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Chapter Text

They were trawling through antique stores, looking for furniture. Well, Clint was looking at furniture. Nat was lost somewhere in the books section, and technically Clint was staring at a picture frame with some sort of landscape in it, and wondering if it was the right size for his living room, and if people actually needed art. He frowned at it, then turned away. Not really his style. 

Clint sat down on an oversized but sturdy looking recliner that looked sort of new. It smelled good, the actually good cologne of the last owner still hanging around instead of reeking of cigarettes or cigars like they so-often did. Clint settled into the chair, knowing that liking the smell was probably a little bit creepy, especially if they were dead, which was honestly the most likely scenario here. Only an idiot or the dead threw away, donated, or sold perfectly good furniture. 

Nat materialized just as he thought about becoming one with the chair. “Clint,” she said, holding a stack of books. Clint looked at her through hooded eyes, hands clasped over his stomach. He hadn’t yet put up the foot rest, but as long as it worked, he was happy with it. 

“Do you want to buy the chair,” she asked, eyeing it. Clint knew what she was thinking. It would be an absolute bitch to get up five flights of stairs and no elevator. They’d probably have to rig a winch and swing it in through the window or something, although that would defeat the purpose of keeping a low profile. He didn’t exactly want this new safehouse found. Nat was one thing, but their employers were another. 

Clint sighed as he stood up from the recliner. “It probably costs more than I’m willing to pay,” he said with a sigh as he patted the top of it. His hand found the green tag and he decided idly to check the price. “Or not,” Clint said slowly, before remembering the sign on the door that said green tags were half off. This made this armchair suddenly very appealing. 

Nat shot him an unimpressed look. “You should see if they’ll deliver,” she muttered. “I thought we didn’t want people to know of the new place,” Clint said absently as he ran his hand over the material. Nat snorted. “Only a matter of time. It always is.” 

Clint decided on the recliner. “I bet we can get it up between us,” he told her. He gestured to her books. “All done looking then?” She snorted. “Yes. Let’s go. Only five more places to go through.” 

Clint sighed and ambled after her. He talked to the proprietor, who had to actually look at the armchair in question to make sure they were talking about the right thing, then argued at the price. Natasha finally settled the argument by pointing out that he had a very fine establishment, and it would be a shame if the Russians came along and took over the neighborhood. The man couldn’t get them out of the place fast enough, chair included. 

It was well worth the cursing from both of them in every language they could think of, an impressive array if Clint didn’t say so himself, to get the chair up Clint’s narrow staircase and into his apartment. “Next time, we’re getting you some place with an elevator,” Natasha huffed as she slouched in the chair. She grimaced. “This is so uncomfortable.” 

Clint looked up from where he lay on the floor. “Really,” he asked curiously, and they swapped places. Clint felt himself sinking into it bonelessly. “Oh no, it’s perfect,” he told her happily. “The butt spot is just in the right place and everything.” 

Natasha muttered something about how there was a broken spring in it poking her in the back, but Clint didn’t feel it, so he ignored it. He doubted he’d feel a pea, however. 

Both their phones went off. 

“Goddamn it,” Clint groaned. “I wanted to go check out Ikea!” 

Natasha stood slowly and frowned at her phone. “I thought we weren’t allowed to work together any more,” she said absently as she flipped open her phone and read the text. Abruptly, she laughed, making Clint look up. “Jasper asked for us specifically. Come on, let’s go blow something up.” 

Clint heaved himself out of the chair. “Damn. This had better not turn into one of those chain-pulls again,” Clint complained. “If we have back to back ops, I’ll do something drastic. Like, break a nail.” 

They both snorted a sarcastic laugh. 

Clint was not laughing when he came home a month later after non-stop ops, hobbling on one foot. “At least it wasn’t my hands,” Clint muttered angrily as he banged into his apartment. He leaned the crutches he didn’t want to use against the wall and flopped down in the chair, launching up a cloud of dust. 

Clint coughed and waved his hand in front of his face to dispel it. “Fuck,” Clint muttered unhappily. Another thought occurred to him. He hadn’t yet figured out a bed. He only had the chair. 

Well, he’d slept in worse places. 

Clint growled to himself, already not looking forward to the convalescence. He didn’t even own a TV. 

That was the first thing to be remedied, thanks to a nosy neighbor who ‘found’ one in the garbage not an hour after Clint had mentioned it. Clint was too grateful for the distraction to look further into it. Right now, he just wanted to get through the strained injury. He flipped it on to a rerun of Alf to chill out. 

Eventually though, he heaved himself off the comfortable chair, used it to prop himself up until he could get to the wall, and went into the bathroom to shower. He changed into something more comfortable, and crashed out on the chair again. He patted the arm and cooed at what a good chair it was. 

Unfortunately for his bank account, Clint got bored and started to just order things via telephone from late night TV infomercials. 

A new mattress? Check. 

A base for the bed to sit on? Nah, floor was fine, too expensive, and he wouldn’t have to buy a box spring this way. There were too many kinds of pillows, and Clint ended up spending hours watching reviews to figure out the best ones. 

When Natasha called from Nowhere, she was unamused as Clint ranted about pillows. 

“I’m an equal opportunity sleeper,” Clint whined. “What if I need to sleep on my stomach instead of my sides or back one day? Those pillows are lower and flatter! That’s not good for side sleeping!” 

Natasha sighed. “Just get a few,” she said, patience lining her tone in a biting way. “It’s not like you can go wrong with multiple objects to throw in case of an emergency.” 

Point to Natasha. 

“Fine,” Clint grumbled. “Don’t forget to buy sheets,” Natasha said evilly. “You should splurge. Get the high thread count.” Clint gasped in horror, and she hung up on him, laughing. 

While Clint lay in convalescence, he had the weirdest dreams. They were centered around his new apartment, but there was always someone else in his dreams too, watching. He had no idea what the other person looked like, just a strong impression of intent eyes lingering on his body. 

The resulting boners when he woke up were always awkward, and more than once Clint had tottered off to the shower for a private session with his left hand. It somehow felt weird to be rubbing one out in the living room with those kinds of dreams. 

Clint healed and went back out into the field before everything he’d phone ordered arrived, and the packages were placed in a neat stack just inside his apartment when he returned. Clint promptly changed all the locks before crawling into the chair for a nap, as Clint did not have the energy to deal with that. 

Clint slowly unpacked the boxes, and pulled out things he didn’t remember ordering, including matching towels monogrammed with his initials. The only person who would know about that kind of stuff was Natasha. Well, maybe Fury. He didn’t think Maria Hill cared enough about him to send him something interesting like this. Maybe one of the operatives he’d saved? But wait, that meant people knew where he lived, and as far as anyone knew, Clint had simply moved out of the temporary rooms. 

“I mean, I guess I can wait 48 hours to see if it explodes or something,” Clint told Natasha when she showed up for dinner as he poked it. 

And then their phones went off. “Oh for the love of-” 

Clint’s bed got its 48 hours, and then some. 

With an extra week to sit, Clint fumed that it had better be amazing. 

Clint yanked sheets out of their packaging and threw them directly on the bed. He didn’t own enough pillow cases for all of the pillows, and he hissed as he was forced outside to buy more. Apartment living was starting to cost, and Clint didn’t like it. He tossed the phone onto the floor under the outlet, rolled over, and went to sleep. 

When Clint woke, it wasn’t to an alarm, or a text, or a call, he woke up naturally. He groped for his phone and dragged it closer. When he flipped it open, a number he didn’t recognize was in the outbound section. He scowled. Had he ordered something else in his sleep? 

He had. It sounded like a blanket that had Captain America’s shield on it. 

He’s used a weird name again, like when he’d slept-purchased that weird, triangular-shaped pillow. Phil Coulson. Man, he was listening to the people at work too much whisper about him if his subconscious was filling in that name as the shippee. 

What the ever loving fuck? 

When Clint asked to cancel the order, it was in that sweet spot where he couldn’t cancel, but it wasn’t sent yet. The operator over the phone was very sorry, but she couldn’t help him. It was fine, he’d just return it. 

And then Clint was dragged from his apartment for another longer-than-it-needed-to-be-because-senior-agents-were-dicks ops. The blanket and pillow cases had arrived, and were just inside his door again. Clint freaked out a little, unsure how someone was getting into his apartment and bringing in his packages. He upgraded all the security he could, including the windows. 

Clint fingered the blanket when he pulled it out of the box, noticing how soft it was. It was too small for his actual bed, but it was big enough that he could probably use it on the recliner. So there it went, grudgingly. For some reason, the good smell of that cologne intensified with both products together. 

It wasn’t until Clint woke up in the armchair with the blanket thrown over him that he realized he might have been looking at the breaking and entering the wrong way. 

“Alright, so I have a fucking ghost in my apartment,” Clint groaned as he pulled the offending blanket over his head. “Great. It knows how to order things off my phone, too. Just great.” 

It made sense, even if Clint didn’t actually believe in ghosts. 

Packages getting in through his front door instead of sitting outside and waiting to be stolen? 

Check. 

The blanket moving and covering him? 

Check. 

Hell, the blanket being ordered? Could ghosts use phones? 

Clint huffed and levered himself out of the chair. “I’m staying,” he told the empty apartment crossly. “You see that bed? It’s not going anywhere, because it would be an absolute bitch to move and it cost more than I ever wanted to spend on a bed! Also, this chair? Doubly so!” 

Clint grumbled and went to the fridge. He swung it open, found it completely bare because he hadn’t had time to go grocery shopping for so much as condiments, and swung it shut again. He threw his hands up in the air, and ordered takeout. 

He set the takeout container on the chair arm as he situated himself. He fired up the TV moodily, but nothing seemed to catch his attention for long. His phone rang, and Clint barely glanced at it before he picked it up. “I’m not going back for cleanup,” he said immediately. 

The voice on the other end said, “Agent Haldel has requested to never work with you again. Congratulations, Barton, another handler doesn’t want to work with you.”

Clint snorted, feeling zero remorse. “Haldel is an idiot who can’t find his ass in the dark with a map and a flashlight,” Clint snapped. “Whoever passed him on his training seriously did so without checking how he plans things. I’ve seen better jobs planned by eleven year olds with a box of crayons. Also, his ability to think on his feet when his plan goes awry? I’d grade that a big fat zero too. How in the hell has he lasted this long?” 

On the other end of the phone, Nick Fury laughed. 

Clint grumbled, “You’re so lucky Nat wasn’t there. She’d have eviscerated him for being incompetent.” 

Fury sounded completely amused when he replied, “That’s why I didn’t put her with you. She works well with Hill, but you and Hill get along like oil and water.” 

Clint sat up straight, knocking his food over. “Now wait a minute,” Clint cried, stung. “That was one time! And it wasn’t my fault they ambushed us! We were sold out! What the hell were we supposed to do?” 

“Oh, I know,” Fury said cooly. “But Hill still blames you for the spectacular way the city exploded.” 

Clint settled back in his chair, grumbling. He reached for his food, to find it gone. He looked at the floor and made a face. “Aww food no,” Clint groaned, and flopped back into the chair. Dammit. “Fine, so she won’t work with me. Who do I have left.” 

He heard the sound of rustling papers, before Fury said, “A little bit of a break. You’re going out with Sitwell in two days on something nice and easy. Then, I have more prey for you when another team gets back. Then I have some people to send you work with in England.” 

Clint slapped a hand to his face. “This is punishment for making you chase me down, isn’t it,” Clint said. Fury sounded amused. “And for running circles around me and taunting me for two years while I actively hunted you, yes. And for the heart attack when you brought the Black Widow with you into SHIELD under amnesty conditions. I have to tell you, I thought about shooting you. Through the leg, can’t hurt the arms.” 

Clint huffed and settled into chair. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were using this as an exercise to find someone unhinged enough to take both Natasha and I together,” Clint grumbled. Silence greeted that pronouncement, and Clint really wished he didn’t know. 

“Well, any luck,” Clint asked tiredly. 

“You’re the one going through handlers like they’re cotton candy,” Fury said drolly. “You tell me.” 

Clint felt himself further deflate. “You find any leads on that one guy you were telling me about,” Clint asked. 

“Negative,” Fury said immediately. “I have a team actively searching, but nothing has come up.” 

“Ah well, hope springs eternal,” Clint said optimistically in his most pessimistic voice. 

Fury laughed. 

Clint hung up on him and stuffed his phone down between the side and the cushion. When he reached for his food and grasped air, he remembered that it was gracing his floor with its no-longer-divine presence. 

“Fuuuuuuuuck,” Clint grit out, but stood and went to grab a rag. It became more of a mess before it became less of a mess, unfortunately for Clint. He did, however, eventually get it all up and the floor cleaned until he was almost convinced he saw a second shadow peering over his shoulder in the shine of the wood also inspecting his cleaning job, and left it at that. 

When woke up, it was to find that he’d ordered more things in his sleep. Or rather, his ghost had. 

“Did you order me a side table,” Clint raged at the empty apartment, waving his phone with the offending outbound calls page lit up. “Would it hurt you to at least ask? What if I didn’t have any money!” 

Clint glanced at the phone. While he’d been swinging it, it had paged through the phone’s system to the settings page. The TV, which had been a low-background hum, swapped channels on its own.  

Fucking hell, the place really was haunted. 

“Okay, ground rules,” Clint ground out between clenched teeth. “No more buying things without asking!” 

The TV screen showed a small table with two chairs, meant for holding a meal. “I don’t need a dining room set,” Clint argued to nothing and feeling foolish. “It’s literally just me!” 

Of course, there was no response, not that Clint was really expecting one. Clint flopped down in his chair and crossed his arms petulantly. His TV was behaving, at least, which he took as the ghost agreeing to not order him stuff. It agreed to play Dog Cops. 

Clint sighed and snuggled into the recliner. He put up the footrest and patted the arm. “At least something here always welcomes me,” Clint mumbled. 

His downtime stretched endlessly. Clint started to crawl up the walls. He seriously thought about going in to bug whomever he could or see how annoyed he could make Fury without giving the man a coronary, but stayed home except to go in and attempt to do paperwork.

So he decided to focus on something else. The whispers of Agent Coulson, believed to be KIA’s somewhere unmentionable, MIA’d by some various enemy, or Vanished to somewhere hidden by SHIELD itself, persisted. 

He was an android. He took down a group of enemies with a bag of flour and a paperclip. The man could find an enemy through their paperwork. 

No, Clint wasn’t sure how any of that worked. The more he’d asked though, the more outlandish the ideas became. There was some talk about Coulson being an alien that looked human thanks to similar physiology and was secretly a Jedi or Sith warrior. 

It drove Clint absolutely crazy and up the wall. No one could describe what the guy looked like, and Clint, despite being a Level 5, couldn’t access the guy’s data. No picture to help him out here. 

Natasha had laughed in his face with her not-laugh/totally-an-eyebrow-raise when he’d asked her for help. He’d gotten a basic description, if ‘non-descript’ was actually a description. Generic was another word for Agent Coulson. 

Clint even broke into the hard-copies of the files, only to find the redacted version of his dossier, recently requested and returned. The number of blacked out lines made the papers beyond unreadable, and Clint wondered just how much ink someone wasted typing up this stuff. Hell, the guy’s first and middle names were blacked out. If Clint hadn’t found it in a ‘forgotten’ box, he’s have never known it was the right Coulson’s. 

So Clint followed his nose to the next set of rumors, to where there was supposedly a vault with all of the blackest of ops with no paperwork were placed, and the files of Agents level 7 and above were supposedly located. That had been a joke some Level 5 told him. 

Finding the vault? Surprisingly easy. The rest of it? Nah. 

When he tried to even find the vault to break into it, it was to find it too secure for Clint’s level of thievery to overcome. Hell, he wasn’t sure Natasha could get in and out of there, even if she tried, and she was an expert. 

Every night after work, Clint dragged himself home. He’d salvaged a card table and stool for his kitchen because the late night infomercials were only showing those expensive dining sets and Clint did not have that kind of money. Hell, he wasn’t sure he had enough to make rent, because that would require him to actually go into the bank and check. The ghost-ordered side table went next to the armchair, as requested. 

Clint sighed and groaned as he collapsed in his recliner, staring blankly at the wall across from him. He thought about turning on the TV, but that honestly felt like too much work. 

Clint sat in his recliner, bored out of his mind, but unwilling to sleep, and unwilling to get out of his apartment to go buy alcohol. Eventually, his bored body gave him a bored boner. Clint glared at it balefully before sighing and deciding he may as well take care of it. 

Clint was feeling too lazy to hop in the shower to take care of it, so he slid his pants down. When that felt too restricting, Clint decided to just tear all his clothes off and sit there naked. 

The cool air of the apartment touched his skin, sending goosebumps up and down his body. He closed his eyes and hurriedly wrapped a hand around his dick. 

What to imagine? 

Intense eyes, colored blue, watching him. A deep voice, egging him onwards. Seductive words spilling all over his body like hands. Imagining fingers pressing on his hips and keeping him in place . 

