8. Chapter 8

Clint was pretty sure he had died and gone to heaven, despite evidence to the contrary. But it was Phil’s surprisingly soft, sure hands massaging Clint into a puddle of goo, and the pain in Clint’s eyes was still there but retreating fast under the endorphin rush of what was, literally, the best hand job of Clint’s life. He almost laughed at the double entendre but he was too busy being lifted onto a higher plane by Phil’s amazing hands.

His right arm was still noodley, splayed out on the mattress like a cheap whore while Phil worked his left arm into oblivion. Phil’s hands flowed softly over Clint’s skin, soothing and calm, before digging in to the crevices of his muscles. Then, when Clint was starting to sweat from the pain, Phil would back off and sweep Clint’s arm with long, firm strokes until Clint was breathing evenly again. About the time Clint thought he was going to cry, Phil gently placed his arm down onto the bed.

“Agent, report.”

Clint’s heart dived at the words. This was just Phil—Coulson—doing his job, handling Clint. He pulled back a little, but Phil was still sitting next to him, his knee resting against Clint’s thigh.

“Three, maybe. Gah.” Clint took in a long breath, trying to steady himself, burying himself in his pain to kill his emotions. Phil was motionless next him on the bed, probably assessing whether Clint was telling the truth or not, maybe checking the time. The massage had clearly not been quite the metaphysical experience for Phil that it had been for Clint, but that was okay, Clint decided, taking a deep breath to clear his mind. The personal touch was more than Clint had hoped for; he could fantasize about it for years, and that was enough.

Phil’s hand landing on his thigh, warm and solid. “Clint.” Phil’s voice was as unsteady as his hand was sure, a little higher pitched than usual, stressed in ways Clint wanted to see.

He tilted his bandaged head towards Phil. His heart was pounding but he knew he wasn’t wrong, that Phil wasn’t saying his name or touching him out of professional interest. Phil’s hand squeezed his thigh. Clint was not in the dark, his eyes were not seeing anything but it was more a blur of white, if he had to describe it. He felt his eyes searching around for something to focus on, despite not being able to focus at all, desperate to see what Phil looked like, to know if he was as wrecked as Clint felt.

“Clint,” Phil repeated, his voice gentle but solid, giving Clint the focus he needed. Phil’s voice, disembodied and yet everywhere, his one hand hot and needy on Clint’s leg—everything dialed down to Phil, and always had.

Clint took a deep breath again, drinking in the change of mood and the enormity of what was happening. The timing sucked but never in Clint’s life had timing been good to him; that was why he worked so hard on his aim. Like pulling the bow string back and releasing, Clint let loose his words between them. “Touch me. Phil, please.”

“Fuck,” Phil said, drawing the word out, and Clint rolled his body in reaction because Phil almost never cussed, and certainly not when both of his hands were suddenly on Clint, slowly pushing up his thighs. Phil moved cautiously (which Clint distantly understood as a concession to his blindness), shifting to straddle Clint’s knees, his ass just barely pressing down on his legs. Phil let out a long, soft moan. “Clint, Jesus, let me.”

“Yes, fuck, whatever you want, don’t let go, I can’t see goddamn it!” Clint remembered his blissed out arms and reached for Phil’s shoulders, desperate to touch in the void of his sight. He whined, realizing that Phil was wearing a damn sweater, and how many times had Clint actually seen Phil out of a suit? It was all unfair. He fisted the sweater, angry that he didn’t even know what fucking color it was.

“Shhh, baby, shhh.” Phil spoke softly, lifting a hand to gently trace over Clint’s lips. Clint bit at them, grabbing a finger and sucking it into his mouth, pushing his tongue up against it as he sucked. Phil groaned louder. Clint felt him flexing, his hips trying to press down despite Phil’s best efforts to hold himself up. His other hand was pulling down Clint’s pajama bottoms, and Phil was shaking with it, his hands vibrating. Clint pulled his mouth back, releasing Phil’s finger.

“I want it. Phil, goddamnit, I’ve wanted this for so long, don’t leave me hanging, I—UNF,” Clint finished on a grunt as Phil’s mouth closed around the head of his dick, soft and hot and perfect.

Clint knew this was going to be one for the history books before Phil even got a rhythm going. His mouth was all suction, his tongue flicking along the underside of Clint’s dick as he slowly took him into his mouth. Clint let out a long, low groan when he felt himself bottoming out in Phil’s throat. Clint knew he wasn’t a stallion but his dick was respectable, and taking it deep meant that Phil, as usual and as fucking always, knew what the hell he was doing. Clint scrabbled at Phil’s shoulders, tugging at the sweater, a deep groan pulled out from wherever his soul might be.

“Stop moving around, stay still,” Phil said, rising up a little to put on hand in the middle of Clint’s chest. It was weird to feel everything first, rather than having his eyes telegraph every touch before it landed. It stripped him of his defenses, literally, and with Phil’s hand on him like a brand Clint was reduced to obedient speechlessness. He nodded slowly.

“I’ll take care of you. Let me take care of you.” Phil’s voice was shockingly reverent. Clint nodded again, despite how wrong it was, how turned around everything was. He wanted to take care of Phil, he wanted to be everything Phil wanted or needed because Phil was always taking care of Clint. If they were going down this road Clint wanted to be what Phil needed, not another stone around his neck. Clint was furious that he wasn’t able to do anything more than hang on as Phil’s mouth wrapped around him again.

Phil started in with a rhythm at last, slow and steady. Clint’s dick slipped in and out of Phil’s mouth and Clint wanted to scream with frustration at finally getting this and not being able to see it. He traced Phil’s face with his fingers, memorizing the texture and the heat and feel of Phil on him. Phil kept going relentlessly until Clint was grabbing at Phil’s hair, his hips snapping up in anticipation of coming.

“Love you, fuck, I love you, I’m so sorry, I’m so goddamn sorry, oh, Phil!” Clint gasped when it hit. Phil’s hands were holding him down, keeping him from moving too much, but Clint could buck his hips up just enough, fucking into Phil’s mouth. Clint imagined that his come was dribbling out of Phil’s mouth and it kicked him over into a second convulsion as he finished out. He lay there, shaking and crying under the bandages, the pain forgotten for a blessed moment, Phil pressing him down by resting on his chest. Clint took a deep breath to say something, but fell asleep before he could.