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The media frenzy is getting extreme. Reporters wait for Tony everywhere – outside his limo, his office, his home. Tony waves and smiles and cracks the requisite jokes. He's handling the strain well, but Phil can see where the cracks are showing. Pepper can, too.
Phil knows it's important for Tony to look good right now, so he arranges for a series of photographs to be taken with the staff. He debates whether or not to include Clint, but decides, in the end, to risk it. Clint's been better lately. Not well behaved, per se, but less prone to angry outbursts. Bruce has been talking to him.
Everything goes well until the last five minutes, when Tony winks at the photographers, swats Clint on the ass, and then saunters out of the lobby. It's a demonstrative, clearly-for-the-cameras move, but Clint doesn't know that. Phil curses inventively in his head, both at Tony and at himself, because he should have thought to warn Clint about how Tony gets when reporters are watching. It's like he regresses three years, to the time before Afghanistan, and Phil hates it.
He didn't think to say anything, though, and now Clint is about two seconds from losing it. His stance hasn't changed – he's still standing with his feet apart, hands clasped behind his back – but his body is shaking with barely contained rage.
Tony's not out of the building yet and the cameras are still rolling, so Phil steps to Clint's side and lays a hand on the small of his back. It's technically against regulations, but it's better than Clint shouting obscenities at his owner.
Clint stills at his touch. His knuckles are white with strain, but he doesn't move until the reporters have left. When they're gone, he drops his head and exhales, a drawn out sound that vents like an angry hiss.
Phil mentally sighs. “Well done, everyone,” he says out loud. “Both Mr. Stark and I appreciate your assistance today.”
There's a murmur of Yes, sir's from the staff before they disperse. Phil glances at Clint. “Barton, with me.”
Clint splutters. “What?”
Phil ignores him and starts walking in the direction of the training room. Clint follows. “You can't punish me,” he protests. “I didn't do anything!”
Phil doesn't bother looking back. When they arrive at the training room, Phil closes the door behind them. “Take off your shirt, please.”
Clint glares. Phil meets his eyes and waits. He's not actually planning to punish Clint, but if Clint keeps this up, he's going to have to. Thankfully, Clint backs down. He breaks Phil's gaze and wrestles his shirt up over his head. It's an expensive silk blend that costs more than Clint is technically worth, but Clint drops it to the floor. Phil decides to ignore that for now. Clint's done what he asked.
“On the table, please,” Phil says, keeping his voice mild. “Lie on your chest.”
Clint shoots him a look, more confused than angry now, but obeys. The massage table is tucked into the corner of the room, nestled next to the window. It's a peaceful spot that leaves enough space for Phil to manoeuvre without getting in the way of the rest of the room.
Phil dips his hands into the heated oil, kept warm on a side burner next to a selection of scents, and gives Clint a moment to get comfortable. “I'm not saying that you did anything wrong,” Phil tells him finally, placing his hands on Clint's shoulders. The muscles are as tight as he expected, and he digs his thumbs into Clint's upper spine. “In fact, I'm quite pleased that you behaved as well as you did during the photographs. You held yourself back when you quite obviously wanted to speak your mind. That's good.”
Clint gets even tighter for a moment, still unused to accepting praise. Phil gives him a minute, kneading his back with practised ease. He'd been surprised when Pepper had asked if he wanted masseur training, but he's been thankful for the skill countless times.
“There was a moment, though,” Phil goes on, still working Clint's trapezius, “when you came dangerously close to insulting your owner. Fatally insulting him, perhaps. I don't need to remind you of the punishments Tony would face if your insubordination occurred in public. I know you don't particularly like Tony Stark, and I can admit that he takes some getting used to, but you must recognize how your situation would change if he were to be accused of impropriety.”
Clint snorts. He's face down on the massage table, but the derision comes through loud and clear. “Like anyone would care what I think,” he says. “I'm a slave. I'm a nothing.”
“I would argue that you are a cherished possession,” Phil corrects, moving to Clint's lower back, “but that's not the issue here. Tony has enemies. As the CEO of Stark Industries, he has always been powerful, but now with the Iron Man armour he has become a force in his own right. He is difficult to kill, but easy to slander. A public display of weakness would serve their purpose just as well.”
Clint turns his head to meet Phil's eyes. “Whose purpose?”
“If we knew that, they wouldn't be a problem,” Phil answers. He kneads at the tension held in Clint's spine. “I'm not saying you have to organize a parade in Tony's favour, that's mine and Pepper's job, but you do have to show up and smile. You're a member of his household.”