Unconsciously, Clint hitched his hips and slid down the armchair a little, as if angling for more. He wished he had taken the time to get up and grab lube. Or done this in the shower. 

His free hand shot out, and he gripped the armchair as he braced his feet on the floor. The armchair smashed into the wall as Clint’s hips jerked up and off the armchair. 

“Fuck,” Clint hissed when he shifted again. 

His imagination supplied the name of his imaginary ghostly houseguest. “Fuck, Phil,” Clint whimpered again as the mental image of intense eyes suddenly grew more intense and focused on him. 

“Yes,” came a new voice, sounding exquisitely polite. “You called?”

Chapter Text

Clint skyrocketed in surprise. He stood on top of the recliner, hands around the small pillow he’d taken to leaving on it for better neck support when he slept in it. He looked around wildly, but the only thing new was the man dressed in a suit, casually lounging against his kitchen wall. 

“What the ever loving fuck,” Clint asked weakly, still hearing his heart pounding in his ears. 

“I do recommend you get down from there, you’re liable to break your neck,” the man said mildly, like he wasn’t being threatened by Clint’s pillow. 

Clint didn’t move. “How in the fuck did you get in here,” Clint demanded. 

The face never changed as the man gestured to the armchair. “You brought me here.” 

Clint glanced down at the chair in confusion. “What,” Clint asked. 

The man did not repeat himself, but he was starting to look unimpressed, judging by the slight eyebrow and the barely there quirk in his lips. “Barton, down,” the man said sharply, and before Clint knew it, he was standing on his own two feet on the floor. 

“You know my name,” Clint said stupidly. 

The man didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. “You’ve had a number of packages come to the door with your name on it. Well, a handful of different names. Some of them were inventive. Biggolas Dickolas? For lube? Really?” 

Clint gaped. “Whoa, first of all, that’s private and second-” 

The implications were suddenly clear, and Clint turned white. “You’ve seen me jerk off,” Clint said flatly. 

This time, the man managed to look a little bashful. “I gave you as much privacy as I could, but when you’re laying out on my house and splaying yourself-” 

Clint made a strangled noise, and the man stopped. There was a wicked gleam in the corner of his eyes, and Clint groaned. “You fucker, you’re teasing me,” Clint said, putting his head in his hands. 

“You’re taking this surprisingly well,” the man said casually. 

Clint waved a hand. “It’s my job,” Clint mumbled. “You see weird shit.” 

The man hummed noncommittally. 

Clint peeked up at the guy, who was watching him without looking like he was watching him somehow. 

“Okay, so, first off, who are you,” Clint asked. 

The man opened his mouth and paused. A funny look crossed his face, before he seemed to settle on something. “Phil,” the man offered, and it clicked. 

“You’re the Phil Knutson that’s been getting stuff delivered to the apartment,” Clint accused. He threw his hands in the air. “Have you never heard of asking? I’m not made of money!” 

The man looked amused as fuck. “Don’t worry, I never used your money,” the man, Phil, said. “I used a spare account I had hanging around. All the money spent was mine for those things, even if they gave only you a direct benefit.” 

The man tilted his head as if in thought, then amended, “Well, the table was for my own. Grease stains are a bitch to get rid of. Especially when you can’t exactly clean things.” 

Clint choked down a hysterical laugh. “Okay, what are you,” Clint asked. 

The man shrugged. “I’m assuming a djinn, since I seem to be bound to the recliner.” Phil looked wistful. “I really liked that chair, too. At least, I think I did.” 

Clint paused. “You sound like you’re not sure, like you haven’t always been… whatever you are.” 

Phil nodded. “Yes, but I’m afraid the rest of it is classified.” 

Clint mouthed the word, and then shook his head. 

“So, about the table,” Phil said, but Clint needed him to back up a moment. 

“Okay wait. How come you’ve never shown yourself before, if you’re willing to show yourself now,” Clint asked. 

Phil looked slightly amused. “Well, I didn’t know how to get out on my own before for any great length of time,” Phil explained candidly. “However, you kept rubbing the chair, and eventually I figured out how to open the path on my end.” 

Clint felt his heart drop into his stomach. “Rubbing the chair,” Clint asked faintly, and it definitely was not his imagination that Phil was starting to smirk. 

“Well, the first time, it may have been your ass doing the rubbing,” Phil said almost apologetically, and Clint blushed crimson, vividly remembering why. “I didn’t think it would be appropriate to interrupt, so I simply went back into the chair.” 

“The chair is like a djinn bottle,” Clint said slowly, willing his heart rate to go down. 

Phil gave him a small nod. 

Clint went to collapse in the recliner, before remembering it was Phil’s home . 

“You can sit on it,” Phil said, like he could read Clint’s mind. “I don’t mind. It’s on, not in, and it’s not like your ass dents the space I exist when in the chair.” 

Clint valiantly strove to not think of Phil as the actual chair. “I think you’re right about ordering that table,” Clint said faintly as he began to pace his own living room, tamping down anxiety. 

“You’re taking the possibility of a Djinn in your living room really well,” Phil observed. 

Clint barked a bitter laugh. “It comes with the territory,” he informed Phil morosely. “You just stop being surprised by things. Every time you are, it’s like a new low. You seem okay with being a djinn.” 

“Pretty sure I wasn’t one before, but as you said, you stop being surprised by things. You just go with the flow,” Phil replied philosophically. 

Clint groaned and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He was low-key freaking out, just trying to not show it. He turned on his heel and marched away. Anything to get away from what was happening right here, right now. 

Phil followed him into his bedroom, and Clint flopped onto the bed and buried his face into one of the many pillows. He accidentally kicked the large triangle, and remembered that Phil himself had ordered it. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Phil said calmly, and not at all sounding even the slightest bit anguished by any of this like Clint was. “I use the bed when you’re not here to use it. My place isn’t exactly equipped for laying down, and I enjoy remembering what sleep is.” 

There was way too much in that sentence to unpack, and Clint really couldn’t any more. He needed a nap. A long nap. A forever nap. 

“I need to sleep,” Clint muttered. “I have to go into work in the morning.” 

Immediately, Phil backed out of the room. “Of course. Good night, Barton,” Phil said. Clint heard the door snick shut behind the man, and he turned his head to stare at the door. 

What the fuck even was his life? 

The smell of coffee woke up a little before his alarm was due to go off. Clint lay in bed, relaxed, before he remembered he hadn’t bought a coffee pot with a timer, he had a house guest, such as it were. 

Clint raced to change and ran out into the living room, where Phil stood in his kitchen, cracking eggs into a bowl, and wearing a yellow apron with a hotdog on it that said ‘Nick's off Staten Island’ over what looked like a different colored suit, jacket included. Well, jacket thrown over a chair. 

Clint didn’t understand it, but watching Phil whip up food without getting dirty nailed something in Clint’s dick, making it twitch. 

“Okay, so not a hallucination,” Clint said gruffly as he grabbed the coffee pot and drank straight from it. 

“Put that down and get a cup like a civilized person,” Phil said without looking away from the frying pan, his back to Clint. 

Clint made a face, but came around the island. He had to wiggle past Phil to get to the coffee mugs, and he tried hard to not think about the ass in those pants and why they felt firm against his as he got a mug. 

God, he needed to get laid. 

He filled the mug, left it sitting out, and drank from the pot directly again. 

Phil turned around and dumped the eggs Clint knew he didn’t own onto a plate and pushed the whole thing over to Clint. “Here, eat. You look like you could use a good meal.” 

Clint asked jokingly, “Are you saying I’m scrawny and underfed?” 

Phil looked at him thoughtfully. “You look like you’ve missed more than a few meals growing up, but it doesn’t seem to have affected your arms any.” 

Clint preened under the subtle praise, making the corner of Phil’s mouth twitch, like he wanted to smile. 

Clint’s phone went off, long before he had to go into work. “Barton,” Clint responded automatically as he shoveled food into his mouth lightning fast. The voice on the other end talked faster, and Clint said, “Yeah, I’ll be there.” 

Clint finished his plate and leaped to his feet. “I’m sorry to also make you do dishes, but I gotta run,” Clint said as he dashed into his room. He grabbed his favorite knives, tucked them in place, found his wallet laying under some pillows, and dashed for the door. “I’ll be back sometime next week,” he called as he shut the front door behind him. “Probably.” 

It was bad. Nine weeks bad. 

Clint would feel worse about leaving Phil at home alone except the guy was probably magic, and could make his own entertainment. He didn’t have much time to worry about Phil, not between the absolute dogshit of a show and trying to not outright kill the handler for incompetence. 

He staggered off the quinjet feeling loopy from blood loss, and proceeded to spend another three days in medical while the doctors kept him sedated, knowing he’d try to escape the first chance he got. 

When Clint made it home, he had managed to convince himself that Phil was a fevered dream, except when he walked in through the door he realized he now had a TV on a stand, and a coffee table along with the side table. Also- 

“Is that a couch,” Clint asked incredulously as he stared at the large, leather monstrosity that Clint was very afraid of the price tag on. 

Natasha, propping him up, glanced at Clint. “You didn’t know you own a couch,” she asked, peering at him. “Just how hard did you hit your head?”

Clint waved his hand helplessly. “I have a…” wait, what in the fuck did he call Phil anyways? 

“A room mate,” came Phil’s smooth response. Phil stepped out of the living room, wearing gray sweatpants and a thin t-shirt. 

Clint’s eyes were snagged on the tantalizing way he filled Clint’s shirt, even though Clint clearly had bigger arms and chest. It clung just enough to the stomach to give Clint a hint at a solid waistline. It also forced his eyes to drag up and mentally envision the way he probably looked under the shirt. He watched as Phil’s head turned, a cord in his neck popping out subtly, bringing Clint’s eyes up to further snag on something on Phil’s face. 

Clint’s heart almost sank, because Phil was wearing a frown to rival Fury’s. “What happened?” 

Clint waved a hand. “Nothing important,” Clint said blithely as Natasha started to pull Clint back out of the apartment, eyeing Phil through narrowed eyes. Clint tugged her in. “Nat, it’s okay. He’s okay,” Clint said, and pulled her inside. “Promise.” 

Natasha allowed Clint to pull her inside, and Clint kicked the door shut. “You may as well meet him. This is Phil. Phil, this is my best friend, Natasha.” 

Clint grinned winningly as he staggered a little, before focusing on the two of them. They looked like they were squaring off against each other, sizing the other up, but politely. 

“Uh, guys,” Clint asked, not liking the way Phil and Natasha both looked. 

“Phil,” Natasha said politely, holding out her hand for a handshake. 

Phil reached out and shook her hand back. “Natasha,” Phil said, with perhaps the most government-mild smile Clint had seen in any of his careers. 

Clint felt like maybe he was missing something. 

“How did you get to be Clint’s roommate,” Natasha asked. 

Clint said woozily, “He came with the chair.” 

Phil made a noise, but Natasha’s eyes focused on him sharply. “Interesting,” she murmured. 

She tugged Clint off the wall and said to Phil, “Here. Help me, the doctors gave him something to keep him under, and he’s still feeling it.” 

“I hate painkillers,” Clint said conversationally. “They make me really loopy and talkative.” 

Phil huffed. “That’s not different from any other time,” Phil pointed out, as if they’d had more than one conversation. Clint was reminded that Phil could probably hear everything in the apartment from his damn armchair. 

Clint leaned against Phil, who was pulling Clint’s arm over his shoulders and practically carrying him to the bedroom. Clint thought he may have mumbled something weird, because Phil’s whole body laughed under him, before the world spun and Clint was falling down slowly. 

Phil leaned over to pull the covers over Clint, and Clint peered up at him. “You have really pretty eyes,” Clint said dreamily. 

Phil looked shocked, and his lips parted, but Clint’s eyelids felt so, so heavy, and if Phil responded, Clint was long gone into slumber. 

—

Clint woke up in bits and pieces, feeling like he was forgetting something important. When he emerged from the bedroom, stumbling, it was to find the apartment still put together, but devoid of people. Well, person, namely Phil. 

Clint changed the beans and filled the coffee pot with water. He stood in front of the kitchen counter and waited for it to fill, staring off into space. He barely heard the door open and shut behind two talking voices. 

He did a half-turn to look, and to his surprise, Phil and Natasha seemed to be getting long, both of them absolutely laden with groceries, and pots and pans. 

“Yes, Clint’s apartment is abysmally understocked,” Phil was saying as he set his burdens on the island counter. “I just hadn’t gotten around to stocking it properly. I lost track of time, and New York has a wealth of delivery.” 

Clint shrank back against the corner as Phil approached, but Phil simply patted Clint on the chest with a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, then reached past Clint for glasses. He filled them with water, handed one to Natasha, and started unloading groceries from bags. Clint watched him squirrel away a package of Little Debbie donuts in a mostly unused drawer. 

Clint, unfortunately, was still stuck on Phil and eye crinkles. And the fact that Phil seemed completely at home in sweatpants and the t-shirt that showed off some very nice forearms. Clint shut down that train of thought in a hurry. 

Clint grabbed a mug from the overhead, and poured coffee, leaving room at the top for sugar and creamer. He shuffled out of the kitchen carefully, coffee pot clutched in his hand. 

As he was drinking from the pot, Natasha asked Phil, “And you’re okay with his mouth all over that?” 

Phil replied, “Well, I’ve seen his mouth on other things, so that’s actually quite tame.” 

Clint spat coffee out all over the counter in surprise. “Wait, what,” Clint asked stupidly, and then realized what Phil meant. “Oh no. Oh god, you saw that,” Clint asked, voice climbing. 

Phil casually wiped up the spat coffee with a paper towel, like this was an everyday occurrence. “Of course I did,” Phil said serenely, and then didn’t add anything else. 

Since Clint didn’t know if Phil had revealed his djinniness to Nat, he refrained from asking questions. If he was a little afraid of the answers, well, that was between him, and the fucking recliner aparently. 

Natasha gave Clint a reproving look. “You brought home a different guy and got caught blowing him in the living room, didn’t you,” she said in that voice that made Clint twitch. “What, Nat, no,” Clint cried, rearing back in case she decided to try and cuff him. 

Phil broke in, “No guy. Clint was one hundred percent solo on that one.” 

“I’m not a cheater,” Clint sulked. “Besides, who’d cheat on that,” Clint asked with a wave in Phil’s direction, then slapped himself in the face, because aww mouth no! 

Natasha’s eyebrows went up, and Phil flushed slightly pink. “He’s been helping a lot with my self esteem,” Phil said a little ruefully, reaching up to touch his hair. “I see more and more of my forehead every year, unfortunately.” 

Clint sighed. “I think you look hot,” Clint muttered mutinously into his coffee pot. After all, what did he have to loose, and it also seemed to be the cover story for Phil’s spot in Clint’s life. 

Natasha’s face softened. “Who’d have guessed you were secretly a romantic,” she teased gently, like Phil wasn’t right there, in the room . 

“Yeah, you know me,” Clint said half-heartedly. “Not in the closet for anything other than romances.” 

Natasha shook her head slightly, but dropped the subject. Clint glanced up at Phil, to find Phil looking at Clint thoughtfully. 

After Natasha left, Clint sagged. “Okay, so we need to do some information exchanging,” Clint said as he found the two bugs he’d seen Natasha plant and crushed them with a brand new cooking pot. 

Phil had another in his hand that he’d pulled out from behind the fridge, and Clint felt his dick sit up and take notice again. Not many people could sweep for bugs planted by Natasha like Clint could, and the fact that Phil even noticed? Hot. 

“Perhaps that is a good idea,” Phil said blandly. “But first, would you like Italian or Asian cuisine tonight?” 

Phil held the un-crushed microphone and wiggled it slightly in the air, and Clint knew Phil was thinking there might have been more. Clint nodded, to show he got the implication. “I was thinking Asian, if that’s okay with you.” 

Phil set the microphone down and made a shooing motion to Clint, who took the hint and set the pot down. While Phil cooked, Clint checked everywhere, including the bathroom. When he emerged with no others, Phil put the microphone left into the freezer and shut the door. 

“Genius,” Clint said with a laugh as the freezer kicked on. 

“She thinks we’re dating, and she doesn’t know I’m a djinn,” Phil said in a low town urgently. “I’d like to keep at least the second half a secret.” 

Clint nodded. “Already figured as much,” Clint told him as he sipped his coffee. 

Phil nodded, and his face contorted briefly, like what he was going to say next wasn’t high on his list of subjects to broach. When Clint thought Phil would speak, the freezer shut off, and the words were left unsaid. 

Clint changed the subject. “Do you want to go out on Saturday, if I’m still in town?” 

Phil made a questioning noise. 

Clint shrugged. “I have some things to buy. Plus, we have got to get you a phone. I can’t take sitting at work somewhere else and not at least checking up on you.” 

Phil gave Clint a look. “I’m a grown man, I can take care of myself,” Phil said mildly, and Clint snorted. “Sure. But for my own peace of mind,” Clint asked. 

Phil hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. This weekend. Shopping.” 

“Yeah, how badly can it go wrong?” 

Famous. Last. Words. 

