This is a very belated birthday ficlet for bliss116, based on this adorable picture of
Phil Clark geeking out at a Captain America exhibit, and the idea that Clint would get dragged to the Smithsonian over and over again, whining all the way.
It turned out slightly more smutty than I had envisaged. Happy birthday!
“I can’t believe you dragged me here again,” Clint says. Okay, no, he doesn’t say it. He whines. He’s a grown man and he’s whining like a four-year-old, and he would almost be ashamed of himself, but this is the third time they’ve come here. While it’s nice to watch Phil ecstatically geeking out over each little gadget or reel of film in the Smithsonian’s Captain America exhibit, there are things he’d rather be doing.
“You said we could do what I wanted today,” Phil says, taking hold of his elbow and steering him over to the next display case with an unyielding hand.
“That was when I thought you wanted to fuck me in the hot tub,” Clint says mournfully, and then remembers that this is a family exhibit and he should probably watch his mouth around the impressionable kids. “Gimme a break, Phil. I work with the guy. You know how creeped out he’d be if he knew I was doing this? He’d be really creeped out. You’re making me creep out Captain America, that’s unpatriotic.”
“We won’t be here long. Just a couple of hours.”
“A couple of hours?” Clint groans.
“You should try actually looking at the important pieces of history all around you,” Phil says calmly, “otherwise you’re not going to enjoy yourself.”
It’s only because Clint knows Phil far, far too well that he just barely catches the hint of sadism in that apparently innocent sentence. Phil is enjoying himself, and not just the exhibit. He’s enjoying watching Clint squirm. Clint stifles a snort as he realises he’s being messed with. Phil is an asshole. No, seriously, an asshole, because they only get to see each other about one weekend a month these days, and Phil is using that precious time to torture him.
Well. If that’s how it’s going to be.
“These maps and shit are making me want to shoot myself,” he says, keeping his voice sullen. “Let’s go look at the damn costumes again. If I ever want to know how many HYDRA bases Steve blew up in 1945 I’ll just ask him.”
Phil rolls his eyes as though he’s the one making the concession, and makes his way into the main room, where the replicas of the Howling Commandos’ outfits are on display. He leads them right up to the display and begins spouting facts about each one, because he has the whole damn thing memorised by now.
Clint doesn’t even pretend to listen to. Instead he wraps his arms around Phil from behind, puts his mouth up to Phil’s ear and murmurs, “You think I’d look good in that?”
Barely perceptibly, Phil stiffens.
“Cap’s uniform,” Clint clarifies. “Maybe the pants would be a bit long. We could roll them up, though. What do you think?”
There’s a hint of caution in Phil’s voice as he says, “I think it’s not going to be an issue, because you’re not going to wear it.”
“Do you think the Howling Commandos went commando?” Clint asks. “Shame that suit’s just a replica. Otherwise maybe Captain America’s dick would have touched that cloth right there.”
Phil sighs. “Whatever you think you’re doing, Clint—”
“When I wear it for you, there’ll be nothing between me and the uniform.”
“You could wear Bucky’s stuff. Hey, don’t blush, Phil. I bet you dressed up as him all the time when you were a kid. Nothing to be ashamed of. You didn’t do anything you should be ashamed of while you were dressed as Bucky, did you? You didn’t imagine you were Bucky, and think about Steve…”
“Let’s move on,” Phil says, in a slightly strangled voice. He tries to pull free, but Clint catches his hand, lacing their fingers together so he can’t break away.
“But I like this part,” Clint says. He pulls Phil closer to him so he can speak directly into his ear again, soft but audible over the hubbub around them. “I like looking at those costumes. It helps me imagine them. Think about it, Phil. Steve and Bucky, back in the woods during the war. Imagine them sneaking away from the campfire, unbuckling those belts, all those layers, until they get down to the skin…”
Phil seems to have lost the ability to speak. Clint silently congratulates himself.
“Bet you they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. They can’t now, they’re at it like rabbits the whole damn time. I hear them through the wall.” Which is utterly untrue, because the tower has enough soundproofing that Cap and Barnes could let off a bomb in their room with nobody the wiser, but Clint’s never been above bullshitting for effect. “Steve makes this gorgeous little panting noise before he comes, you know, after he’s finally fucked Barnes hard enough to shut him up. Because believe me, that guy is loud. There’s begging. I always thought Steve would be the one on the bottom, but no, he gives it to him good.” He slides his hand down, slipping it under Phil’s jacket, hooking just one finger into the waistband of his pants. “We could wear those costumes. I promise, sir, I’d fuck you so hard you couldn’t even scream.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Phil says in a desperate undertone.
“Hey, you wanna do it here? We could sneak in tonight. Drug the guards, take out the alarms, and then take all those costumes off of the dummies, make a pile and fuck on top of them, with giant posters of Cap looking down on us, and his equipment all around us. You wanna, sir? I’d do that. I’d do it for you. I’d put on Cap’s suit and fuck you until you came all over the Howling Commandos’ uniforms.”
“Clint,” Phil says, “we’re leaving. Move.”
This time he’s using his Agent Coulson voice, the voice that Clint is hardwired to obey. Clint can’t even say how much he loves that voice.
When they get outside into the sunshine Clint can see the remains of the slight flush on the back of Phil’s neck. Phil turns to raise a sardonic eyebrow at him, and Clint gives a shameless grin in return.
“I suppose you know I’ll never be able to go to that exhibit again,” Phil says. He looks exasperated, amused, fond, and a lot like he wants to eat Clint up with a spoon.
“Really?” Clint says. “What a damn shame. Guess we’ll just have to go back to the hotel room instead. Maybe try out that hot tub.”
Phil sighs. “You win,” he says. “We’ll waste our afternoon stuck in the hotel room having sex. I hope you’re happy.”
“Yep,” Clint says cheerfully, and tucks Phil’s arm into his own to lead him back in the direction of their hotel. Really, he reflects, it’s a win for both of them.