“I don't understand why I am, though,” Clint protests. His tone is forceful, but his muscles are loose. He's probably more honestly confused than angry. “I'm an ex-carnie pleasure slave with a criminal record. Stark won't let me use my bow and he doesn't want to fuck me. What the hell is the point of my purchase? Why did he buy me?”
“Tony has his reasons,” Phil tells him, carefully not thinking of the months he and Pepper had believed Tony dead, the horrors he had endured during his capture. “If he chooses to tell you about them, that's his business. Let me just say that Tony knows where you would have ended up had he not purchased you, and he decided to spare you that. You might be grateful.”
“I am grateful,” Clint says, so quietly Phil could pretend he doesn't hear. “I hate that most of all.”
Phil doesn't say anything. He reapplies oil to his hands and sets about working the tension from Clint's spine. His breaks through the surface knots and finds the deeper ones hidden beneath the whipcord muscle. Phil's sweating by the time he's done. His thumbs are sore. He's had to perch at an awkward angle a couple of times and his leg, the old injury, is aching.
It's worth it to see Clint loose and relaxed in a way he doesn't often get to witness, not without a beating being involved. Phil steps back to wash his hands. He can't quite help the lingering gaze he gives Clint's oil-warmed skin.
Clint's always been beautiful, rough and singular, continually surprising and often times funny. Phil knows that he likes him, probably more than is proper, but he isn't going to cross that line between admiring and wanting, not even inside his own head. Clint's not his. He doesn't get to have this.
It's still an impressive sight.
“If you're bored,” Phil goes on, drying his hands on a soft towel, “I could help you find something to do. Perhaps a show. Would you enjoy that? You could arrange a demonstration of your skills for Tony, Pepper, and the rest of the household.”
“Could I use my bow?” Clint asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“No,” Phil tells him, tapping Clint's back when he huffs, “but you could do acrobatics and gymnastics, and I could look into constructing a small trapeze, if you like. It would be something, at any rate. It might even keep you out of trouble.”
Clint snorts, and Phil laughs. He takes a heated towel from the rack and drapes it over Clint's back.
“Rest,” he tells him. “I'll send Janet to get you up in ten minutes and then you can get dressed. Oh, and Clint,” he adds, touching his shoulder one last time. “You did well today. I'm proud of you.”
Phil can see Clint struggle with that, but he doesn't say anything. Phil smiles.
*
It takes three days for Clint to decide that he's bored enough to take Phil up on his offer and another week to put together a rough routine. Clint spends hours in the gym brushing up on his gymnastic skills, more to give himself something to do, he tells Phil when asked, then because he's worried about what Tony will think.
Phil hums in answer but doesn't say anything. He also doesn't stay to watch. Seeing Clint arch his spine and leap through the air is doing dangerous things to his self-control.
He makes sure Clint has everything he requires for the big night and then goes to find somewhere else he needs to be. It's not hard to find a Buyers' Market that he absolutely must attend the same night as the show. Phil doesn't think he's fooling anyone. Tony gives him a list of skill sets and a blank cheque, though, same as always.
Clint looks hurt when Phil mentions that he's not going to make it, but he covers it up with a quick smile. Phil doesn't let himself wonder. It's better this way.
The auction goes well. Phil returns with several new scientists, including a pair named FitzSimmons, who, despite finishing each others' sentences, are not actually twins. There's also a computer expert named Skye who had been a freewoman until she got herself in trouble with the law. She's young and angry enough to spit bullets when Phil meets her, and reminds him of Clint.
Phil escorts Tony's new acquisitions to the Tower and introduces them to Janet, who will oversee their initial training. Phil will be meeting with them personally over the next few days to get a better understanding of their current needs and how they'll fit into the eclectic mix that is Stark Tower.
He runs into Steve as he's leaving. “Clint did wonderfully,” Steve tells him, before Phil can ask. “Tony loved it. He said for you to meet him in the penthouse when you're ready.”
“Thank you, Steve,” Phil says.
Steve smiles, bright and happy, and walks away. Phil watches him go. It's still hard to believe that Steve is the same man Phil bought on Tony's behalf seven years ago. He was so scrawny then, a stiff breeze could have blown him over. It's amazing what real food and proper medical care can do.
Phil shakes his head and takes the elevator to the penthouse. He can hear Tony's voice the moment the car arrives.
“I'm thinking something small, personal invitations only. I mean twenty to thirty people, Pepper, not two hundred, don't give me that look. I talked to Clint and he said he's fine with it. Hey, Coulson! How was Jersey?”
“Jersey is Jersey,” Phil replies, with a glance at Pepper to see her smile. “What are you planning now, Stark?”
Tony waves a hand. “Nothing much, just a repeat of Clint's performance last night. Something small, with the money going to charity.”