“What do you mean you’ve never been in an Ikea,” hissed Phil as they wandered through the kitchen area. 

Clint was starting to feel a little desperate. “I mean I’ve never had a place to actually stay to buy furniture in,” Clint hissed back. “Are you saying you have?” 

Phil sidestepped a woman comparing wooden serving plates. “I mean, I’ve been to Costco,” Phil said after a moment. “I think that was in Japan though.” 

Clint just stared. “Japan, really?” The sound of something slamming made them both look behind them. 

Phil said, “I regret coming.” 

Clint seconded the idea fervently. “I just wanted to see what they have,” Clint complained. 

Phil asked, “You mean you didn’t come in here with a plan? I thought you were all about plans?” 

Clint waved his hands in exasperation. “I see better at a distance,” Clint exclaimed as he nearly smacked someone in the face with his exuberance. “This is too up close! I need concepts! Ideas! Things to work with! I didn’t exactly grow up with a house you know! What do you want me to do, break into people’s houses so I can figure out how they arrange furniture and what kind of crap they put on their walls?” 

Phil dragged him closer quickly, with an apologetic smile at the scowling customer. 

“Sorry man,” Clint told the guy and turned back to Phil. “This is why I go shopping with other people, they’re deterrents against buying dumb things, okay?” 

Phil raised his eyes towards the ceiling, lips pursed. He didn’t look angry, but he did look like he was thinking. 

Clint waited impatiently, fidgeting in place. 

Finally, Phil’s eyes snapped back to him. “Okay, what kinds of things do you think you need for the apartment,” Phil asked patiently. 

Clint shrugged sheepishly. “Well, that table and chairs bit-” 

“I do NOT want to assemble furniture,” Phil bit out. “Not from here. You’re obviously new to the idea, but furniture is complicated, and we’d end up with more screws loose than we already have between the two of us.” 

Clint scowled. “Fine, but a bedframe still has to be put together, and we have to figure out something for you,” Clint argued. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you’ve been sleeping on your chair, not in it.” 

Phil’s face became unreadable. 

Clint sucked in a breath, wondering if he’d crossed a line. Phil dragged Clint to a rather showy kitchen set and yanked out a stool. He sat in it, then yanked out the one next to him, and gestured for Clint to sit. 

Clint did, pressing their shoulders together like they were lovers, watching the people walk past. 

Phil said in a low tone, “I don’t like being inside. I can’t tell how time is passing.” 

It sounded like it cost Phil a lot to say that out loud. “I can’t tell time, can’t tell feeling. ‘There is no up there is no down there is no side to side, there is no light, there is no dark, no shape of any kind.’” 

Clint listened intently as Phil spoke, feeling the man shiver slightly against him. “It sounds horrifying,” Clint said bluntly, suddenly understanding why Phil didn’t want to go back in and would rather sit uncomfortably up all night. “You know, the couch isn’t good for your back. If you’re not set on it, we can get one with at least a pullout. I know there is only one bedroom, but we can always slide another, smaller bed under the current bed if we get the right size frame. It’s large enough for that at least. Not much privacy, but better than one of us being in the living room, right?” 

Phil turned to face Clint, so Clint turned to face him. Suddenly, this close face to face, Clint was very aware of just how attractive Phil was, and how close they were, pressed against each other like this. 

Clint licked his lips, and saw Phil’s eyes darken in response. His heart leaped, and not for the first time he thought that maybe, maybe this attraction was mutual. 

The moment was shattered by a kid, screaming at the top of her lungs, running into their backsides with a stroller. 

Clint pitched forward, torn from the moment completely, while next to him Phil barely saved himself from a braining as a woman with a huge purse swung to grab the stroller, all while scolding the girl. There was no apology, just chaos left in their wake. 

Clint groaned and put his head on the table. It was too short to be comfortable as well as being too long to fit in his apartment. Some expert assassin he was. It seemed like the 5 years he’d been doing it previously went down the drain after a year of dealing with SHIELD and its antics. 

Bad handlers made for bad habits. 

Next to him, Phil breathed out long and silently, which Clint felt where their arms still brushed. 

“I guess this means we should go look at bedroom sets,” Clint said philosophically. 

“We don’t have to,” Phil said, sounding for the first time hesitant about something, but Clint waved him off. “No no, you issued a challenge, I must complete it.” 

Clint heaved himself to his feet. 

Looking thoroughly bemused, Phil followed suit. “I don’t recall issuing a challenge,” Phil said as he and Clint trotted off to the next section that looked like it may have had beds in it. 

“You said no Ikea furniture, that it was impossible to put together,” Clint explained. 

Phil sighed, a wealth of information about his thoughts filling it. 

Clint grinned. In the short time they’d been cohabiting and learning to work around the other, Clint had come to learn that Phil was actually pretty expressive when he wanted to be. Not in any particularly overt way, but yeah, Clint could see it, once he started really looking for it. 

And Clint had really looked for it. Phil hadn’t seemed particularly bent, but he definitely had unbent a little in their time together, especially as Clint treated him like a normal person, coming home and complaining about paperwork, and complimenting Phil on his cooking. They hadn’t broached the djinn subject yet, something Clint thought they were both avoiding. Clint hadn’t put any research into the situation, not even to figure out who Phil Knutson had actually been, before he became attached to a recliner. 

Clint was honestly a little afraid to find out. 

“I still think this is a bad idea,” Phil said as they nosed through bedroom sets. “You could get something with drawers underneath,” Phil commented as he bent over and slid something out. “Think of all the things you could stash in it.” 

Clint frowned at the drawers instead. “No, that’s a horrible idea, they make noise, did you hear it?” 

Phil shoved the drawer back in, clearly listening to the squeak. “Well, you don’t exactly have a chest of drawers, and you can always put graphite in the wheels to make them run smoother,” Phil pointed out as he wandered to another bed. 

Clint followed after him, feeling distinctly like a puppy following its master. “No, we said something about a frame we could either raise to put another under it, or one with a pull-out under the bed. At least stick to that plan!” 

“I don’t mind sharing but the queen is kind of small,” retorted Phil as he crouched and checked the underside of another frame. “Especially with those shoulders.” 

It was enough to shut Clint up as he thought about sharing a bed with Phil. Sure, he’d shared a bed with plenty of other men for platonic reasons, but this was Phil. Funny, quirky Phil. A Phil Clint had a crush on. Whom Natasha probably thought he was sleeping with anyway. 

Then his brain got snagged on the idea of Phil curled up against him, using his arms as part of his pillow, and- 

“Clint,” Phil called in exasperation, jerking Clint to the present. 

Clint shook his head like a dog. He needed to get his head in the game. There was no way Phil would want to sleep with Clint. Not like that. 

They crawled through a number of beds, sometimes literally, bickering about the things they didn’t like or liked about it. They attracted a couple somehow in the middle of their tour, and the four of them sat on one of the beds and bounced on the mattress critically. 

“See, I don’t think it would hold up long term,” Clint said as he squirmed in place to get more comfortable. Phil huffed. The woman of their quad hummed and said, “Yeah no, this wouldn’t hold up to anything vigorous.” 

Clint flopped backwards and waved his hand at her. “See? Exactly,” Clint told Phil, smiling superiorly. “Nothing vigorous! You know how many times I have to roll out of bed and hit the ground running?” 

The husband said helpfully, “If you’re looking to keep him tied down, I have other recommendations, not from Ikea though. You’ll want something far sturdier than this. There is a great leather shop that will make custom straps.” 

Clint stiffened in shock, but Phil took it all in stride. “I have been waiting for him to come to that conclusion on his own,” Phil said sagely. “But I’m afraid that tying him down is out of the question until then. He wouldn’t like it otherwise. When we get there, I want him to have fun, not panic.” 

Clint sat up straight, outraged. “How would you know, you haven’t tried,” Clint snapped, completely forgetting where they were, who he was with, and the fact that, oh, they weren’t in any kind of relationship or having any kind of sex. 

Phil simply tilted his head coyly and smirked. “Waiting for you,” Phil reiterated. 

Clint smacked himself in the face and scrubbed. “I’m sorry,” Clint said sarcastically into his hands. “Did I miss the meeting where I was supposed to come in with a list of ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and ‘maybe’ items again?” 

He felt Phil’s gaze on the side of his face. “Again,” Phil asked, voice soft and a little dangerous. Clint firmly told his heart and dick that they were mis-construing what was happening, that Phil was simply playing the part of doting and jealous boyfriend because of the whole Djinn thing. They were here to shop for furniture to make cohabitating more convenient, nothing more. 

“Remind me to tell you about my boss,” Clint mumbled back, and yup, that was Phil, making a strangled noise. 

“Your boss,” Phil asked in that dangerously neutral tone. 

Clint just flapped a hand between them. 

“Ooh, that sounds like a serious conversation,” the woman said. She stood up. “Come on babe, let’s leave the boys to it.” With that, she and her husband left. 

“Awww, we chased them away,” Clint said as straightened. He pouted at Phil. “I was actually starting to like them.”

Phil stared at him intently, ignoring what Clint was saying. Clint felt himself stiffening all over, including his traitorous cock, goddamn it. 

Clint leaned back, as if that could lessen the intensity of the gaze. When that didn’t work, Clint leaped to his feet and started babbling. “So you were saying you knew where sturdier bedframes were, because god knows I need them given how much I can toss and turn at night,” Clint said, already hurrying away. 

He felt Phil’s hand wrap around his elbow and he froze, reveling in the heat seeping through the fabric. His brain felt like it was swirling down a toilet. Hello sewer, his old friend. 

“Clint,” Phil said calmly. “Look at me.” 

It took every ounce of Clint’s focus to not outright shudder. He didn’t turn around. 

Phil tugged gently, so Clint turned reluctantly. Phil said softly, “Clint, if your boss is sexually harassing you-” 

Clint cut him off, embarrassed. “No. Just, it’s not- It’s fine, Phil,” Clint huffed. 

Phil didn’t drop his hand, and his gaze was still assessing, like he could will Clint into offering up details. 

“I’m okay,” Clint said. 

Phil still stared, but he nodded, and slowly withdrew his hand. Clint absolutely did not miss the warmth. No. Not at all. 

Clint sucked in a breath and changed the subject. “So, bed? And do we need to get you a real sofa?” 

Phil smiled, the corners of his mouth crinkling up. “I have a real sofa,” Phil replied as he pressed shoulder to shoulder with Clint again, like an inch of space between them was bad. The feeling only went away when he and Clint started to walk. 

“Would you please trust me to buy the bed,” Phil asked Clint with a painful look on his face, like Clint was torturing him. Well, maybe Clint was. 

A little. 

“What’s wrong with this one,” Clint asked, waving his phone while they rode the subway back home. 

Phil scowled. “Clint, it’s suspended from the ceiling. Not only is that unsafe, but do you really want to try getting into a bed that swings,” Phil asked. “Not to mention what it would do to the rafters even if you found them.” 

Clint grinned. “But it looks great,” Clint told him, and scrolled through more photos of unusual beds. 

Phil snorted. “Looks cool, yes. Safe for anything other than perching in the middle and shaking like a leaf, no.” 

Clint found another bed that looked interesting. “What about an A-frame,” Clint asked, and held it up for inspection. 

Phil barely glanced at it. “Same issue with supports,” Phil said automatically. “No base to keep the A-frame together, and those posts are large enough to hold a child but not a fully grown man who thinks he’s a child.” 

Clint pouted, absolutely proving nothing. They stood up and exited the subway together, still arguing the merits of an A-frame. He was about to scroll further when his phone rang, the name scrolling across the top saying, “Life-Threatening Guarantees” while blaring the song Fake Friends. 

Phil cocked a brow at Clint. Clint just rolled his eyes as he picked up. “Barton,” Clint snapped. 

“Specialist Barton, please report to headquarters at 2130,” came a cool, female voice. Clint checked the time and swore viciously under his breath as he hung up. 

When he turned to Phil, he thought he saw sadness on Phil’s face, but it was gone too quickly for Clint to be sure. 

“Work,” Phil asked, and Clint nodded gloomily. “Yup. Yay. God, I hate this job some days,” Clint groused, even though he didn’t really hate it. It wasn’t the best work, but it wasn’t the worst either. 

Phil hummed. “When do you need to be in by?” 

Clint shrugged. “9-ish, or there abouts,” Clint replied as they charged up the stairs, completely in sync. Clint paused at the top, letting the people buffet him as he scowled. “Fuck, we need to get you a phone before I go,” Clint said. He turned down the street. 

“Oh, a prepaid would be fine,” Phil said. 

Clint half-turned to look at him. “I mean, we could do a family plan,” Clint started, but Phil shook his head. “No papers,” Phil replied, subtly reminding Clint that Phil was not a person, but a djinn. 

“Right,” Clint said blankly. “Fine, prepaid. Come on, there’s a bodega on the corner, we can stop there.” It didn’t occur to Clint to ask Phil how he was buying stuff until after he’d insisted on Phil having a smartphone instead of a basic flip. 

“How have you been buying stuff with your own money,” Clint demanded. “You’re a Djinn. Do Djinni have money?”

Phil looked a little sheepish. “I remember the credit card numbers, although they’re probably expiring soon,” Phil said apologetically. “And I can remember the bank account number, so at some point, we’re going to have to merge the two so that you can access the money. I know I eat a lot.” 

Clint waved a hand impatiently as he programmed his number into Phil’s phone, and texted himself. “Anything else I should know about,” Clint asked. 

Phil shrugged, but wouldn’t meet Clint’s eye. 

Unfortunately, Clint did not have time for bullshit. “Okay,” Clint said after struggling with himself. “So here’s the deal. I’m going out of town, for god-knows how long, tonight. You’re staying here, right? I don’t have a spare key, so I’m going to give you mine. I will text you when I get back, if you would be okay with opening the door for me? Otherwise I have to come in through the window, and the last time I did that, I was naked.” 

Phil’s mouth twitched, like he was suppressing a smile. It occurred to Clint that Phil probably knew that, as Clint had sat his ass down on Phil’s house and dripped lube all over it. Scrubbing it out had been a bitch. Clint hadn’t even gotten laid over that, he’d simply fallen into a vat of lube meant for vehicles. 

Clint groaned and slapped himself in the face. “Okay, fine, I’m leaving,” Clint said, and yanked his keys out of his pocket. He chucked them at Phil without looking. 

Phil caught them expertly. It occurred Clint to ask, “Wait, how far away from your home base can you even travel?” 

Phil’s face was bland, blander than Clint had ever seen before, and he worked with people perfected bland for a living, including but not limited to his food or hair styles. “Some say that I’m limited in range by how far away I am from an electric socket,” Phil told Clint in an equally bland voice. 

Clint burst out laughing, bracing himself on Phil’s shoulder when it proved a little too much. When he caught his breath and glanced at Phil, Phil looked quietly pleased. Clint patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll be home before you know it,” Clint promised. 

Clint parted ways with Phil with a wave. “See ya,” Clint called as he raced back into the subway. 

If Phil replied, it was snatched away by the wind and the people thrumming around him. 

—--

Six weeks. 

Clint had been gone six weeks, and he was going stir crazy. The only thing keeping him from going crazy was texting Phil when he had a spare moment, not that he was supposed to be texting in the first place, but he was going out of his mind. 

For one thing, where ever the fuck Fury pulled this handler from, it had to have been the back end of his bowels, because the guy, a little on the older side, absolutely destested Clint on sight, and it went from downhill from there. 

There was good news for Clint. He spent the time reading anything he could get his hands on that dealt with mythology, trying to figure out how to free Phil from his recliner-prison.  

“Learning something new, circus freak,” asked Agent Dodson. 

Clint lowered the book and stared flatly at his supposed handler. “Surprised to see I like learning,” Clint asked, doing his best to not give off all the insolence he was feeling. 

Agent Dodson scoffed. “You’re already past your limit, circus trash. Just remember you’re tolerated for your dime a dozen shots,” Dodson said. 

Clint blinked at him, unimpressed with his comeback. “Sure,” Clint said, and raised the book back up so he could blot out the asshole. 

He listened to Dodson stomp off. Agent Tymre leaned over and muttered, “Maybe don’t piss off this handler? He’s a dick, but he seems to know what he’s doing.” 

Clint snorted. “His head’s so far up his ass I’m surprised he hasn’t been forcibly retired by HR,” Clint muttered back under his breath. Tymre laughed next to him and went back to whatever it was he was doing on the floor. 

Dodson came back into the room and called the team together. “Good news, we should have this wrapped up by the end of the week,” Dodson crowed, looking pleased. “Provided everyone does their part, this will go quick and fast.” 

Dodson had a plan, one that Clint could even grudgingly get behind. Other than his apparent bias against Clint, the man could apparently plan. 

Clint took his turn to run and get food as a private time to call Phil, who answered despite the time difference. 

“Been into anything interesting lately,” Clint asked. 

Phil huffed. “No. Bored out of my mind. Missing work, even if I don’t remember what it is. Can’t find any information about myself, but that’s not unusual. I’m a pretty boring person as a djinn, can’t imagine what I was like as a regular human.” 

