory's protection of Clint only extended as far as his life, for what it was worth.

Phil was a stranger, unrelated and mostly unknown. He was no fool, though, and everything Clint had seen and heard about him convinced him that Phil was leagues beyond anything Barney could compete with.

The only safe harbor was the strange one.

"Yeah, I trust you."