Phil frowns. “Is that a good idea? Clint's still settling in.”
Tony shrugs, apparently unconcerned, but Phil knows him better than that. Tony cares for his people, all of them. “Clint said he's fine with it. He was amazing last night. Your boy did good, Coulson.”
“He's hardly my boy,” Phil tells him dryly. “It's a smart idea, though. The papers will love it.”
“That's what I thought,” Pepper says apologetically. “I know he's still new here, but you've done a wonderful job with him, Phil.”
Phil knows he's good, but he thinks it's more than that. Clint is like Steve – he just needed someone who cared. The difficulty is getting him to believe that the care is real.
“I'll talk to him,” Phil says. “Make sure he didn't just say yes because it was Tony who asked.”
Tony snorts. “Yeah, because Clint's so keen to please.”
“He still thinks you're going to send him back,” Phil tells him. “He's learning that it's not true, but it hasn't sunk in yet. I'll talk to him.”
“You do that,” Tony tells him, “and then when he says yes, tell him Pep's arranged a press conference tomorrow. Nothing fancy,” he assures Phil, “just on the steps of the Tower. It'll take five minutes, tops.”
*
Clint says yes, even though he won't meet Phil's eyes when he does. Phil still thinks it's too early for something as public as a charity show, even if it is for only twenty people, but they really could use the press right now. He'll look over Tony's guest list and make sure no one is coming who's going to cause a scene.
The press conference is small, on the steps of the Tower as promised. Tony stands in front of a group of reporters with Phil, Pepper, and Clint at his side. Happy has arranged security, and the guards stand in a semi-circle around the stairs. Tony announces the charity show, naming the benefactors and their work. Clint is twitchy, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but Tony promised five minutes and Phil intends to hold him to that. They have sixty seconds left.
Suddenly, Clint stills. Phil's long-retired instincts kick into overdrive, but before he can reach for his gun, Clint moves. He leaps forward and tackles Tony, pushing him down the steps just as a shot ricochets off the concrete, scant inches from Tony's head.
Reporters scream and Happy rushes forward. Phil has his gun out and is training it up, his subconscious identifying the trajectory of the bullet and plotting it back to its source. He can't see anything, but that doesn't mean much. Stark Tower is surrounded by skyscrapers, and the sun is glinting off the windows, obscuring Phil's sight.
Clint doesn't seem to have the same problem, though. He rolls off Tony's back and lunges for a security guard. The man moves into a defensive stance, but Clint hooks a leg around his knee, jerking him off balance, and goes for his gun.
Phil watches, stunned. He knows he should move, should bring his own weapon to bear on Clint, but he can't. Clint is... Clint. He's not a threat.
He's the only one who thinks that, though, because every other security guard is turning to focus on Clint. Clint ignores them, snatching the gun from the guard's holster and thumbing the safety off. He plants one foot on the stairs and spins. For a moment, it looks as if he's going to aim at Tony, still lying shocked on the ground, but then he lifts the muzzle of the weapon and sights at something Phil can't see.
Clint lets off a single shot. There's a scream, and then a man is falling from the balcony of a skyscraper, a sniper rifle in his hand.
Phil doesn't watch him hit the pavement. He's focused on Clint, who's thumbed on the safety of the gun and thrown it to the ground. He turns again, going down to his knees, already lifting his hands to put them behind his head. By the time the nearest security guard has gathered enough breath to shout “Get down on the ground!” Clint's already there, falling forward to land on his stomach, keeping his hands laced behind his head.
Phil swallows. He sees Pepper run over to Tony and make sure he's alright. He watches reporters lunge for cameras and cell phones, talking over one another and trying to be the first to call in the scene. He hears sirens in the distance and wonders who thought to call the police.
But mostly, he stares at Clint, lying on his stomach, keeping still as the security guards surround him. He remembers the snake-quick way Clint had moved, the sharp application of force.
Phil's pants feel tight. His dick is hard. Harder than it's been in years.
He closes his mouth and takes a deep breath, thumbing on the safety of his gun. He lowers it to his side and walks over to where Happy is scowling. Two guards shuffle Tony inside and two go to check on the sniper who, at some point in the past few minutes, has hit the ground with meaty splat.
The rest stay with Clint, who manages to look around without moving his head. “Uh, sir, can I get up now?”
Phil takes another deep breath. “No,” he says, and walks over to put a hand on Clint's shoulder. He glares at the security guards, but doesn't tell anyone to lower their gun. He knows how this looks, knows the laws Clint has broken.
He also knows Clint has just saved Tony's life.
“No, you can't,” Phil tells him, and Clint stills.
They wait like that for the police to arrive.