Clint frowned as he pushed into his favorite local restaurant to pick up the to-go order. “You’re not boring,” Clint argued as he stood in line to pay. “The apartment? That’s boring. Have you even left it yet?” 

Phil hummed. “A little bit, yes. I do seem to have a range. I can easily make it to the stores past Ikea, but I can’t seem to leave the burough.” 

Clint huffed and shuffled forwards. “Of course you would. Electric socket,” Clint said dryly. 

Phil chuckled in his ear, warm and rich, and the sound filled every particle of Clint’s being. 

Clint sighed. “Man, right now, I would rather be home,” Clint complained as he pulled out his wallet. “Dodson is a dick, and I really, incredibly dislike him. But he said we’ll probably be home sometime later this week.” 

“Oh?” Was Clint imagining it, or did Phil sound hopeful? 

“Yeah,” Clint said casually as he smiled at the cashier and paid. The cashier didn’t even look at him, eyes glazed over by routine. “Can’t wait to be home.” 

Phil hummed. “Well, be safe, Clint,” Phil said. 

Clint grinned. “You too. Gotta run, this is a lot to carry with one arm.” Clint hung up, shoved the phone in his pocket, and hefted the large order. 

Dodson’s plan was simple. Clint up high, where he could see anyone trying to come out of the building on two sides, and the other team as breach. It wasn’t really where Clint wanted to be, but as long as the team stayed on his side of the building, Clint could probably help. 

Then again, it was supposed to be a stealth mission, with the breach team going in stealthily. All that went to hell in a handbasket when the breach team tripped some kind of internal alarm. The next thing Clint knew, the place was crawling with bad guys, all of them awake, all of them armed, and Dodson was screaming over the coms for everyone to make a break for it. 

Clint remained at his post, eying the mayhem down below. The bad guys were giving chase, leaving the place they wanted to raid nearly empty. Clint hadn’t yet seen their target leave. 

“Dodson,” Clint said politely into his com. 

“Can’t talk now, Barton,” barked Dodson, sounding out of breath, like he too was running when he should have been in a surveillance vehicle a little ways away. 

Clint risked a glance away from the building, but he was quick to snap back to it. “The actual target is still inside. I can still get in and neutralize it,” Clint said, talking quick as he packed up his bow, eyes fixed on the house. 

“Negative, get out of there, before your cover is blown,” Dodson barked. 

Clint resisted rolling his eyes. His cover was nowhere near blown: the enemy didn’t even know he was there! The data of people rushing past his location and not a one looking up told him so. 

“Don’t do anything stupid, because we can’t save you,” warned Dodson, like he knew Clint was going to disobey. “We already know you’re pretty worthless without a team to back you up.” 

Clint huffed a silent sigh of irritation as he plotted his route in and out. He had hundreds of infiltrations under his belt for and before SHIELD. Really, Dodson should know better. At least pick up a dossier or six. Clint’s was thick. Not as thick as Natasha’s or some of the other people who’d been with SHIELD longer than a decade, but still very respectively thick. Clint did a lot of solo work, and he did it really, really well. 

Clint sighed as he shimmied down the building and dropped to the ground. He stuck to the shadows and slipped through the wide-open gates. He kept to the edge of the property, eyes sharp, but most of the goons were otherwise occupied. Clint slid past easily. 

Clint climbed the outside of the building to the second floor under the cover of a tree. He checked the nearest window, found the room occupied, and checked the next one. The light was on, but no one was inside. 

Clint checked the window to see if he could feel any give, and was rewarded when the idiots hadn’t locked it. Clint slid through the window carefully, closing it behind him. He slunk to the door and crouched, flicking off the light. 

Clint cracked open the door to a completely dark hall. Bingo. He took a moment to get his bearing, calling up the map of the building he’d memorized. It had been incomplete, but it was enough for Clint to know sort of where to go. 

Clint crept down the hall, noting that all the lights in every room were on except the hall. He ducked into a room carefully when he thought he was in roughly the right spot. 

The sound of a gun’s safety being flipped off was Clint’s only warning that he was about to get shot. Clint dodged, pulling his side arm and firing. 

Screaming erupted in the room as Clint rolled behind a couch, two more shots in the air before he even made cover. He waited for a lull in the shooting, grateful for the pathetic amounts of safety the couch provided, before popping up and taking two more shots and placing the other three people in the room. 

His target was being ushered out a door. Clint couldn’t let it happen. 

Clint leapt out from behind the couch, the room a blur as he focused. 

Fire. 

Roll. 

Bring up to bear, and fire again, this time right through the crack in the door at the sliver of back he could see. 

The door shut behind his target, an electronic beeping noise telling Clint that they were shut in, but Clint wasn’t worried. After all, he never missed. 

Outside the main door, the sound of footsteps pounding the hallway alerted Clint of incoming reinforcements. Clint scrambled for the large desk dominating the room and dove behind it. He peeked out the window, but saw no one. 

The far door burst open, and voices yelled, but no one came in. Clint took the chance. He shot the window, and dove, uncaring that it was the second story. He hit the ground and rolled, grunting in pain but still moving. 

Fire ripped a line across Clint’s bicep, and he ran, haring off through the back side of the building. He leaped up and over the tall fence, dropping to the other side and running. He wasn’t sure if the team would or could wait for him to hit rendezvous, so he pushed himself, sticking to as many shadows as he could and cursing the large gaps between buildings that meant he couldn’t just stick to on high. 

Clint was forced to dodge a vehicle that tried to ram him. He broke to the left, wishing desperately there was somewhere to hide even, and spotted his chance. Two buildings close enough together. 

Clint put on a burst of speed and leaped. He hit the first building and pushed off and up, repeating the gesture with the second. Within seconds, he was gone out of sight into the gloom. 

Clint tapped his coms. “Sir,” Clint asked politely, and Dodson snarled, “You have thirty minutes or we’re taking off without you and calling you AWOL.”

Clint made a face. “Hard to do when I’m on top of a roof, Sir,” Clint said snarkily. He squinted down below, where he could see goons flooding the roadway, but milling about, unwilling to break into a house to get to him, especially since they didn’t know which one he was perched on. 

“Then get off of it,” Dodson barked. 

Clint rolled his eyes. “Is there any chance you can wait until morning, or even a few hours for me to make the extraction point,” Clint asked. “Hell, I’ll even take a pickup! I’m kind of surrounded, but they don’t know I’m here. I’d like to keep it that way.” 

His arm burned where he’d been shot, and Clint carefully kept the bleeding wound away from his hands, in case he needed them. It wasn’t deep enough to need a tourniquet, but it was probably going to need stitches. 

Dodson’s voice took on an edge Clint didn’t like. “Are you refusing a direct order,” asked Dodson in a cold voice.

Clint decided the danger was worth it when he threw his hands up in the air and hissed, “No, what is this, the military? This is me telling you that your plan went FUBAR, I got pinched, and I need a little extra time, okay?” 

It was stretching the truth. A lot. Clint didn’t care. He just wanted to go home, sit down, have a meal with Phil. Look Phil in the eyes and ask if he was a genie. Kiss Phil- no wait. He didn’t want to kiss Phil! Or trace Phil’s throat with his tongue, or- 

Clint smacked himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand hard enough to smart. Dodson was saying something in his ear. “Showing your true colors, circus trash,” Dodson was snarling, and Clint rolled his eyes. “This is a recorded line, doofus,” Clint fumed. 

He was tired of Dodson, tired of Fury using him as a punching bag, and most importantly, tired of being away from the place he started calling home. “Goddamn it! Why would you even say that over a recorded line?” 

Dodson laughed ugly. “If you think any of my ops are recorded, think again. This was an off the books ops. You’re as good as dead, and we’re leaving. Don’t bother showing back up to SHIELD, circus trash.” 

Clint snarled as the coms cut out. “Asshole,” Clint muttered bitterly. He didn’t take the com out of his ear. Silence reigned, until Clint thought the team was well and truly in the air. Then, the coms hissed, a signal that someone was sighing. 

Fury’s voice sounded absolutely done when he asked, “Did you get him?” 

“Of course I got him,” Clint said, goaded past caring. “I never miss, and he’s dead. His body hit the floor behind a locked door before I could confirm, but I saw my shot connect.” 

Fury hummed happily, which was a scary thought when Clint thought about it too long or too hard. “Doing good, kid,” Fury said. “Why don’t you make your own way back. Keep your receipts for your expense report. Take a few days of downtime while you’re at it.” 

That was code for, Fury was running out of handlers willing to risk taking on Clint and was having to do some quick talking. 

As always, Clint had to ask, “And the guy you’re looking for?”

Immediately, Fury’s good mood vanished. “Get back to base,” Fury said crisply, and the com didn’t even fizz out in static, but Clint knew Fury was gone. 

Clint pulled the com out of his ear and stuffed it in his pocket, and called Phil. 

Phil, who sounded sleepy. “Clint?”

“Sorry, did I wake you,” Clint asked belatedly, realizing the time difference. 

He could practically hear Phil’s smile. “It’s okay, I was just taking a nap. I feel more tired lately, and I’m not sure why.” 

Clint sat up, every part of him taking notice. “You feel tired? Tired in what way,” Clint asked urgently. “Do you need to see a doctor? A human doctor? Are there djinni doctors?” 

Phil huffed. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Just sleepier than usual. You’re worrying over nothing.” 

There was something Phil wasn’t saying though. Clint could hear it, even if Phil was casually glossing over it. Since Clint was way the fuck on the other side of the world, he couldn’t exactly call Phil out on it. 

He needed to get home, and fast. He could feel it. 

Instead, Clint settled in for his wait and talked about the city. “You’d like this place,” Clint said, as he looked around. “I mean, right here, there are miles of green all around, but we passed through a large city a while back, sitting tucked into a mountainside almost, and filled with houses that reminded me of barns.” 

Phil chuckled in his ear. “And where have you seen barns before,” Phil asked in amusement. 

Clint scoffed. “I grew up around them. Iowa. It was very pretty, as much of it as I could recall. Corn for miles. You had to be careful of the corn man though. There used to be this story, of a local field god who got angry that people no longer sacrificed to him, so he would stalk the corn for the people dumb enough to enter it in the dark, and kill them. Well, vanish their bodies. Make it one with the corn. You get the idea,” Clint said, latching onto the first idea he had. 

Phil hummed softly, sounding like he was half-asleep. “Keep going,” Phil ordered softly. “I’m enjoying this.” 

Clint crouched on top of the building, wracking his brains for stories from his circus days too, even though the bad guys had long since driven off. Clint had all the time in the world, to be right here, right now. 

“Wish you were here,” Phil murmured, half-asleep. “Yeah,” Clint asked, heartbeat speeding up. Phil’s breathing sounded labored. 

“Yeah, apartment is too quiet without you,” Phil said, then made a horrible gagging noise. 

“Phil,” Clint asked sharply. The noise continued, then abruptly cut off. “Phil? Phil!” 

Silence.

Chapter Text

The trip home was a blur, Clint calling in a favor to catch a cargo plane back to New York. He’d tried Natasha, but she had been out on an op, and Fury didn’t pick up the phone so Clint left a desperate message before takeoff. He couldn’t sleep, his mind too busy conjuring every reason why Phil hadn’t answered, almost all of the answers coming up the same, ‘dead’. 

When Clint rushed into his apartment, it was through the window, and it was empty. The recliner sat in its usual place, and Clint rushed over to it. He rubbed the recliner fervently. “Come on, Phil, come on,” Clint chanted under his breath. 

Finally, finally, Phil appeared, wearing the suit from the first time, and looking gray and fuzzy. Clint leaped up to catch him before he fell. 

“Clint,” Phil asked, sounding confused. 

Clint dragged Phil to the bed and sat him down on the edge, only barely noting that Phil had actually purchased a bed base, and had moved the mattress off the floor. It probably wasn’t good for Phil’s knees, to be getting up and down like that anyways. 

Then again, what did Clint know, the man was magic, not that Clint had actually seen much magic other than the hopping in and out of his recliner. 

“Phil,” Clint said again, checking Phil’s pulse and finding it too fast and thready. Or maybe that was his? It was hard to tell, what with the low-level panic still curling in his gut. 

“Phil, what happened?” 

Phil took a long time to respond, and seemed a little confused. “We were talking,” Phil said slowly, which yes, Clint knew. He resisted the urge to tell Phil to speed it up. “We were talking, and… I said I wish? And it was like…” 

Phil shuddered, and wrapped his arms around himself, curling into a ball. “It felt like I was dying,” Phil whispered. Tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes, and Clint grabbed him up in a tight hug. 

“Okay, so no w-word. I got it,” Clint babbled as he pet Phil’s back soothingly, feeling the jacket of the suit give beneath him. “You can’t make any w’s for yourself. It’s okay Phil. It’s okay.” 

Clint kept up the litany of soothing motions and tones until Phil stopped shuddering in his gasp. When Clint finally pulled away, Phil looked mortified on top of strung out from the crying. “I’m sorry, normally I’m much more put together than this,” Phil said. 

Clint gave Phil a trembling smile. “It’s okay Phil, I’m just glad you’re okay.” 

It took some bullying and some cajoling, but Clint eventually got Phil through the shower and into a pair of Clint’s sweatpants. The suit was hung up carefully, although Clint thought that Phil could probably magic it straight if it even dared wrinkle. 

Phil reached out and tugged Clint to the bed when Clint made to walk past. “Stay, please,” Phil asked softly. 

Clint sighed. “Let me just finish getting out of this gear and showered, okay,” Clint hedged. Phil nodded. 

Phil was still awake when Clint came out of the bathroom, so Clint crawled into bed next to him, figuring he’d stay long enough to let Phil know he wasn’t alone, but Clint couldn’t remember his head hitting the pillow. 

—--

Clint hated mornings. Absolutely hated them. He turned his head away from the window and pulled a pillow over his head. Half under him, Phil shifted. Clint clung tighter, unwilling to give up the life-giving heat. 

“Clint, let go, I’ll be right back, I promise,” Phil murmured. 

Clint tightened his arms, before letting go and rolling off Phil. “You’d better,” Clint said sleepily. “It’s too early in the morning to be up.” 

Phil laughed softly as he climbed out of the bed, leaving Clint to snuggle into his warm spot. 

He was both relieved and disappointed when Phil did not return to bed. Relieved, because Clint had a small problem downstairs, and disappointed, because Phil made a comfortable pillow, dammit! 

Clint dragged himself from the bed and hopped into a freezing shower. There was a talk ahead, and Clint wanted to not be horny for it. 

It was for nothing, because Phil still looked grayed out along the edges. He’d started coffee, but he sat at the island, slumped over, looking decidedly forlorn. Clint had an overwhelming urge to hug him. 

“Hey,” Clint said instead, sliding into the seat next to Phil. 

Phil didn’t look up from where he had his head in his hands. A muffled ‘hello’ was returned at least, so Phil wasn’t ignoring him. 

Clint gave into the urge slightly and wrapped an arm around Phil’s shoulders, feeling Phil tense. Clint dropped his arm and patted Phil’s back soothingly, but it didn’t help. 

The coffee maker burbled, the only real sound filling their silence. Clint stared at the countertop, wondering what he was supposed to do. 

The coffee machine finally dinged, so Clint stood and made an actual cup of coffee, before sliding it over to Phil. Phil didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge the cup in any way. It was like a waiting game, but the prize wasn’t a shot. 

“Phil, talk to me,” Clint said softly, making Phil jolt. His shoulders hunched up around his ears. Clint stayed out of arm's reach. 

“I,” Phil started, then stalled. 

Clint filled the silence. “You know, I had this boss lady. Scary. She could crunch you under her boot and think nothing of it, but she only ever did it with reason, you know? First time I didn’t get a demerit in my record for being mouthy, but I did get a- anyways, she said her best friend used to say that, before he died.” 

Phil dropped his hands and looked up. 

Clint idly twisted his half-empty coffee mug on the counter top. “Yeah, she uh, she left an impression, you could say.” Phil nodded, more to himself than to Clint.

“So, about the w-word,” Clint said carefully, deciding he would broach the subject after all. 

Phil sighed, but none of the tension left his body. “Yeah, I figured out while you were gone the first time that I couldn’t do magic for me, it had to be magic for you,” Phil said, smiling wanly. “This was the first time I used the cursed word out loud with meaning, I guess, and it backfired. Spectacularly.” 

Clint hummed as he sipped his coffee. “So no w-word, got it,” Clint said with a nod. 

Phil tilted his head to the side and looked at Clint. “You never say it either,” Phil said suddenly, as if making an observation. 

Clint shrugged. “I don’t have a lot of double-u’s,” Clint replied honestly. “You get those beaten out of you in the orphanage, and then it was reinforced when I was in the circus.” 

Phil’s eyebrows rose. “The circus,” Phil asked incredulously. 

Clint grinned. He spread his arms wide and gave Phil a bow. “You’re looking at the Amazing Hawkeye,” Clint said gleefully. “The marksman-” 

“Who never misses,” Phil repeated dazedly in time with Clint, making Clint pause. “Oh, so you’ve seen me,” Clint asked, pleased. 

