A/N: Thanks to dysprositos for beta brilliance (again). I recently got a Tumblr account (Westgateoh) and all the fandom folk I keep finding over there keep posting mouth-watering pictures of Jeremy Renner. This is the result.


Phil stopped his coffee cup halfway to his mouth and froze. He swallowed thickly and asked, "Are you wearing my shirt?" as Clint stumbled blearily from the hallway to the kitchen and headed straight for the coffee maker.

"Yeah, I hope it's okay," Clint mumbled as he groped for a mug in the cupboard and poured himself a cup of coffee.

Phil couldn't stop staring. "And my boxers? Are you wearing my Captain America boxers?" he asked, and he wondered if his voice sounded as weird to Clint as it did to him.

Clint turned around and a tiny smirk played across his face. "I guess? My clothes were pretty trashed after last night and I didn't know I was gonna stay over, so…" he gestured to his outfit. He was wearing one of Phil's white button-down dress shirts, unbuttoned, and Phil's blue Captain America boxers that had the red and white shield on the rear. His hair was mussed from sleep and the stubble from not shaving for a few days – he'd just gotten back from an op – was thicker than he usually allowed it to get.

Phil was having trouble putting a coherent thought together.

Clint chuckled into his coffee cup. "You okay there, Phil?"

Phil wanted to glare at him, wanted to say something clever in retort, but all he could do was stand up and set his coffee cup down hard on the wooden kitchen table and step close to Clint, running his hands through his tousled hair.

"You're a little distracting like this. I have a lot of work to do today, you know," he said with a small grin, and Clint leaned forward and met his lips with his own and they lost themselves in each other.

"You're not allowed to do that if you stay over more often. I'll lose my job for being late all the time," Phil said an hour later as they lay sated in his bed. Phil was leaning back against the headboard and Clint was sprawled out next to him with his head on Phil's chest, drawing lazy circles on Phil's hip with his fingertip.

"'If,' huh?" Clint murmured. "Gonna have to work on that."

Phil grinned and ran his hand through Clint's hair before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, successfully dislodging Clint from his comfortable position. "I have to go to work."

He stood in the shower with a stupid smile stuck on his face.

He and Clint had been casually dating without really confronting anything about what it was they were doing for a couple of months or so now. A casual, 'you wanna go grab dinner?' one night had turned into dinner four nights in one week, and not at the mess hall of SHIELD, either. They'd kept going out together whenever they could, and just the other night had declared 'the search for the perfect _,' a thing they wanted to do together.

So far they'd found the perfect burger, the perfect lasagna, and the perfect steak. They were hoping to move onto some more exotic things soon, and more often than not Clint had ended up crashing at Phil's apartment after dinner. They slept together, had outstanding sex, and never talked about what they were doing, and that was okay with Phil. He had no idea what was going on, but he didn't want it to stop.

Now he stood in his shower trying to find a modicum of professionalism.

He managed, got dressed, and gathered his things for work. By the time he was ready to go, Clint had put on his clothes from the day before and slipped out with a kiss and a 'see you later.'

Phil managed professional for about two hours until he had to lead a briefing with Clint's current team. He was passing out presentation notes when Clint walked in. Suddenly, his hands stopped working.

Clint was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, and he had a black jacket that hung below his waist and a gorgeous green scarf wrapped around his neck. Phil wanted to rip the scarf off and kiss his neck, kiss him senseless, even, and for a moment that was all he could think about.

The folder ended up spilled across the floor.

Clint caught his eye and chuckled, and then bent over to help him pick up the papers strewn on the ground. "Careful, there, sir. Don't want you to lose something important for the meeting," he said, and his hand brushed Phil's as they tried to pick up the same paper.

Phil sat back on his heels and let Clint hand him the paper. He sighed. "You're doing this on purpose today, aren't you?" he mumbled, staring at the scarf again.

Clint caught his stare and crossed his arms, as if sizing Phil up. "Well," he drawled, "I wasn't." His eyes had a gleam and he shrugged. "Natasha asked me to go to lunch with her right after this and told me to dress halfway decent. Maybe I'm more than halfway decent, though. Maybe I should tone it down a little."

Phil stood and shook his head and said, "You're not even close to halfway decent in my head right now. Thanks a lot." He took a deep breath, forced himself to list out all the forms for requisitions in alphabetical order for a moment, and made his way back to the front of the room as Clint settled into his chair. He could do this.

