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"I can." He knows that he can. He'll do whatever he needs to do. But: "It won't be easy, and it won't be pretty. It'll be a step back for me. But I also know I can't act out too much. Won't look good, given the circumstances." Not that it looked good when he first started out, but many years on he should know better. Being more or less cleared of having something magic tampering with his head can easily be walked back.

"They are gonna wanna be more independent. It's a SHIELD project overall, but half the team aren't affiliated but through circumstance. Fury's burned a lot of goodwill after Stark's hacking. They trust you behind the wheel, or at least, given your near death experience helped glue some of the more disparate pieces back together, you're definitely an ally. Banner's the oddball, but it seems like he and Stark get on like scientifically-inclined peas in a pod, and he shouldn't have any objections to you. Group's gonna need more wiggle room than your average strike team."

And no average handler is going to be able to keep them right on the edge of the line. Phil rubs his hand over his face. He really is the best option to handle the Avengers but if he can't be in the field then he's not much good as a handler. Handlers went into the field.

"It's not definitive," he says with a heavy breath. "Daily physical therapy should help but the doctors are blunt with their warnings. And I'd rather tell you myself than you hear it from the SHIELD rumor mill."

Which even with the organization in disarray was still going strong. Somehow. He knew it was only a matter of time before people speculated if he wasn't really dead after all.

"And you know I don't want to be relegated to a desk."

Clint rubs his hands together, glancing away in thought. Phil's still got a road to physical recovery. And might never be one hundred percent again. Even still, he's managing himself pretty well. There's every possibility that this is just worst case scenario being speculated on.

But. Also every possibility that this really needs to be prepared for.

He looks back. "What would you do otherwise? I mean, if you're not cleared for the field and you don't want to be stuck at a desk. What are your options from there?"

"I have no idea," Phil admits which is a hard thing because he's always had a plan before. He's very good at improvising plans in the field too. For himself the plan has always been to be a field agent and most likely die in the line of duty.

Coming close to that makes it very clear that he should have thought of something sooner.

"Stark offered me a job before everything went to hell. I could take that." He's not sure the offer is still there. "I might kill him though which defeats the purpose of working for him."

"Fashion designer. Go into menswear. Be an agent for a supermodel or something, handle all the calls and plan all the outfits and outings, make sure all the venues follow protocols." It's a joke, yeah. But fuck if he can't see Phil being really good at something like that. Being a handler but in a way that doesn't involve running across rooftops being shot at.

"Maybe go into training? Not for the physical shit, but training baby agents in all the other ins and outs. Or if you'd think about leaving SHIELD entirely, you'd just have to consider what you love doing and go from there."

"Well... I love doing you," he says in an attempt to lighten the mood a little bit.

Training is not a bad idea though. Phil's refined many agents put under his care, including taking some of the rougher edges off Clint and Natasha. They hoped he could take the rough edges off the Avengers.

"But don't you dare start paying me. You have more class than that."

"Oh, if you think I'm too classy to pay for sex, you don't know who you're talking to." See, that feels more normal. The cheeky jokes. That's fine. They're fine-ish. They're going to be fine. They still haven't kissed, and Clint hasn't done any touching, but at least this feels better. "We'll need to figure out some reasonable rates for you. Get you working in a dungeon in the dominatrix business. How do you feel about other people wanting daddy to spank them for being naughty?" He says it with such a suggestive lilt, trying not to break at the very idea. It's a close thing.

Phil almost puts his head in his hands. His fingers twitch for a second before he schools his features into something calm and almost bored.

"I don't believe most sex clubs in New York could afford me." The only person who gets to experience any of Phil's talents is Clint and he's going to keep it that way until Clint says otherwise.

"My services don't come cheap. You had to buy me two packets of donuts before I went out with you."

"We'll have to have a jetsetting lifestyle and find a place with clubs that can afford you. Monaco, Rome, Abu Dhabi. The ritziest and most exclusive clubs. And then I'll take a cut and ply you with more donuts for dates." Not that he needs plying! "I might even go the extra mile and throw in a pizza now and then."

"Oh pizza, aren't you Mr. Romance." Phil nudges him in the ankle. "Go figure out what we're ordering for dinner."

Clint knows where the take out menus are in the kitchen. Phil figures he's staying long enough for dinner since he hasn't gone running for the hills with everything Phil's added to his list of worries.

If Clint does decide to leave before then Phil's at least getting a kiss on the way out.

"Well now I'm in the mood for pizza, so I guess I'm just gonna be the embodiment of romance just for you."

They can weather this. Nothing has fundamentally changed about them together. If they can crack wise and exist together and have pizza. It isn't like they aren't over the moon for each other. Clint gets that he might be a little more distant, but...obviously it's not the biggest deal. What with everything on their plates right now.

As long as the distance doesn't last forever. Phil expects that much like when they were first learning to trust each other it'll be small steps back to normal. Even if Phil's aching just to leap back to that warm, safe place they were in before it all went to hell.