Phil raised his hand and wiggled it in a so-so motion. “Heard of you,” Phil said vaguely. 

Clint tamped down disappointment. “At least you’ve heard of me. That was a long time ago,” Clint said with a shrug. “Haven’t done that since the circus went down in flames.” 

When Phil looked fascinated, Clint grimaced. “Long time ago,” Clint repeated. 

Phil changed the subject. 

To Clint’s eyes though, Phil stayed tense and gray. He also had less energy that Clint was used to, and Clint eventually shoved Phil into the bedroom. “Lay down before you pass out,” Clint said sharply. 

Phil seemed to want to protest, so Clint narrowed his eyes at him. Phil subsided and let himself be pushed.  

“Are you going in to work today,” Phil asked, and Clint shook his head. “Nope. Got a couple days off.” Phil nodded slowly, and crawled into bed. Clint waited at the door, eyes narrowed, before leaving, shutting the door behind him. 

Clint sat in the recliner that had brought him Phil, before remembering that he wanted to tear it apart to see if he could find a bottle or a lamp. 

Fury walked into his apartment while Clint was in the middle of doing so. 

“Barton,” Fury barked, but Clint shushed him hurriedly. 

“Hey, uh, the emergency is over, but he’s asleep in my room,” Clint said anxiously. “I’m sorry, I forgot to call.” 

Fury squinted his one eye at Clint. “I’m not here for that. If you ever checked your phone, you would know I came by and saw no one, and the apartment was locked. I even picked the lock to check twice. No, I’m here to go over your paperwork, as I currently have you registered in the system as AWOL.” 

Clint snorted as he sat down on the floor. He palpated the seat cushion carefully, ignoring the incredulous look that Fury was shooting him. “Dodson was a dick,” Clint said casually. 

Fury sat on his couch with a sigh. “This time, he has a good reason to say this. You disobeyed his order to get the hell out. Completed the mission, yes, but you’re expensive, and I’d hate to attempt to replace you. And I think Agent Romanoff would probably do her best to kill me.”

The idea that Natasha was that attached to him was ludicrous. “Nah,” Clint said. He set the pillow back on the armchair and sat in it. He wiggled a little to get comfortable and then gestured at Fury. “So, what’s up?” 

Fury put the bag he’d brought with him on the table. “Paperwork. Do it, have it ready by Monday,” Fury ordered. “Submit it electronically. Every day you delay will be another day docked off your pay for this headache.” 

Clint scowled. He opened the bag and bit back an angry roar. “This is paperwork to declare myself not dead,” Clint hissed. 

“You’re going to need it, because Dodson is pushing to have you declared KIA too.” 

Clint tossed the papers back into the bag. “Fine, I’ll fill it out,” Clint said sulkily. “But I still want the rest of this week off! No surprise jobs!” 

Fury stood with a scary smile and swept out of the apartment without a response. 

“Dammit,” Clint groaned and zipped the bag back up. He’d fill it out later. Probably Monday. Wait, electronically? Fuck, Clint was going to find a fax machine and use it. Was Kinkos still a thing? 

Clint checked in on Phil, to find the man fast asleep. Clint didn’t want to disturb him, and wound up eventually starting the paperwork anyways. 

When Phil emerged, he didn’t have much of an appetite. The process repeated that night. Phil didn’t want to be alone, so Clint crawled in, thinking he’d take the couch once Phil was asleep and waking up on half on top of Phil. 

Clint spent the day trying to cajole Phil into eating, and when Phil took a nap, Clint tried to not worry. 

Yeah, that last one wasn’t going so hot. 

Clint groaned as he tried to focus on his paperwork, but eventually he gave up. He had a thousand other things to do, such as clean his weapons, get groceries, the like, but the idea of leaving Phil terrified him. 

Clint tiptoed to the door and peeked in. 

“Either come in, or get out,” Phil called out crankily. 

“I’ll get out,” Clint said hastily, and made good on his word. He left the apartment and scarpered to the grocery store. He ran through it in a hurry, pausing only when he saw the package of donuts Phil so loved and had stashed in the apartment, like Clint couldn’t fucking move two steps without tripping over a stash of them. Clint grabbed them and threw them into his reusable bag anyways. 

Clint came back and stress-cooked, knowing Phil couldn’t even begin to help him eat it all. Phil tottered out of the bedroom after a while and slumped down at the kitchen island, careful to avoid everything food-related. 

“How you feeling,” Clint asked gruffly. 

Phil nodded slowly, looking exhausted but not like he was about to drop dead. Clint pushed food at Phil stiffly and made himself not watch Phil pick at it. “You know, I hear that food actually helps when it goes in your mouth, not sits on your plate,” Clint said snarkily. 

Phil pushed the plate away. “Not hungry,” came the quiet reply.

 Clint slapped plastic wrap over it and put it in the fridge. “For another time then,” Clint agreed, and then pulled out the donuts he’d deny stress-purchasing under torture. He set them carefully down next to Phil’s hands. “Here, to pick at. Something that won’t go bad fast in the open air.” 

Phil had a hint of a smile. “Are you saying I’m a fussy eater,” Phil teased. 

Clint nodded solemnly as he went back to slicing things. “The worst,” Clint told him seriously. “I’ve seen babies less fussy than you.” 

Phil watched Clint chop, toying with the donuts, clearly thinking. Clint let him think. “I don’t remember much about before I woke up attached to the armchair,” Phil admitted after a while, breaking the comfortable silence as he opened the package.

Clint glanced up at him. “Before?” 

Phil pushed his finger through the middle of a donut moodily. “Before. I get glimpses of what I think was a life. I know that that suit is my favorite one, which is why I appear wearing it every time even if I go in with different clothes. I lost four pairs of sweatpants that way, figuring out what I could and could not do. There wasn’t exactly a rule book or guide that came with the sudden djinnification.” 

Clint chuckled as he scraped celery pieces into a waiting bowl and slid them aside. “So you’re fuzzy. Are you sure Phil Knutson is your name?” 

Phil nodded. “Some things stayed clear, like my name, and I think I remember what I was last doing when it happened, but it’s hard to be certain too. It took me almost six months to remember my own credit card number, after all, and I don’t think I did it right even now, except things still showed up.” 

Clint expertly chopped up broccoli and started to dice it. “So some things are still in your head,” Clint supplied. 

Phil frowned. “Yes, although the credit card wasn’t under the right name, and I couldn’t remember why for a little while. All my mind supplied was ‘classified’. There is a lot in my brain that when I try to pick at it, it flashes it, like a sign. I tried looking up my name, but nothing comes up. It’s like there isn’t an actual Phil Knutson that exists. Or rather, none around the age that I think I am that looks like me.” 

Phil ran a hand silently through his hair, eyes far away. Clint had to ask, “What do you remember when you first woke up?” 

Phil blinked a few times before focusing on the donuts, frowning. “Darkness. I mean, I could. I think I felt you calling. Or rather, the magic calling to me, occasionally, but you actually summoned me the first time when you were walking past the chair and rubbed the back of it. You vanished into the bathroom, took a shower. Limping. You were stuck on crutches.” Asshole sounded amused. 

As Clint was scrubbing his, or was it Phil’s? Phil’s cutting board, Phil said, “We should at least test the magic out. See what it does. I can do some things with it, but not a lot. So try making a wish.” 

Clint held up his hands. “Oh no,” Clint said immediately. “First off, that’s how you become an accidental djinn. You find one, you make three wishes, and BAM! You’re now the one stuck in the bottle. Or recliner, in this case.” 

Phil frowned. “Is that one story, or all of them? You’ve put research into this?” 

Clint raised his hand and wiggled it, playing off just how much research he’d done. “I mean, nothing really beyond wikipedia and some stories I read that are very contemporary,” Clint said with a shrug. And fanfiction. Holy shit a lot of fanfiction. 

Clint smiled at Phil, who was staring at him, with that damnable, faint head tilt. 

“It mostly seemed to depend on where the story came from,” Clint finally caved. “But the most popular story is Aladdin, where he gets 3 wishes, as reportedly told by Scheherazade, but it’s unconfirmed because some French guy was translating the stories came up with too-few of them, and started asking around and found someone who had oral traditions from that time and recorded those.”

Phil covered his mouth, but the way his eyes lit with mirth told Clint all he needed to know. “Some French Guy,” Phil asked, and oh yeah, he was sort of laughing in all that seriousness. 

Clint waved the hand holding the knife airily. “Some French Guy. Anyways, the origins of actual djinn predate Islam, blah blah blah, spirits of fire, more blah, and they were free. Some places believed they lived in communities, and more contemporary mentions of them say they’re lonely. They all agree, they possess people. Feed off their life force.” 

Phil sat, looking a little shocked, then looked down at his hands. His face was a blank mask. 

Clint watched Phil carefully. “Phil, do you feel better, when I’m around,” Clint asked softly. 

Phil nodded slowly. “The tiredness didn’t start getting bad until you were gone for so long. It was harder and harder to open the portal to get here.” 

Clint put the knife down. “One would think you would remember more about your past, in that case, if you’d run afoul a djinn and got turned into one. Unless it was a really long time ago.” 

Phil still stared down at his hands. There was a stillness to Phil that Clint didn’t like. 

“Phil,” Clint asked gently. “What is the last thing you remember?” 

Phil looked up at Clint, glassy-eyed. “A dark warehouse, and feeling so tired I could sleep for a year, and wishing I was at home in New York sitting in my chair,” Phil said in a small voice. He twisted slightly to look at the damnable recliner. 

Clint moved and blocked it from view, glad his hands were clean. “Hey, stop,” Clint said, shaking Phil slightly. Phil’s eyes snapped up to Clint. “I was on a mission. There were people there with me,” Phil said suddenly. “What if they’re still alive? What if they were trapped into objects like me?” 

Phil stopped himself short. He appeared to be thinking hard about something. Clint literally saw the lightbulb go off in Phil’s head. “Maybe I just need to focus. It wouldn’t let me make a wish, so maybe, you need to make the wish for me,” Phil said softly.  

Clint looked at Phil a little helplessly. “What wish,” he asked, watching as Phil seemed to fade out a little. “Send me back,” Phil ordered gently. “See if you can make a wish and send me back.” 

Clint’s breath hitched. 

This was it. Phil was leaving, and Clint would never see him again. 

“And you’re sure if you focus hard enough,” Clint started, but Phil gave him a small smile. “Clint,” Phil said gently. 

Clint closed his eyes tightly. He grabbed Phil by the wrist and dragged him to the recliner. Phil went willingly, and sat in it. 

“One year of sleep, New York, in that arm chair,” Clint repeated, pointing. “Three wishes.” 

Phil nodded, eyes never leaving Clint’s face. 

“Close your eyes, and think about the warehouse.” There was one folklore, absolutely contemporary, that said that people could break a djinn’s curse on themselves if they focused. 

Phil obeyed, brow furrowed in thought. 

“This dream is nice,” Clint said soothingly, “But you need to wake up. You need to save your people. Repeat that for me, okay?” 

Phil murmured, “The dream is nice, but I need to wake up and save my people.”

Phil’s body started to glow, but Clint decided a wish couldn’t make the situation worse. He braced himself against the armchair and leaned over Phil. He whispered, “I wish for you to go back to that warehouse, to leave this place behind, and to be free of this dream.” 

Phil’s eyes snapped open, panic lacing them. “Clint,” Phil cried as he and the chair started to fade out. “Clint, why would you-” 

Clint leaned the last bit forward, and kissed Phil. Phil’s hands wrapped around his face, and Phil was kissing back fiercely. The light became blinding, then all at once, it winked out, and Clint toppled over to plant face-first on the floor. 

Clint lay there, breathing heavily, hearing silence. He curled into a ball tightly, wishing that he’d wished that Phil would remember him, would come back to him, but it was too late. 

Far too late. 

Clint wasn’t sure how long he lay there, until he managed to sit up and look around. 

The couch was gone, like it had never been there. Clint began to panic, and he ran into the bedroom. The mattress was on the floor. Absolutely everything of Phil’s was gone, even the clothes they’d purchased for him. 

Clint wanted to weep. 

Clint texted Natasha, who called him back. “What’s wrong,” she asked briskly. 

“Phil’s gone,” Clint said morosely as he checked for the pots and pans Phil and Natasha had purchased to find them also gone. Every trace of Phil was gone. All of it. 

“Who,” Natasha asked, and Clint nearly dropped his phone. “You know, Phil, gorgeous-looking guy? Brown hair, blue eyes,” Clint said, feeling a little desperate. 

Natasha made a noise. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I met him. How long were you dating, and why did you keep it a secret,” she asked. 

Clint took a slow, ragged breath. “Nat, do you remember buying the recliner in my living room,” Clint asked carefully. Natasha made a negative noise, and Clint just knew. 

“No, it’s okay. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Phil,” Clint said finally. “Remind me, and I’ll tell you about him when it’s less painful.” 

Natasha made another noise, but Clint wasn’t hearing her any more. “I gotta go, I’ll see you later,” Clint said listlessly. 

He hung up, and looked around his apartment again. The stack of paperwork was still sitting in the corner, and Clint didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want to think about it. When he remembered that he couldn’t use the range at SHIELD until he’d finished the paperwork, Clint just left. He didn’t take anything other than his wallet, and walked out of his apartment, not bothering to lock it behind him. 

On autopilot, Clint purchased a ticket for the train, and hopped aboard. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he rested his head against the window and stared out it without seeing. 

His phone rang, blaring Purple People Eater, and Clint let it go to voicemail. It rang again and again, until Clint just turned the whole thing off. 

Clint got off the train and hopped on a bus. At some point, he found himself in the bed of a truck, feeling it bounce along heavily rutted roads which bounced him around as he hid his hitchhiking. When he thought it was safe enough and far enough away from the town, he hopped out of the bed, and vanished into a corn field. 

Clint suddenly had a new problem. He had no idea where in the fuck he was. 

Clint walked until he found service tracks. He powered on his cellphone and winced as it connected to the towers and started immediately dinging him with messages and voicemails. 

He was still trying to sort through the voicemails when his phone rang. Clint answered this time. “Why in the fuck are you in Iowa,” growled Fury. 

Clint tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. “I’m not doing so well,” Clint admitted. “I need some time off.” 

Fury was silent, and Clint went back to wading through corn. “Fine,” Fury said shortly. “I will make sure your paperwork goes through-” 

“Yeah I didn’t finish it,” Clint said listlessly as he paused on the edge of a large puddle. He walked around it. 

Fury huffed. “Fine. I will assign someone to it. I have something more important to take care of, anyways.” 

Clint hummed disinterestedly, and Fury snorted once more and hung up. 

Clint wondered if his SHIELD contract would let him quit early. 

Clint emerged onto the freeway again, and a car pulled up slowly. Natasha rolled down the window and stared at him, eyes hard and glittering, and Clint didn’t ask how she was there, or how she knew. Clint just climbed into the vehicle and buckled up, because Russians are crazy. 

He slept the whole way back to New York. 

Due to Dodson’s smarminess and general asshatry, Clint was grounded to his desk. It was excruciating on top of excruciating. He filled out his paperwork, his backlog of paperwork, and when a manual to learn how to fly a quinjet landed on his desk, Clint picked it up and read through it half-heartedly. 

Natasha, of course, came and went like she usually did. She sometimes brought Clint tasty things, a little stale from travel, but still good. Then, they were assigned an op together, that went south so spectacularly that there were exploding bombs, and Natasha driving while Clint hung out the window and shot at their pursuers all while trying to remain in the car. 

It earned them a solid reprimand from Fury and Hill, as well as more desk duty. They were put with Sitwell for another ops not a few days later, and Clint cursed the full moon for the general wackiness of the op. He didn’t believe in werewolves, but man, that op was really trying to make a case for them. 

Then again, he didn’t believe in djinn either, and he’d had one living with him. 

The end of the op had Clint and Natasha sitting on the back of a cleanup vehicle and watching people bustle around, and Clint had to ask Natasha, “Hey, do you ever wish for anything?” 

Natasha tossed Clint a glance. “Wishes are for fools,” Natasha said flatly. Clint grimaced, unsure why he thought Natasha would say anything different. 

When they returned, whispers were circulating about a missing handler coming back from the dead. Clint, of course, immediately tuned his ears into the gossip stream. 

“I heard he’s that pet project, a Life-Model Decoy, and that’s why it took so long for him to get back,” said one agent excitedly. 

Another snorted. “He probably had to go back to the lab and be fixed, and a hard to make part took forever,” the other one said. 

Clint kept walking down the hall, thinking about the missing handler. He felt hope rise, because if this was the guy Fury had been looking for for nearly a year and a half, then things were looking up for Clint and Natasha. They were a menace alone, but together? Yeah actually maybe not. 

Clint and Natasha were sent from medical straight to Fury’s office, where they were informed he was in a meeting and would need to wait. Eventually they were called in. 

Natasha went first. “Sir,” Clint heard her say, and he stepped in behind her and froze when he saw their new handler. 