He did do it, though he had to stop for water once after Clint leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head with his lips quirked and a challenge in his eyes. Clint slipped out of the room quickly after the meeting ended, Phil went back to his office, told his secretary not to let anything bother him for thirty minutes, locked his door, and then leaned his head on his desk, closed his eyes, and unzipped his pants.

Ten minutes later he was washing up in his small bathroom, and then he fixed himself a cup of strong coffee and tackled the stack of forms sitting on the corner of his desk. When he finally finished, he headed to the gym for his afternoon workout. He tried to break his days at the office in half with the workout so that he didn't crash in the afternoon like he usually wanted to do.

He was on the treadmill and working on his fourth mile when Clint and Natasha walked in, clearly back from their lunch together and ready to work out. Clint was wearing a tight fitting maroon t-shirt-the thin silky kind that clung to his muscles-and tight black shorts that ended just above his knees, leaving nothing to the imagination. He had a blue towel around his neck and a water bottle in one hand. He stopped a few feet from Phil and took a long drink, tilting his head back.

Phil actually fell off his treadmill.

Natasha rushed over to him, but he at least managed to pick himself up off the floor before she got there, and he waved her off, pulling his headphones down around his neck. He reached up and pressed the button to stop the treadmill and ran his own towel over his face. He saw Clint put a fist to his mouth behind her and stifle a laugh. He gave him his best glare and resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at him.

He managed to finish his ten mile run without a glance at Clint and Natasha in the sparring ring, but he still had to take a very cold shower when he was done.

An hour later there was a knock on his office door.

"Come," he called, his head still down over the research article he was reading.

"Hey boss," Clint said, shutting the door behind him.

Phil looked up at him and then dramatically laid his head down on his desk. "God. Damn. It." he said slowly and deliberately. "You're going to kill me today, I swear," he added without looking up.

Clint couldn't stifle his laughter this time. "Damn, Phil. It's just a sweater," he said dropping onto the couch .

Phil looked up and frowned. "No, it's not just a sweater." He sighed dramatically and gestured to Clint. "It's a black sweater over a white dress shirt with the collar and cuffs exposed, and you wearing those black pants should be illegal. Fuck."

"I want to, but you said we couldn't do it here when we first started this thing," Clint said, his grin permeating his words.

"I'm starting to rethink my rule," Phil replied, leaning back in his desk chair and gazing hungrily at Clint.

"I'm starting to rethink my wardrobe," Clint said. "I had no idea you were this easy."

Phil gave him a mock glare and then sighed. "What do you need, Clint? I do still have a couple hours of work left to do and I think I've made it stupidly clear that you're distracting me today."

Clint nodded and smiled. "Okay, I was just wondering if you wanted to see if we could find the perfect Pad Thai tonight. Nat told me about a place. Said it was kind of fancy, though."

Phil rolled his eyes. Of course it was fancy. That would mean Clint dressed sharp and distracting again. But at least it would be after hours, when a distraction wouldn't be entirely unwelcome.

Phil suddenly wondered if he could get Clint back for the show he'd been putting on all day.

They agreed on a time, Phil agreed to pick Clint up, and they went their separate ways for the afternoon. Phil finished his work as quick as possible so that he could leave a little early.

He'd been eyeing a new suit for about a month but had convinced himself it wasn't really practical for work. It was a grey-blue Italian suit cut perfectly for him, and he bought a powder blue silk shirt to go with it. Today he didn't care about practicality.

He knocked on Clint's apartment door around seven. When Clint opened his door, Phil laughed as Clint stepped back, his jaw slack and his eyes wide. He recovered for a moment before he gave a low whistle. "Holy fuck, Phil. You –" he broke off and shook his head. "You look amazing," he said, his voice rough and full. He reached for Phil's arm to pull him inside, but Phil stepped back into the hallway with a gleam in his eye.

"Nope. You don't get to touch. Not until after dinner," he said, and he pushed his hands into his pockets like he was posing. He chuckled as Clint clearly ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth and then shrugged.

"Cruel," Clint said, "But I accept the challenge." He stepped into the hallway with Phil and locked his door.

Phil shuddered a little as Clint slipped his warm hand into Phil's as they headed down the steps to the lobby and out to Phil's car. He allowed the handholding, and he allowed Clint to run his calloused hand across Phil's thigh as he drove them to the restaurant, and both men turned some heads as they entered the building, Clint's own grey suit making his eyes sparkle like jewels.

They managed to eat dinner without groping each other under the table, but it was hard.

The next morning, they agreed that neither of them had any idea if the Thai food was the best they'd had. Or if it had even been any good at all.

They'd both been perfectly distracted.