"You do know how to make a man feel special." Phil leans back further in the couch until something pulls wrong, then he has to shift with a grimace of pain trying to re settle himself. He really can't wait for the day everything stops hurting.

He catches that look with a frown. "You okay?" Which, stupid question, sure, but. "Do you need to take something? Or, you need to take more of something?"

"After dinner." Phil doesn't like how foggy the painkillers make him. He doesn't like being unable to react as fast as he wants. He does not mention he might be more willing to be vulnerable if Clint stayed with him longer.

He is not guilting his boyfriend into spending time with him.

"I don't want to pass out on the couch waiting for it."

"Are they that strong, or is your tolerance shit?" Or both. "You really should take what's recommended. Making yourself be in pain isn't--jesus," he breathes, "I fucking sound like you now. Okay. Shutting my trap, cuz next time I'm beat to hell, I'm gonna still be my usual terror."

Phil listens to Clint lecture him with a pleasant little smile. It is amusing to hear almost the exact same words he's said over and over every time Clint gets injured.

"I take them when they're necessary," he says calmly. "Most of the time I'm fine. I sometimes sit wrong or pull something and it hurts for awhile until it doesn't. And I do take them before bed."

He also locks his bedroom door when he does because Phil is just as paranoid as the agents he handles.

"Ffffffffine. God, it's like looking in a mirror, except you're not in traction right now. I'll order the damn pizza." Grumble grumble. Is this usually how Phil feels?? Damn, he's an asshole. One who isn't going to change his ways about pushing the limits of what's medically recommended, which only makes him more of an asshole.

He knows what the best place around is (by 'best' we mean 'Phil's favorite' because a fight about The Best Pizza In New York City is a fight that will lead to riots in the streets) and exactly what to get, because he's thoughtful and remembers things. Or he tries to. Really hard. Given that this feels like the first relationship that's really, really mattered. A lasting one, anyway. That could go places. Or comfortably stay the same for the rest of eternity.

It's comfy. God, he wants that comfy back.

Phil refrains from pointing out that Clint could have seen him in traction if he had come to Medical. He's better at behaving himself when he's in medical and he doesn't have options open to him. At home, he can choose not to have meds and his bed is infinitely more comfortable.

Just listening to Clint moving around in his space is relaxing. He got him back. He's safe and whole. Himself. That's how Phil likes him best. Clint as Clint. Well, no, he likes Clint best as his.

He could take painkillers and pass out with Clint around.

"Okay, all ordered, got some time, I'll clean up a little? Make your bed, fluff some pillows, fix a leaky faucet, anything?" He does a mock bow. "I'm at your disposal for the time being."

"I hope none of my faucets are leaking. But go ahead. You know I trust you here." Phil waves a hand at Clint with a fond smile. He's welcome in Phil's space and there's nothing he feels the need to hide. "Do whatever."

He picks up his tablet to answer a few emails and send out a few orders, coordinating. Still listening to Clint moving around, just enjoying Clint in the same space as him.

Until the doorbell rings signaling dinner is here. Phil grunts as he slowly gets up from the couch to get the door.

The problem comes from the fact that Phil makes enough to have a decent place and is clean and organized enough even when injured that there frankly is not a whole lot to really actually do. This will not deter Clint, however. The coffee's taken care of, donuts stashed away, bed made (with wistful memories of spending fun nights and cozy mornings in it), and he's just generally wiping down the kitchen when the pizza arrives.

He's never this industrious at his own place.

"I got it," he calls, but Phil's already getting up, and there's a little bit of alarm at that. "I got it, I got it, you don't have to-"

"My legs aren't injured," Phil reminds him. He's a little slow to get up but he can get up and can help a little bit. "I'll pay the man, you carry the pizza."

He opens the door and pays the delivery man. He lets Clint take the pizza and bring it to the kitchen. He likes to pay because Phil's a very generous tipper.

"I also need to move after sitting for so long," he says after he closes the door. "Muscles get stiff."

"Right." Doesn't keep the frown off his face. "I know how that gets after injuries. It's just...weird to see you so hurt. I wish I'd been there."

There are a lot of things he wishes. And they won't get him anywhere.

"Do you need to take a walk around after? Around the block or...is that a little much?" He straightens up and rubs his neck. "I'm hovering, right? Yeah, I'm hovering. Sorry."

Technically, Clint was there. Just not himself.

"Do you want to see it?" Phil asks, tilting his head to the side. "Would it make things easier for you?"

It's an odd offer to make while standing around in his kitchen but it seems like Clint really doesn't know how to take Phil being the injured party this time around. It's been awhile since he's been the one seriously injured.

"And I might do some physical therapy stretches before bed. We'll see how I feel." He's not going to complain about Clint hovering. It's better than the distance between them before.

"Do I--what? No. I mean, eventually, I'll see it, but you don't have to just...show me deliberately just to show off."

He's pretty sure it would only make him feel guilty. Pretty sure he's going to see just how close his boyfriend was to dying in an unpleasant manner and possibly just leave without saying anything, so. Better to not risk it.

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