Phil Knutson. In that fucking suit. 

Clint stared at him openly, drinking in the sight of Phil. When his eyes traveled to Phil’s face, however, it was a completely unreadable mask, with zero recognition in it.

Chapter Text

“Barton, get in and close the door,” Fury barked, and Clint leaped to obey, blushing at the fact he was caught staring. 

“Sorry,” Clint mumbled as he stared at the floor. Fury snorted. “You two, meet your new Handler, fresh out of medical from a long-term op in Baghdad, Phil Coulson. Coulson, meet these two assholes, Agents Romanoff and Barton.” 

Coulson smiled at them both, a bland, empty little thing. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Coulson, because this guy was absolutely Coulson and not Clint’s Phil, said to them, reaching out to shake hands. 

Clint had to be elbowed to take Coulson’s hands, and Clint shook it gingerly, expecting sparks, or something, but nothing happened, other than warmth, and the idea of calluses. 

Clint dropped his hand and stepped back. Coulson started talking, but Clint was tuned out as he eyed Coulson critically. The man was too thin for the suit, and it wasn’t actually the same suit, but very close to it. There were circles under Coulson’s eyes, like he’d been run too ragged and was just out of medical. 

“Not cleared for duty for two more weeks-” Coulson was saying when Clint tuned back in. “But that gives Barton time to start his flight training, from what I understand. After that, it’ll be a few lighter duties, to give us time to learn to work as a team. Any questions?” 

Clint had one, but he couldn’t ask it here. His eyes flickered to Fury, and he realized he could get away with it. 

“What do they do with your stuff when you’re gone for so long,” Clint asked, oozing morbid curiosity. Coulson didn’t seem thrown by the question at all, and answered it directly and seriously. “Depending on the situation. Most of mine went into storage.” 

Clint waited to see if there was more, but there was nothing. “I bet that’s a relief, not having to put together a whole new apartment with brand new furniture,” Clint said. 

Coulson’s face didn’t change overtly, but Clint knew his tells, saw the amusement lurking there. “You don’t know the half of it,” Coulson said blandly. “I’ve been quite enjoying apartment hunting. Nothing feels right.” 

Clint chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve got a chair I really like,” Clint said casually. “It’s super comfortable. A recliner, in fact. The apartment didn’t feel like home until I installed it.” 

Nothing in Coulson changed at all. Coulson simply looked interested.

“Maybe that’s what I’m missing,” Coulson said contemplatively. 

Fury sighed gustily. “If you’re going to gossip, get out of here, and don’t come back.” 

Natasha gave them a head nod and walked out. Coulson started at Clint, waiting. Problem with Clint leaving was the look Fury was currently leveling at him from behind Coulson. 

“Uh, you mind if I talk to Fury privately a moment,” Clint asked, rubbing the back of his neck, flushing. 

Coulson nodded, and followed Natasha out. The door snicked shut behind him. 

“What the hell was that,” Fury asked in a low, dangerous tone. 

Clint flopped into the chair across from Fury, highly reminiscent of that day he was negotiating a contract to join SHIELD. A lot less blood this time around. Less handcuffs around his finger as he twirled it too. 

“Would you believe me if I just saw a ghost,” Clint asked bitterly, thinking it wasn’t that far from the truth. 

Fury heaved a gusty sigh. “Barton, is this going to be a problem,” Fury asked. 

Clint felt his face contort as he tried to hold it all in. “No,” Clint said once he’d wrestled for control. “I just… I just wish …”

The whole room seemed to sway out from under Clint as it hit him like a lightning bolt. His second wish. That Phil would leave it behind. What if Phil left his memories of Clint in New York behind, too, and that was why no one seemed to be remembering him?

“I hate magic,” Clint finally mumbled. 

Fury made a noise. “Magic,” asked Fury, sounding like he’d rather be discussing anything but magic. 

“Yeah. Magic,” Clint said. He scrubbed his face tiredly. 

Fury was looking at him consideringly. “Magic,” Fury murmured to himself. 

Abruptly, the room felt too small, and Clint needed out. “I’m going to the range,” Clint said shortly and fled. 

He felt steadier with his bow in hand. The process of shooting was soothing, and Clint repeated it, over and over again, ignoring the way everything felt as he compartmentalized down into tiny boxes. 

The next few weeks were torture. Seeing Coulson every day, and remembering Phil. Clint had brought his second test to see if his Phil was still lurking in there, but when Coulson had received the donuts, Coulson smiled at Clint and thanked him graciously. Nothing. No recognition. 

Clint hated it. 

More than once when they were alone, though, Coulson looked like he wanted to say something, before seemingly thinking better on it and changed the subject. Well, Clint was assuming he was changing the subject. 

“Sir,” Clint tried when Coulson was cleared for light duty. “I’m cooking tonight. Want to come over?” 

Coulson looked genuinely regretful. “I’m sorry, I have plans with the director,” Coulson told him apologetically. 

Clint smiled. “No, it’s fine, have fun,” Clint said hastily, and fled. He avoided Coulson as much as possible for a while after that. 

Their first few ops were just milk runs, Coulson seemingly twitchy while they were away from their home base. He hid it really well, but there was a slightly pinched look on his face that never relaxed until they got back to the base. 

When the third one went down the drain and the three of them were fleeing for their lives, instead of feeling elated Clint just felt depressed. It wasn’t the same. Not only was Coulson extra-competent in the same way he was when he was Phil, but for some reason his brain and dick were still at war and his dick still chanted Phil’s name at every opportunity. 

“Get laid,” hissed Natasha afterwards. “You’re distracted, and that’s dangerous! You always get like this when it’s been too long. I get that your boyfriend left you, but you can at least see if a one night stand will give you a good dicking!” 

Clint just sighed morosely as he leaned over his desk. “It’s not the same,” Clint whined. “I liked this guy. Like, really liked him.” Clint rested his cheek on the desk. “Hell, I probably loved him.” 

Coulson’s voice asked from behind him, “Did you tell him you liked him?” 

Clint skyrocketed and whirled around, crouched on his desk and a knife drawn. “Fuck Phil, stop sneaking up on me,” Clint blurted without thinking. 

Coulson’s face twitched in confusion before smoothing out the microexpression. “Barton, down,” Coulson ordered, pointing at the floor. 

Clint climbed down off the desk, a strong sense of deja vu filling him, all the while grumbling. “And no, I didn’t,” Clint said. “It’s complicated, okay?” 

Natasha sighed in exasperation. “Love is for children,” she said. “Just go get dicked, and don’t come back until you’re walking funny!” Seemingly satisfied with her declaration, Natasha left. 

Coulson stood there, looking at Clint with that same intensity Clint remembered from Phil. Coulson opened his mouth to say something, but his phone rang. Coulson’s mouth snapped shut, and he frowned, but turned away and answered his phone. 

Clint watched Coulson walk off, all bad-ass, and found himself wishing again. Wishing that Phil remembered. 

He couldn’t take it any more. He didn’t have any more paperwork, and it was almost quitting time anyways, so he left. Clint trudged home, his wish pounding in his chest, threatening to break out, when he heard a noise. He turned his head quickly, listening. It sounded like it was coming from the nearby alleyway. 

He hesitated, but the sound came again, soft, whispering. It seemed to echo around him, drawing him into the alley. He followed the sound through to the other side, across the street, and onwards, ignoring the way cars honked at him and drivers yelled. 

A door opened in front of him, and Clint paused for the first time, feeling weirdly out of breath. He walked further into the building, noting how empty and echoing it was. 

Standing in the center of the room stood a man. He wasn’t overtly glowing, but he was the only bright thing in the room. Clint found himself approaching. The man stood there, watching him with dark, liquid eyes. 

“You have a strong wish,” the man said. Clint came to a stop in front of him. “A wish so strong I can taste it.” 

Clint took a deep breath. “I don’t want my wish to come true,” Clint said carefully, even though the exact opposite was true. 

The man regarded Clint, looking serious. “Not a full truth, but not a total lie,” the man said finally, looking amused. “A lie by omission, I believe it’s called. You do want your wish, you simply don’t want me to grant it.” 

Clint didn’t glare, but it was a close thing. He wasn’t sure really what to make of the man in front of him, but he was sure of one thing; he was likely possessed by a djinn, and that was who Clint was talking to. 

The man raised his hand and regarded it. “Humans always have wishes, even if they bury them deep in their souls,” the man acknowledged, like he could read Clint’s mind. Maybe he could, Clint didn’t know. “Even those who don’t even know it.” 

The djinn seemed to settle backwards in the human skin a little. “This body, here, he wished desperately for love when I ran across him. We were on our way to the animal shelter when I tasted your wish on the air and brought you to me.” 

Clint choked a little on that. “The animal shelter,” Clint asked disbelievingly. 

The djinn smirked. “The best love is a pet’s love, wouldn’t you agree? Much less fickle than a human. Except for cats. In the thousands of years I’ve been alive, cats are still fickler.” 

“So, what, you’re not evil,” Clint asked, even though the stories all told him the djinn would lie. The djinn took the question in stride. “Come on, the shelter closes soon, and I need to get a good look before I agree to a pet, and I hate being rushed.” 

The djinn didn’t touch Clint, but led the way back out of the building. Clint recognized they were still in New York as he kept pace with the djinn. People didn’t look twice at the two men walking. It seemed so normal. 

“Good and Evil are subjective,” the djinn said dismissively. “Live long enough, and you see what counts as ‘moral’ move in wavy lines. Trying to keep up with it is exhausting. I’m more of a ‘live and let live’ sort of being.” 

That wasn’t a direct yes or no. The djinn opened the door to a dog shelter, then sneezed. He backed out hurriedly. “Why didn’t you say you were allergic to dogs,” the djinn hissed, and Clint realized he was talking to the human inside of him. “No, I'm not finding you a human mate. You have to actually attract those on your own, and I don’t do the whole fall in love schtick. It’s all about choices with that. Now, are you allergic to cats too? If so, I know a great bird place.” 

The djinn cocked his head like he was listening to something, and pulled a long-suffering face at Clint. “Fine. A cat shelter,” the djinn said. “If we run across of one of these with a flerkin, I’m running the opposite direction.” 

The djinn closed his eyes. “The perfect cat, the perfect cat,” the djinn chanted under his breath. Something that looked like a tattoo lit up on his wrist, before going out. “This way,” the djinn said happily. 

The djinn led him to another alley. “Here. Your perfect soulmate is in there,” the djinn said. It did a little wiggle, and seemed to split off from the human, losing shape in the process. The djinn dropped a towel onto the man’s head. “Oh, and you’ll want that. Good luck!” 

The man looked furious. “You promised me love,” the man said too where the djinn had vanished. The djinn’s voice said, “Hey, you didn’t specify, and trust me, that kitten needs a lot of love. You’re welcome.” 

The man looked on the verge of a temper tantrum, and the djinn sighed. “Come on,” it said, and Clint felt a tingle through his left hand, like it was trying to grab him and pull him onwards. “Just let the poor guy figure it out. Good luuuuuuccckkk!”

Clint trotted down the sidewalk at a quick clip while the man raged about smart-ass magical beings. The djinn sighed. “People,” it said in disgust. “Do what they want, and they decide they wanted something else.” 

Clint thought about his wish, and wondered how it could go wrong. 

The djinn eventually rematerialized, looking generic somehow. Clint couldn’t tell what the djinn was, other than they had a single tattoo, trailing under one eye, down the side of their cheek and neck, and vanishing beneath the v-neck it wore. If pressed, Clint couldn’t actually tell you if it was a man or a woman. 

“Ah, much better,” the djinn said, pleased. Clint blinked as it paused in a window and peered at itself critically. It touched its hair, made it long with an undercut, and dark green. It made a small bun out of its hair, scrunched its nose, and touched its chest. 

“What do you think, bigger or stay flat,” it asked, and Clint shrugged. “Your body, your look,” Clint said, and the djinn looked at him sharply. “You sure, because I can look like anything you want,” the djinn said coyly.

Clint shook his head. “Nah, you do you, boo,” Clint told it. 

It pouted. “Well, that’s not fair,” the djinn said. It eyed itself critically again, then shrugged. “Good enough for now,” it finally decided, until someone knocked into it with a “Hey watch it”. It glared, and grew to a little taller than Clint. 

Clint glanced around, but no one seemed to notice. They weren’t knocking into the djinn now, though. The djinn looked like it would eat someone for breakfast. 

“Come on, food, hungry,” the djinn urged, and dragged Clint to its next destination, which was a diner. There, they sat, and the djinn introduced itself. “Oh, call me Jan,” the djinn said. “Or, you know, whatever you feel comfortable with.” 

“You are weirdly accommodating,” Clint said. 

Jan shrugged. “Most people can’t see me,” Jan stated as it picked up the menu and perused it. “People who have strong wishes can, or those I chose to reveal myself to can.” 

“How do you choose the second one,” Clint asked, curious. 

Jan flapped the menu pensively. “Not a big fan of dicks. I have to deal with those every time I go home. ‘Get a real job’, they say. ‘Being nice doesn’t pay.’ ‘Where are your riches and slaves?’ ‘Don’t you know your cousin has a harem?’” Jan made a face. “Ew, no thanks.” 

Clint found himself laughing. Jan proved to be an interesting companion through the meal. When Clint asked about Jan eating food, Jan just shrugged and said, “Human body enjoys food, but I don’t need it. I can feed off of emotions, but I can also do it passively, which is why I prefer big cities. I’m like a whale, cruising through the ocean and filtering krillmotions with my magic baleen.” 

It was so cheesy, that Clint smacked himself in the face. 

Then Clint remembered Phil, somewhat guiltily. “Are there any other djinn roaming earth,” Clint asked hesitantly. 

Jan looked at him, face impassive. “Why do you ask? You don’t taste like you’ve been near one, but you do taste like residue of my cousin Trish. They’re kind of an ass. Wait, does this have to do with that wish of yours?” 

Clint gave a brief rundown of the events. Jan listened attentively, then looked thoughtful. “It’s hard to say without having seen the person or object in question,” Jan admitted. “I can give you theories, but you won’t like them.” 

When Clint looked at it in confusion, it sighed, but said, “Most commonly, people forget they’ve ever been possessed, or been transformed by a djinn. That guy I left to find a cat? By tomorrow, he’s going to think he stumbled on it by accident, and not even remember any of it.” 

For a moment, Jan looked sad. “I can help, but I’ll never be remembered. It’s why most of our people keep slaves. A reminder to the slaves that we gave them what they wanted.” Jan made a face. “I’d rather be forgotten.” 

Clint, however, thought that was incredibly sad. 

Jan, obviously feeling Clint’s shift in emotion, looked at him knowingly. “Don’t worry about it,” Jan told him dismissively. “But, but! We should discuss how you can get your man friend to fall in love with you, since it sounds like you’ll be starting from scratch.” 

Clint sighed. “Or I should just forget the whole thing,” Clint said moodily, pushing the last of his food around his plate. “Just, you know, pine from a distance.” 

Jan’s eyes widened, and they leaned over the table and looked at Clint earnestly. “No, listen, that sucks, okay? Don’t do that.At the very least, go and fall in love with someone else!” 

Clint gave Jan a wan smile. “I’ll think about it,” Clint told him. 

Jan snorted as they sat back. “No you won’t.” 

Clint paid for their meal. As they were about to leave, Jan stopped him. 

“Listen, I don’t have many human friends,” Jan said hesitantly. “But uh, and I need you to know before I ask, but you taste good. Emotions wise. Not-” Jan made a funny face. “Okay, so I don’t much like sorrow, I know some feed off of it- anyways! The slurping on your emotions aside, I did enjoy this dinner, and I’d like to do the whole… friendship thing.” 

Clint stared at Jan, who hurriedly said, “Or not, totally fine.” 

Clint grabbed Jan before it could vanish. “No, no, get back here,” Clint said firmly. “You got a cell number? I’m frequently out of town and country, but I’d be hands down okay with being friends with you, tastiness aside.” Clint smirked. “I know I’m a snack.” 

Jan groaned. “Please tell me that’s not the moves you’re trying to use, those moves suck.” 

Clint gave a mock gasp of outrage. “Excuse you, they’ve gotten me laid before, I’ll have you know!” 

Jan rolled their eyes. “Pull the other,” Jan said petulantly as they whipped out their cellphone and unlocked it. 

Clint stared at the background screen, and slowly began to grin. “Really, One Piece,” Clint asked. 

Jan gasped and snatched their phone away. “I like the idea of friendship, okay,” Jan cried, waving their arms in the air furiously. “Besides, I’m on episode 350, so don’t ruin anything for me!” 

And now Clint knew that the djinn could see into the future. Great. 

“Sure,” Clint said as he snatched the phone back. He did a quick type, shot himself a text, and handed back the phone. Jan looked excited. “Thanks Clint, this is gonna be great,” the djinn said happily. “I just know it.” 

Abruptly, a text sounded, and their face fell. They groaned. “Goddamn it mom! I gotta run Clint, mom is having another possession fit. See you!” 

