No additional warnings for this scene.
The first time was ten months after Barton had passed his probationary period with SHIELD. It was his third mission, his second as an asset on an op run by Phil, and his first actually going undercover as anything more involved than a very lethal waiter.
He was, in fact, the bait.
It was a common role for an agent to take on. People, especially criminals, were notoriously stupid when it came to money and sex and any combination thereof. Agents like Barton—and Phil, back in day—had to have fluid sexual identities and flexible interests. More than a few agents had washed out of fieldwork because they couldn't deal with the sex.
Which was why Phil wasn't prepared to look at the live video feed and watch Barton systematically, whole heartedly, seduce a man who went by name of Scarface Johnson. Gone was the bravado, replaced with sweet smiles and batting eyelashes. Instead of smart-assed comments, Barton was giving up light, sugary laughs. Scarface usually liked his boys young and innocent, and Barton, at 27, was too old to pull that off. But he played to his previously-hidden boyish charm, tilting his head coyly and rubbing at his neck shyly.
He was fucking adorable, and Phil wanted to pick him up and take him home and pet him until they both came like rockets.
He also wanted to break the neck of the ass-hole sitting next to Barton, his greasy hand pawing at his leg.
That was just the first time.
The next time that stands out in Phil's mind was sometime in their second year working together. There were other times and places where Barton had to seduce or be seduced, it wasn't uncommon, but that time was special because Phil was stuck in the trunk of the damn car while Clint was fucked senseless in the backseat.
Of course that had not been the plan, but equipment malfunctions are never convenient and Phil had broken cover to get a new comm to Barton, the both of them realizing too late that time had run out and Barton's mark was walking into the garage. Barton physically tossed Phil into the trunk, slamming it shut just as the mark got to the car.
It the guy was suspicious, he never had a chance to act on it because Barton was all over him with charm and sex noises and gasping, desperate pleas. Phil clutched himself in the dark, determined to stay professional no matter what.
The mark was needed for information he had, and for the place he held in the crime syndicate he worked for. He couldn't be killed or compromised; he had to be left in pretty much the same condition they found him. Clint was stuck playing the paramour, and he played it to the hilt.
Phil was turned on but doing okay right up until Barton started begging.
"God, yeah, honey, so fucking huge, I feel you so hard in me, baby, yeah, come on I need it so bad, don't make me beg, I need you so hard please baby please—"
The mark grunted and pounded, shaking the car, while Barton kept up a steady stream, his voice harsh like gravel and sweet like honey as he talked the guy all the way through the fuck until Barton was yelling as he came, gasping for air. Phil pinched the end of his dick mercilessly just to keep from coming from the noises Barton was making.
Later, Phil was pretty sure the mission was a success. Phil managed not to eviscerate the mark in a pique of ill-advised jealousy, and Barton got the information they needed. That was what the paperwork said (except for the jealousy part), since Phil was the one who wrote it and signed off on it. In all honesty, though, the whole thing after the car sex was pretty much a wash. They could have arrested Captain America for crimes against humanity and Phil probably would have signed off on that too.
It kept going like that, mission after mission. Only one in every four needed Barton to play the sex card, and often he did not even need to go all the way. Phil didn't care about that because it was part of the job, which he knew damn well.
What drove him nuts was Barton's bright eyes as he danced with a dangerous woman; his self-depreciating laugh while he slammed shots with a man twice his age; his mischievous grin at the young (too young) inseparable, incestuous son and daughter twins of a notorious weapons dealer.
For no reason at all, he felt like Barton was mocking him every time.
By their fifth year together at SHEILD, Phil and Barton were a tight team. Professional. Effective. Deadly.
Phil had a lot to be proud of. The former carnie and criminal was now one of their top field agents, his natural intelligence coming out in a dozen ways in the field. Together, they were good. No, scratch that: they were fucking great.
Professionally.
But it ground down onto Phil's soul every time one of those ops came up on rotation. It was a liability for Phil to want to gun down every person who set hands on Barton, or who Barton smiled at with intent. It was a liability and bad form and bad habit and a generally all round terrible idea to humor.
Phil humored it relentlessly, in triplicate.
And then Barton fell off the grid for forty-eight hours. SHEILD was on high alert, Phil was a very calm and collected basket case, and Fury was slightly annoyed.
When Barton showed up again, it was to appear out of nowhere in Phil's office with the Black Widow by his side.
They were holding hands.
Phil was accepting of Natasha, not because Clint pleaded her case or Fury recognized an opportunity. Phil saw a young woman sitting in his office pretending not to clutch at Barton's hand with a grip that was probably causing Barton to loose circulation in his fingers. He saw the flutter of her eyes as she spied for an escape route, and the bags under her eyes that spoke of exhaustion and suspicion. She was scared and nervous, despite her cool demeanor. She didn't trust him and she barely trusted Barton, but she was there, determined to start over, or at least start again.
She reminded Phil of a much younger Clint Barton, hanging on to the thread of his humanity as Phil talked him down off a ledge, talked him away from the assassination job he had been paid to do, talked him right into SHEILD.
Phil knew that Barton saw the same thing he did, and he could not say no to the one thing Barton had ever asked of him.
The next two years saw them come together as a unique team: a handler with two dedicated assets. Romanov wouldn't work with anyone other than Phil, and no one would work with Barton without Phil.
Phil didn't ask what they did together during their down time. It wasn't his business. His job was to keep them in top form, keep them out of trouble, and keep the paperwork flowing. He had a number of other responsibilities given his role in SHIELD so there were plenty of times when Phil was put on an operation alone. He was never alone, of course, but it just felt that way without Barton or Romanov on his team.
He almost preferred that, though, to the missions he was sent to supervise where Barton and Romanov played at being a couple. Sometimes they were married, sometimes they were having an affair, sometimes Romanov was a call girl and rarely, Barton was a gigolo. Once, for the sake of a very screwed up group of international terrorists, Barton had to play stalker/serial killer to Natasha's weeping kidnap victim (and if Phil ever had nightmares about the creepy, disturbed way Barton had acted on that mission, well, that was nobody's business but Phil's). He had seen them play every combination of lover and knew their "baby doll patter" (as Barton called it) by heart. That was all okay. It was when the lights went down and Barton and Romanov had to convince everyone listening in that they were enthusiastically having sex that Phil's life went to hell in a hand basket.
Because Barton and Romanov were in outstanding physical condition, and they both enjoyed sex. A lot.
Phil had listened to them go at it for four hours, once, and he still wasn't sure how he got through the night without passing out or wrecking the op. He thought he deserved a medal for surviving cruel and unusual punishment, but instead when the mission was over he just holed up in his apartment and masturbated until his hand cramped up.
So Phil's life was, on the whole, utterly miserable. He was in love with his asset who either didn't know or didn't care and who got plenty of sex from his partner-slash-girlfriend. Phil had to stand by while everyone but Nick Fury himself tapped Barton's ass or was happily tapped by Barton in turn, because it was part of Phil's fucking goddamn crappy job description.
He was used to it. It was okay, because it had been status quo for years by that point. Phil was a Level 7 agent, he was competent and respected, and he could keep his dick in his pants. He could live with a broken heart and he could manage his jealousy without compromising the missions. He had made his choice to stay silent about his feelings for Barton, and absolutely nothing ever convinced him that it was anything other than the best plan of (non-)action for the sake of his team, his sanity, and SHIELD.
It wasn't until he was bleeding out on the helicarrier's deck that Phil thought he might possibly, just maybe, have made a terrible mistake.
Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov, Nick Fury, Phil Coulson
Narrative mode: third-limited