3. Chapter 3

Phil practically fell into the living room, dripping sweat and looking pale. Clint got to him in a moment, wrapping an arm around his waist and leveraging Phil's weight to give them momentum enough to get to the bed room.

"What the hell did Akim do to you?"

"The usual," Phil groaned as they both worked to lower him onto the bed.

"Your physical therapy is supposed to make you stronger, not wring you out." Clint clucked as he went to get a warm, wet towel to wipe Phil down a little. It was just like after great sex, except for the fact that they had not had sex since Phil had "miraculously" turned up alive a week after the Battle of New York. That was several months ago, but Phil was just at the point of getting around on his own and not needing to wear bandaging over his wounds. Clint was terrified that too much exertion too soon would re-damage Phil's heart, but apparently Phil's PT therapist was not quite as worried.

Or Phil was pulling a tried-and-true Hawkeye stunt.

"You do this to yourself, don't you? You're hiding how much you hurt from Akim." Clint rubbed the towel over Phil's face and arms.

Phil grumbled incoherently, resembling a wet and sweaty noodle on their bed.

"Oh for fuck's sake, turn over. Take off your shirt." Clint grabbed the massage oil next to the bed. He was no expert, but Phil was having a hard time relaxing when other people touched him, so Clint had taken a few quick lessons from Sheila, his masseuse (because Tony passed out masseuses like party favors) and put them to use on Phil.

He barely caught the evil little grin that tugged at the edge of Phil's mouth before he unzipped his shirt.

Well, shit.

Clint put the oil back on the bedside table. "You know, maybe a turn in the hot tub would be a better idea."

Phil stilled. "That might be helpful."

"Probably. I mean the hot tub would really relax you."

Phil hadn't moved, frozen in mid-strip. "The doctors said I should go easy on the hot tub, actually."

"Oh, they did?"

"The hot water expands my blood, making the heart work harder."

"Yeah?"

"Yes." Phil still wasn't looking at him.

"So a massage is what you really need," Clint prompted.

"Yes. Absolutely." Phil nodded firmly.

Clint sat back on his heels. "And this has nothing to do with you pushing yourself too hard just to get me to give you a massage after PT?"

The flinch was almost imperceptible. Anyone who did not know Phil as well as Clint did would have thought it was just a blink of the eyes. "No?"

"For fuck's sake, Phil!" Clint got off the bed. "What the hell? Pushing yourself too hard is seriously not a good idea after being stabbed through the chest!" Clint stood over the bed, crossing his arms so he didn't windmill them around in frustration.

Phil flopped onto his back, his face grimacing. "You won't fucking touch me!"

"What are you talking about? I touch you all the damn time!"

"Not like…you're really helpful, Clint. You're always there when I need a hand getting off the couch or getting dressed or trying to pull a cereal box down." Phil put a hand over his eyes, huffing out a deep breath. "But that's it. You're not touching me."

Oh.

"Uh, well, you know, sex is—"

"Really important," Phil snarled. "You know damn good and well we got clearance for sex weeks ago. As long as we're careful there is no reason we can't do it."

"It's strenuous. It puts stress on your heart, Phil! And I'm not going to be the one who hurts you again!"

"Loki! Loki stabbed me, not you! Is that what this is, some kind of penance? Because let me tell you, Barton, going celibate on me is not a well-thought out reward system!" Phil sat up.

"I'm not—"

"I'm begging for massages because that's the only time you really put your hands on me, and you only agree to do that when I'm wrung out after PT. What did you expect?" Phil was yelling, pointing at Clint with a stabby finger.

Clint backed up. "I just don't want to hurt you."

Phil snapped his mouth shut. He breathed in and out a few beats before trying again. "You're not hurting me by making me feel better. You won't hurt me by letting me make you feel great." He looked up at Clint, the longing and desire and sadness writ large over his face. Clint felt like a heel seeing that on the man he loved, because all he wanted to do was make Phil feel better about being alive. Phil was right: Clint had been shying away from sex and intimacy because of his own guilt and fear, and that was not going to get them anywhere. Especially if Phil gave himself a heart-attack in PT just to get Clint to touch him.

Clint stepped up to the bed. "Guess I just fucked up again, huh?"

Phil's expression shifted to a sly leer. "You could make it up to me."

Clint crawled back onto the bed, straddling Phil's thighs. "Why Agent Coulson, whatever do you mean?" Clint batted his lashes.

Phil grinned, his hands running up Clint's thighs. "Let me show you."

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