With that, Jan the fiery whirlwind was gone. Clint stood on the sidewalk for a minute, before turning his feet back towards home, his talk with Jan sitting inside his mind. 

He still thought about it when he brushed his teeth, and he thought about it when SHIELD called him on an emergency op with a handler Clint had never met and had no idea where she came from but actually liked, and he thought about it when he signed the paperwork to take him out of the general pool. 

I dislike you , Clint texted Jan, who sent him back a string of cry-laughing emojis. Clint snorted as he shoved his phone back in his pocket. 

“Who are you texting,” Natasha asked, making Clint jump a little. 

“Oh, hey Nat,” Clint said instead, ignoring her question completely. Natasha watched him carefully. Clint said, “Beautiful day for a pack of donuts, right?” 

Of course, Coulson wasn’t in his office when Clint stopped by, so Clint used the vents to drop into Coulson’s office and leave the package of donuts before going with Natasha to the gym. 

There were more ops, and more dinner, and more invitations for Coulson to hang out with him that Coulson turned down every time, and more missed opportunities for Clint to at the very least come clean so that Coulson could shoot him down and put Clint out of his misery. 

Sometimes, though, Clint thought he saw Coulson hesitate right before saying no, or watching him intently for absolutely no reason. Sometimes, Clint wanted to address it, to push Coulson on the look, but Coulson always backed away. 

Unfortunately, Clint kept looking for Phil in Coulson, and seeing him occasionally. The way he quirked slightly in the corners of his eyes when he was amused but couldn't or wouldn’t show it. The way Coulson devoured the packaged donuts like they were a life line. The way Coulson would talk when getting excited and nerdy about something during the dog days of ops and it was just the three of them, showing that Coulson was slowly relaxing. 

No, Clint found himself holding out for a miracle. 

Jan, of course, complained about it more than once. “Dude, you gotta get yourself together, pinning tastes disgusting,” Jan said with a dramatic eye roll as they sat on Clint’s new sofa and watched Clint’s new TV. 

Clint glared. “I’m working on it, okay? Just… watch the show!” 

After the episode, Jan elbowed him gently. “Hey, I’m sorry about the pinning jab,” Jan said quietly. “It was out of line, and I do enjoy hanging out with you.” 

Clint smiled at Jan. “I know,” he told the djinn, who had gone back to small and lithe again. “Thanks for coming over and helping me forget for a while.” 

Eventually, Jan dragged out metallic nail polish and dropped the bottle in Clint’s hands. They shoved their feet in his lap and wiggled their toes. “Come on, get to it,” the djinn demanded. Clint sighed, but obeyed. “Call it payment for the bad meal.” 

They both laughed. Clint’s phone rang. 

Clint swore, while Jan furiously waved their foot in the air, trying to get the polish dry before they slipped their feet into shoes again. 

“Barton,” Clint barked. 

Coulson’s cool voice said, “Oh, am I interrupting?” 

Clint felt his irritation flow away. “Yes, but also no,” Clint said, grabbing Jan’s ankle and dabbing more polish. 

“Oh, I can call back,” Coulson said hesitantly, sounding so much like Phil it made Clint’s heart squeeze. 

“Hey Phil,” Clint said instead. “What’s wrong with an A-frame bed?” 

Automatically, Coulson said, “No base to keep the A-frame together, and those posts are typically large enough to hold a child but not a fully grown man who thinks he’s a child. Why?” 

Clint grinned, despite the pang in his chest. He rubbed it absently. “Oh, no reason,” Clint said. “Why were you calling?” 

Thoroughly derailed, Coulson took a minute to get back on track. “There is something I wish to discuss with you, at work, if you’re available tomorrow.” 

Clint frowned. “Tomorrow what time?” 

“Nine a.m.?” 

“Sure. I’ll be there.” 

Coulson thanked him, and hung up. 

“Oh, no ops,” Jan asked, and Clint sighed. “Not that you should know anything about any of that, but no, no ops,” Clint told them. 

“Oh, good,” Jan said. “Because I have to say, tomorrow is going to be fantastic!” 

Clint looked up at Jan, who just smiled mysteriously and wiggled their toes in Clint’s gasp. 

As Jan was leaving, Jan pointed to his chest and said, “You got a little something there on your shirt.” Clint glanced down and swore at the polish. When he looked up, a note hung in the air. 

“I left you a present on your bed. Use it tonight,” Clint read aloud. He smacked himself in the face but curiosity was always going to kill Clint, so he closed the door, locked it tight, not that he thought it would help him if Jan came back as Jan could prove they could teleport, but it was a nice thought. 

Clint ambled into his bedroom and spotted the change immediately. 

Jan thought they were funny, but that was a whole outfit for tomorrow that wasn’t anything like Clint would normally wear, a long vibrator, lube, and a butt plug. 

Jan was an asshole. Clint texted them so. 

Clint stared at it, before giving in. He took the lube and vibrator into the shower to help him prep and scrub with soap down, then crawled onto his bed with the lights off. He picked up the vibrator and tested it, having never used one of this kind before. He snapped a condom over it, since it came packageless, even though he doubted Jan would give him something dirty. 

Clint took it through its paces once more, before triple checking his hole. He slathered the vibrator with more lube, and slowly inserted it, feeling the burn, then stretch. He groaned, his eyes fluttering shut. Once it was in, Clint clicked the power button, and felt nearly nothing. He clicked it until the vibrations made him clench down on it, which in turn made his back bow. Then he turned it up, one last notch. 

The pleasure was intense. Clint braced his feet against the bed and spread his knees, ignoring how his cock slapped against his stomach and left a trail of precum over it. 

Clint’s mind brought up that damnable recliner. If Clint concentrated hard enough, he could almost imagine him in it, dripping lube onto the seat while Phil ran his hands down Clint’s body. 

His imagination ran wild. Phil’s mouth sucking the tip of his cock while one hand wrapped around Clint’s and reangled the vibrator so that it hit him in the sweet spot. Clint could hear himself begging for Phil as pleasure clawed through his gut. When he was close, he turned the vibrations up a notch, shoved it home, and stroked his dick. 

The orgasm that washed over him was intense, stealing Clint’s breath and fuzzing out his brain. His body bucked with oversensitivity as Clint dragged the vibrator out in a hurry and dropped it onto the bed next to him, where it continued to buzz. 

Clint started to feel guilty. He knew Phil. He knew Coulson. He was talking with him tomorrow. He knew that, and he’d gone right to Phil for masturbation material again. 

Clint groaned and covered his face with an arm, still heaving for breath. Finally, he grabbed the toy and shut it off. It took him a long time to fall asleep.

Chapter Text

Before Clint went into work, he dithered about the plug, even as he sat on it with his morning coffee. In the end, he cleaned up, cleaned out, lubed, and shoved it in slowly. He went to work, just like that, on a Saturday, grateful there would be fewer people around. 

Coulson was in his office when Clint knocked. Coulson looked up and smiled. “Ah, Barton, come in and have a seat,” Coulson said, gesturing to the chair across from him, but Clint was arrested by the sight of the recliner in the corner of the room. 

“Is this a work or social call,” Clint asked from the doorway as he looked at Coulson. Coulson blinked. “Oh, personal. I have some questions to ask you, if you don’t mind,” Coulson said. 

Clint nodded. He walked in, shut the door, then crossed over to the recliner that had made its way into Coulson’s office. He recognized that recliner immediately. It was like a stab in the heart to see it. 

After Clint wiggled around to get more comfortable and regretting every movement, he looked up at Coulson, who was watching him surreptitiously. The tips of his ears were pink, but that was the only indication of Coulson’s thoughts, other than, “Well, I guess I can give up my seat today.” 

Clint straightened and ignored the way the plug sent a spark up his spine. “I can move,” Clint offered, but Coulson shook his head. “No, one of us may as well be comfortable,” Coulson said, amusement in his voice. 

That didn’t bode well for Clint, so he put up the footrest and crossed his legs. “Okay,” Clint said, lacing his fingers and laying them over his stomach. “Lay it on me.” 

Coulson seemed to need a moment, mind obviously somewhere else before he shook it slightly and sighed. “Well, this is awkward. I wanted to discuss your position on Strike Team Delta.” 

Clint sat up straight again, alarmed. “Am I being kicked off,” Clint demanded, and Coulson held up his hands, like he was soothing a wild animal. 

“No, nothing of the sort,” Coulson said hastily. Coulson’s eyes flickered over Clint, a quick little thing that made something in him perk up and take notice. “Ah, it has to do with my disappearance, really.” 

Coulson looked embarrassed, and so much like Phil it hurt. Absently, Clint rubbed his sternum with a fist. “See, I was gone for a long time, and there are protocols that have changed, and, well, I suppose that’s not what matters. Fury gave me your dossier, and I wanted to go over some… comments in it with you.” 

Oh, that didn’t sound good. But then again, Coulson had said he wasn’t being kicked off the team… 

“I’m not apologizing for the Haldel incident, the second Bahrain incident, nor the Keliks incidents,” Clint said flatly. Coulson had the good graces to not laugh, though it looked like he was trying not to, by the way he smiled. 

“I just have to know one thing about the second Bahrain incident, as you so well put it,” Coulson said as he leaned forward, and again, Clint saw Phil, but instead of hurting, something in his brain lit up with pleasure. “Did you really threaten to shoot Senior Agent Allens with a harpoon gun if he didn’t listen to you?” 

Clint snorted. “We were about to be minced meat, and the asshole wanted us to stick with his plan, which was for us to go straight into the enemy and take out as many as we could while one person tried to stealth the rest of the mission. It was an awful plan, and suicide. I was out of bullets, out of arrows, and out of fucks. The best idea was to withdraw, replan if that was what he wanted to do, and attack a different day. Did the intel get away? Of course, but we weren’t dead!” 

Clint waved his hands wildly in the air. “Who in the fuck thinks that’s a good idea anyways?” 

Coulson propped his chin on one hand, looking amused and fascinated. “Allens retired after that,” Coulson pointed out. 

Clint dropped his hands. “Yeah, I ran through three handlers quick, and Fury noticed my very detailed notes on how absolutely awful they were at being handlers, and decided to put me through the paces of everyone here. I nearly got Hill fired, and I did apologize to her for that. A lot. Still am.” 

Clint grimaced. Coulson asked, “Wait, she didn’t tell me this. What did you do?” 

Clint grinned. “I brought the Black Widow right into HQ and sat her down in Hill’s office with none the wiser while Hill and Fury were discussing suspending her as a handler. Which, by the way, would have been a shame.” 

“How did that nearly get Hill fired,” Coulson prodded, and Clint shrugged. “Something something, she and Hill worked out a contract for amnesty under mine, and then Natasha’s very first task she went sort of rogue, and Hill had to ask Fury to reconsider terminating Natasha. It was a big risk, but it paid off for Hill in terms of a favor from Fury himself.” 

Coulson laughed. 

It’s not Phil. It’s not Phil. It’s not Phil.

Clint grinned back. Coulson went over a handful more items in Clint’s file that he wanted clarification on, and Clint spotted him writing things on sticky notes that covered up remarks in the files he’d picked. 

Coulson eventually shut the file and set it aside. It reminded Clint, he had a present for Coulson. 

Clint extracted the squashed pack of donuts from his pocket and tossed them. They landed on Coulson’s desk neatly. Coulson picked up the package and turned it over slowly in his hands, eyes not really seeing it. Clint left one foot outstretched while he hooked the other over the arm, a testament to his flexibility. 

“Do you ever have a dream so intense that you think you’ve actually lived it,” Coulson asked suddenly. 

Clint felt his heart stutter to a halt, then start to pound. “Sometimes,” Clint said, watching Coulson like a hawk. “Why, got any you have in mind?” 

Coulson tapped one end of the package against his desk as he eyed the recliner. “I had one so intense that I had to convince Fury to pull that chair out of storage and let me put it in this office, but it still doesn’t feel right.” 

Clint’s heart was in his throat now, choking him. “It doesn’t really fit the decor here,” Clint said casually. 

Coulson nodded slowly. 

“You should try it in a few different spots,” Clint tried. 

Coulson looked slightly frustrated. “I have toured so many apartments, looking for just the right shade of whitish blue, and not finding it, that it’s starting to make me think I’m crazy.” 

Oh fuck, Coulson had a dream of the recliner in his livingroom. 

Coulson was looking at him now, eyes focused on Clint. Clint realized how he must look, and flushed. He quickly straightened out his legs and sunk into the chair, ignoring his low-burning arousal. 

“So, about that dream,” Clint croaked, and Coulson nodded slowly, eyes never leaving Clint’s. “You look very comfortable in that chair,” Coulson said calmly. “Do you-” But Coulson stopped there, head tilted to the side, looking like he was thinking. 

Clint said bluntly, “This chair would be awesome for sex, you know.” 

Coulson’s mouth quirked in the corner, and it was like all the guards came down, and Phil was there, laughing at him silently again. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Phil said, chuckling. The package of donuts hit the desk faster. Phil was thinking about it. Phil’s eyes dropped to the donuts, and his face became shuttered again. 

Coulson cleared his throat and set the package of donuts on the edge of his desk. “So, in one of my dreams, I was given a package of donuts like this, when I got sick. They were my favorites, you know, before I vanished for almost two years.” 

Clint bet. A thought occurred to him. “Hey, what was your date of disappearance,” Clint asked. 

Coulson raised a brow. “May 15th, why?” 

Clint thought back to everything Phil had told him, did some math, and realized that the first time he’d accidentally called Phil out of the chair would have been the day after his ‘year’ of sleep, if Clint was about right. Clint snorted in amusement. 

“Okay, what’s so funny,” Coulson asked, sounding interested. 

“Oh, just… a year of sleep,” Clint said out loud, waving his hand in the air. 

Coulson was around the desk faster than Clint thought possible. 

Clint found himself looking up at Coulson, who was clutching the donut package tight enough in one fist to crush the contents, knuckles while. “Did you look up my debrief,” Coulson asked in a completely calm tone, belying the fury of his fist. 

Clint shrank back in the chair. “No, I didn’t even know you were back-” 

“Back,” Coulson asked, and just like that, the package of donuts slipped from Coulson’s grasp and dropped onto the foot of the chair. He was also white as a sheet, and Clint had the footrest down and grabbing Coulson by the elbow and pushed him into the chair when Coulson swayed. 

“Back,” Coulson repeated slowly, eyes bleak. “I was here. In New York.” Coulsons, no, Phil’s eyes focused on Clint’s face where he crouched in front of him, hands rubbing soothing circles on the back of Phil’s hands. 

“With you,” Phil breathed. 

“With me,” Clint confirmed. 

“I remember-” Phil’s eyes grew hot. “You kissed me.” Clint nodded, throat dry and heart pounding. “You kissed me, and I kissed you back,” Phil said in wonder. 

Abruptly, Phil hung his head. “And here I was, freaking out that my really vivid dream was latching onto some guy I was supposed to get ready to hunt down and I was thinking I might have been falling in love with, and you turned out to be real, and I could still remember-” 

Clint surged up and grabbed Phil’s face with both hands and kissed him, cutting off the words. Under his mouth, Phil’s lips went slack while his body stiffened in shock, then Phil was dragging Clint against him, onto his lap. Clint felt his knees squish against the armrests, but it didn’t deter him from trying to get as close to Phil as he could. He dropped his hands, running them over, then under Phil’s suit jacket, touching everything he could. 

Phil’s lips moved against his, and then he bit on Clint’s lower lip and sucked. Clint pulled away with a gasp, fighting every instinct in him that demanded he get both of them naked, now. For one thing, Saturday though it may have been, there were people walking past outside Phil’s door, which was unlocked, and they could come in at any moment. 

“Fuck, Phil,” Clint whimpered as Phil’s mouth latched onto the side of his neck and sucked. Clint’s hips thrust. 

A knock shattered the moment, and Clint barely scrambled off Phil’s lap in time to cross the room and block the door from opening. He had his foot braced against the door, and when he looked at Phil, he was suddenly very glad he’d stopped the door. 

Phil looked like he’d been debauched. Clint wasn’t sure when his hands had tugged the tie loose or unbuttoned his jacket, but Clint felt a surge of possessiveness and pride over that look. Combined with the kiss-swollen lips and the flushed, panting look? Yeah, no way was Clint letting anyone walk in on that. 

The door rattled, someone cursed, and Clint called out, “In a meeting. Come back later!” 

Phil snorted softly. 

From the other side, someone said, “Yes Sir!” 

Phil rubbed his face with his hands. “I had a meeting scheduled today,” Phil told him morosely. 

“Had, being the operative word there,” Clint said happily. “You know what I think? I think that recliner would look good back in my living room, and we should reenact that time I came in through the window dripping lube, but this time with two people instead of one.” 

Phil flushed and turned dark eyes on Clint. “Okay,” Phil said with far more calmness than Clint felt. Phil stood, crossed to the phone, and dialed someone. A few rings, then, “I need you to come to my office and deliver my chair somewhere,” Phil said to the phone. “No, don’t worry about the rest of my things, I just want the armchair today. Thank you.” 

Phil tossed down the receiver. When Phil turned to look at Clint, Clint saw a shadow of a promise in those eyes. “I think you should go home, let the nice movers into your apartment, and get the chair situated while I finish my morning meetings.” 

Clint bit his lower lip, drawing Phil’s eyes to it. “Or, right here, in your office,” Clint suggested, and a muscle twitched in Phil’s face. “I don’t have the stuff for it, and that is such a bad idea,” Phil said, looking at Clint like he would love to. 

Clint shifted, felt the plug move, and said, “Well, you should know, I am,” Clint told him. “Prepped, ready to go.” Clint grinned winningly, and Phil hissed. “Get out of my office, Barton, before I decide to see for myself,” Phil told him with narrowed eyes. 

Clint shrugged airily, despite feeling like his heart had jumped to his dick and was currently deciding it was the new best place for residence. “Your loss,” Clint said. “But I put in lube right before I came-” 

Phil gripped his desk tightly, as if the desk was the only thing preventing him from moving, when Clint bet he could leap over it if he really want to. “Get. Out,” Phil ordered. “I can’t cancel things if you’re going to be in here with me, draped over that chair-” 

Clint could see it now, and he grinned as he made a plan of his own. “Of course. See you at home, Phil,” Clint purred. “You do remember where it is, right?” 

Phil’s eyes lit up. “Of course, dear,” Phil said sardonically. “Like I could actually forget.” 

Clint snorted, but he watched as Phil put himself back together, sliding back into Calm, Cool Coulson one piece at a time. 

Clint watched morosely as the tie slid into place and the transformation was complete. A knock on the door alerted Clint more people were there, so Clint opened the door. Four men stood on the other side. “Sir, we’re here for the chair,” one of them said politely. 

Clint decided to supervise the recliner moving while Phil hurried to reschedule his appointments. When he got home, he had to move the couch back to the position it should have been so that the recliner could be set in the right spot. 

After they left, he shoved it closer to the wall. No sense in accidentally tipping over if they could avoid it, not with what Clint had planned. 

Clint raced to the bathroom and grabbed a towel. He threw it over the chair, remembering what a pain it was to clean the few times before Phil revealed himself out of the chair. He still had the cleaner, thank god, but Clint wanted prevention. 

Clint’s phone beeped with a text from Phil giving him an ETA. Just to be smart, Clint texted him with the address and a short note to not get lost. Then he texted Jan, because Jan should at least know Clint was absolutely going to get dicked. 

He twitched with excitement and nerves. Unfortunately, the longer Phil took to get there, the longer Clint had a chance to talk himself out of it. Maybe they should take it slow, since Phil thought it was all a dream, and there was no telling what Phil actually remembered. Sure, the attraction was still there, but was it remembered attraction? Or something else? 

“Hey, Clint, breathe,” came Phil’s voice, and a hand shoving between his shoulder blades and pushing him down, head between his knees. Clint gasped for breath. The warm hand on his back rubbed circles while Clint fought to climb out of the mild panic attack. 

When Clint straightened, Phil sat perched on the arm of the recliner, looking worried. “Sorry,” Clint rasped. 

Phil gave him a relieved smile and went to fetch a glass of water. He got the right cabinet on the first try. Phil filled it with tap and brought it back, crouching in front of Clint. 

“It’s okay,” Phil said quietly. 

Clint chuckled darkly as he took his drink of water. “I had a plan,” Clint complained. He felt unsexy and tired. 

Phil smiled at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “It’s okay, Clint,” Phil reiterated, this time shaking his knee a little to emphasize the point. “Things happen.”

Phil stood and eyed the chair and Clint critically. “Although, I must say, this is way better than any dream,” Phil told him. Clint had to set the glass down, he was laughing a little too hard. 

Phil reached down and grabbed Clint’s shoulder. “I suppose though, we should talk,” Phil said a little sadly. That cut off all laughter Clint felt. “Yeah,” Clint said, deflating. “Probably.” 

Clint glanced up to see Phil looking down at him contemplatively. “How would you feel about kissing,” Phil asked as he took the cup back to the kitchen. He unslung the suit jacket and put it over one of the stools Clint had needed to replace with Phil’s disappearance. 

“Down for it,” Clint said immediately as his body steadied. He watched Phil like a hawk as Phil rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. “I uh, kept some regular clothes for you,” Clint said after a moment. “They’re in the usual spot.” 

Phil beamed. “You know me so well,” Phil said. He grabbed his suit jacket and vanished into the bedroom. Clint stared at the ceiling, wondering how pathetic he seemed that he’d gone out and bought stuff for Phil after he’d vanished. 

Phil emerged from the bedroom, frowning. “Clint, didn’t you have a bed frame,” Phil asked absently as he tugged the shirt on into place. 

Clint grit his teeth. “Everything you purchased vanished with you,” Clint said finally. 

Phil glanced at the couch. “Ah. That explains a lot. I thought you just hated the decor.” 

Clint smiled thinly. “Guess telling you to forget this place meant you were just erased. Reverse erased. What ever.” 

Phil snorted. “I have access to my bank account,” Phil called. “Come on, I’ll order take out. How does Indian sound to you?” 

Clint grinned. “Sounds great,” he called back. 

First, he needed to remove something. It had been too long since he’d wore a buttplug for any real length of time, and it was something he’d have to work up to in the future. Maybe. 

Phil ordered from the Indian place a few blocks away. They sat at the rickety table to eat and connect until the very early morning. Clint got to sweep Phil off his feet kind of like a Disney princess and take him to bed. 

Chapter Text

Jan, Clint decided sleepily as he buried his face in Phil’s chest, had horrible timing. Clint’s phone was ringing still, and Clint had to reach across Phil to grope for it. Phil muttered something under his breath when Clint leaned extra hard on Phil’s stomach on accident, but Clint had the phone, finally. 

“What,” Clint asked when he answered. 

Jan asked nervously, “How was the sex?” 

Clint cracked an eye to stare at Phil’s face. Phil was awake and watching him sleepily. “It didn’t happen,” Clint said shortly. 

Jan gave a high-pitched giggle. 

Clint frowned. “Jan, are you in trouble,” Clint asked. 

“What? Me? Oh no. Uh… Trish uhm.” 

Oh god, Trish.

“Trish is not allowed to come within fifty miles of my boyfriend,” Clint said flatly, despite the fact that he and Phil still needed to talk. He risked a glance at Phil, who was starting to look curious, but shot him a quick smile. Clint settled better on Phil’s body. 

“Oh uh, so, funny thing,” Jan said, and it sounded like the phone was being wrenched away from them, and a new voice came over the phone. “Hi, is this Clint,” came a new voice brightly. Clint sat up, fast, whole body on red-alert. 

“Hi,” Clint said slowly. “Yes. That’s me. Clint.” 

Trish gave a trilling laugh that grated on Clint’s strung-out nerves. “Oh good. Say, Jan told me all about your guy, and I was hoping to talk to him. I have something important to tell him. It’s magic. You know, that stuff.” 

Clint groaned. “I hate magic,” Clint said aloud before he could think better of it. 

Trish laughed again. “And yet you’re friends with a djinn,” retorted Trish. “Oh boy. That’s gotta be awkward as hell for you, whatever your given concept of hell is.” 

Clint wasn’t debating theology today. No. Just no. 

“Trish,” Clint said cautiously, and Trish gasped. “Oh, we’re really close to you right now. Come on, open up so we can be polite and come through the front door instead of just appearing in your living room.” 

Clint slumped. “I thought you had to be invited inside,” Clint groused as he crawled out of bed and scrounged for a t-shirt. He mouthed ‘guests’ at Phil, who looked resigned but nodded. “Hang on,” he told her as a thought occurred to him. 

Clint pressed the microphone to his chest, unsure if the djinni outside his apartment could actually hear everything anyways and steeled himself for this next bit. “Phil,” Clint said steadily, looking Phil in the eyes. Phil paused, half out of bed, to look up. 

“Phil listen. You’re going to want to shoot these people, but they’re… Well Jan is okay. I’m not so sure about Trish, since we’re getting them dumped on us. But uh, don’t… try to shoot Trish. Please. I don’t want them to trash the apartment, or vanish you or something worse.” 

Phil looked understandably worried. “What-” 

Clint grimaced as Trish’s voice said, “Yeah yeah. Open the door, love birds. We’re trying to be polite here.” 

Clint hung up the phone and trudged to the door. When he swung it open, Jan had to be the nervous looking one, and Trish was the far too tall female shape currently ducking through the door and pushing past him, long red hair swaying. Clint had to dodge boobs. 

Jan smiled at Clint nervously. “Sorry, Trish wouldn’t take no as an answer,” Jan told Clint under their breath. Clint risked a look at Phil. 

Phil stood frozen in the doorway, staring at Trish. Clint watched Agent Coulson take over, and give Trish a bland smile. “I do believe I know you. You must be Trish,” Phil asked in a mild tone. 

Trish glanced around the apartment before turning to Phil. They put their hands on their hips and cocked them. “I am,” Trish acknowledged. “I’m not staying, don’t worry, but I’ve been told I have bad manners by my cousin here.” They shot a look at Jan, who looked terrified. “And I feel like I should tell you something to help make it up to you.” 

The smile on their face did not make Clint any less nervous. Trish sashayed up to Phil, who stood his ground. The smile on Trish’s face made Clint mentally catalog all of his weapon spots. Trish bent close, and murmured something in Phil’s ear, too low for Clint to hear. 

Phil muttered something back, and Trish gave a low, deep chuckle as they straightened. “Oh no, honey, that’s up for you to decide,” they said as they turned around and walked back to Jan. “Anyways, we must hang out, have dinner some time. Preferably not too far in the future, you two are delicious!” 

With that, Trish put their hand on Jan’s shoulders, making the shorter djinn squeak, and they vanished. No puff of air, no smoke, just nothing. 

Clint slowly locked the door, waiting for Phil to say something. When he turned back around, Phil was glaring at the recliner. “Uh, Phil,” Clint asked. Phil held up a finger, asking for silence. Clint’s mouth snapped shut. 

Phil blew out a breath. “Clint,” Phil asked, without looking at him, which was starting to worry Clint. “Is sex still on the table for today?” 

Clint blinked. “It can be, why,” Clint asked. Phil dropped his hand and stared at the recliner, still sporting its towel. “What about bare, or should I hunt for a condom in your dresser?” 

Clint made a face. “I don’t think I have condoms, but I’m clean, and that sounds like a very pointed question and I’m guessing it has something to do with magic.” 

Phil made a face. “Magic,” Phil replied morosely. Then he grinned. “I guess fantasies really can become reality,” Phil said mischievously, making Clint laugh.  

“I will be right back with the lube. Strip naked,” Phil ordered, and charged off. 

Clint shivered at the tone. He wondered at the change of pace, but he was down for whatever the hell this was. Clint stripped naked, dropping his clothes in a pile. Phil emerged from the bedroom. Phil whipped the towel off the chair as he passed it and dropped the lube in its place. 

Clint found himself backing up as Phil’s eyes focused on him. He felt the cold door, then Phil’s hands pressing on his hips. They kissed, messy and desperately. Clint grabbed Phil’s shoulders, and Phil’s hands trailed up his sides slowly, making him arch. 

“Fuck Phil,” Clint groaned as Phil’s thumbs found his nipples and pressed firmly, then backed off to rub. Phil’s mouth moved down his body. Clint whimpered at the loss of heat until Phil sucked one nipple into his mouth and bit gently, rolling the nub of flesh between his teeth. Clint closed his eyes and let his head bang back against the door. He bit his lower lip savagely when Phil moved to the other one, feeling a whimper catch in his throat. 

Phil seemed to take that as encouragement, dropping lower until he was kissing the underside of Clint’s cock. Clint’s hips jerked at the sensation. He opened his eyes and looked down. 

Phil looked very happy to be there, tongue sliding out and licking the head. Clint reached out blindly and grabbed the doorknob with one hand while the other clutched at empty air. The hand found its way onto Phil’s head where Clint had to focus on not gripping. 

Phil sucked the head of Clint’s dick into his mouth, making Clint shout. Phil bobbed up and down a few times before standing and pulling Clint away from the door. 

Clint found himself manhandled onto the recliner, kneeling on the soft cushion. He clutched the back, spreading his legs as much as the arms would allow, while pressing his cheek against the fabric. 

Phil’s hands helped arrange Clint how he wanted before trailing up his back and raking nails lightly on his way back down. Clint arched at feeling. He felt Phil move against him, his arm brushing Clint’s thighs as a hand groped for the lube. 

Clint reached down and snatched it, shoving it between his legs for Phil to grab. He felt the lube tug out of his fingers and went back to bracing. The click of the cap sounded loudly in his ears, before the bottle was placed against his calf. 

“Cold,” Phil warned, tracing fingers down the cleft of Clint’s ass. Blunt fingers stoked over his hole, making him clench with anticipation. When a finger pushed in, Clint’s whole focus narrowed down to it. 

Every stroke of one, then two fingers seemed to light his body on fire. 

“Breathe Clint,” murmured Phil in his ear. Clint gasped at the reminder. 

“Think you’re ready?” 

“Why, going to take me against the door,” Clint asked as Phil managed a third finger. 

“Oh no, I have other plans,” came the chuckled response. 

Clint found himself man-handled until he was kneeling on the damn armchair. 

“Brace yourself against the wall,” Phil instructed. 

Clint did so, his nipples rubbing deliciously against the fabric. “This is going to be really awkward here. Sure we can’t take this to the bed,” Clint asked, wiggling his ass enticingly when he thought Phil was taking too long. 

“I have every faith that you’ll be fine,” Phil said with a chuckle. 

Clint felt more cold, then warm. 

As Phil pressed in, he seemed to go on forever. Then finally, finally he was in. 

Phil set a brutal pace right out the gate, every thrust seemingly built for Clint’s destruction. Clint dug fingers against the wall, reveling in the pricks of pain that just seemed to enhance the molten pleasure lancing through his body. 

“Fuck, Phil,” Clint whimpered as he felt Phil’s hands tighten around his hips. He arched his back, wanting more. 

Like he could read minds, Phil hunched over him and wrapped a hand around his cock. He held it loosely in his slick hand, just enough to give Clint some much needed friction. Phil’s name became a prayer with every thrust.

Fire, too hot to be just an orgasm with a faint taste of copper, exploded and tore through him, taking him right over the edge. He barely registered Phil grunting behind him, but he couldn’t miss when Phil leaned against him so heavily that Clint found himself in his own wet spot. 

“What the hell, thought you were trying to shove me into the recliner,” Clint mumbled when he could think again. He shifted, hooking an arm around Phil’s shoulders and maneuvered him into his lap as he sat in the chair, ignoring the squish of wet and his sweat-soaked skin. 

“Cleaning this is going to be a bitch,” Clint groaned. 

“We can get rid of it,” Phil muttered against his collar bone. 

“Nah, I’m kind of attached to it,” Clint huffed out. 

Phil straddled his lap, facing him. He bent over Clint, touching forehead to forehead, locking eyes. 

Clint felt inexplicably nervous over the tension Phil was creating. 

“I’ve been attached to this couch so much that our levels of attachment really can’t compare,” Phil told him, face completely straight. “In fact you could say that no matter how far I’ll push you into it, I’ll always have been in it deeper.” 

Clint stared at Phil stupidly, his brain grinding to a halt. All he could think about was Phil being birthed from under the seat cushion of the recliner. Or would it be be from under the couch? He didn’t know, but what ever it was, it was a horrible thought. 

Phil laughed aloud, the grin splitting his face the most beautiful Clint had ever seen. 

After Phil had practically smothered him with kisses, Clint asked, “So, what’s with the recliner? You seemed pretty intent on lighting it on fire with your eyes. You don’t have laser eyes, do you? Is that something I should worry about? You giving me sex eyes so much I burst into literal flames?” 

Phil waved his hands in exasperation. “Apparently, temporarily turning someone into a genie can make them more inclined to genie ways, and being trapped in a genie form is… basically, to completely break what they put on me, we needed to procreate in whatever my vessel was. It layers the humanity back on better.” 

Clint let the information filter through his brain. “So you’re saying you could have actually become a genie, entirely by accident,” Clint asked slowly. 

Phil made a face as he climbed off Clint. “There were a lot of details smashed into that moment, but yes. I believe that’s what they meant.” 

Clint groaned as he heaved himself out of the recliner. He paused as something Phil said hit him. “Wait, you said that you needed to procreate in-” 

“Trish informed me that you under me with me inside would suffice,” Phil told him as he headed for Clint’s shower like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Despite the fact that his ass was starting to dry and itch, the sight warmed Clint’s heart. He happily followed Phil into the bathroom to stand and talk. 

Phil was in the shower, completely unmoving. 

Alarmed, Clint asked, “Phil? What’s wrong?” 

Phil shivered and turned haunted eyes to Clint. “The paperwork is going to be horrible.” 

Clint blinked, then laughed so hard he had to hold onto the vanity for support.