Based upon a gifset by Uuuhshiny and a request by Kingarthurscat

Phil's day had already gone from bad to worse, but now it was heading into terrible, horrible, no good territory. First, Johnson had been late with his 4729-c forms AGAIN which meant that Phil was behind his self-imposed deadline to file the Angola mission into COMPLETE status. He'd wanted that done before his meeting with R & D about a better arm guard for Clint, out of sight, out of mind, but a 24-hour stomach bug kept the other agent throwing up all night long rather than writing short paragraphs with one long sentence to describe what happened. The man had dragged himself into Phil's office and narrowly avoided getting sick right on the desk, so Phil really couldn't yell at him.

Then the tech guys, all eager to show off their latest ideas, waved a fire suppressant arrow at him (a new polymer that reacts with oxygen and carbon dioxide to create a super efficient foam retardant) and the damn thing went off right there in the lab. Only Phil's natural reticence to trust demonstrations saved him from a thorough dosing; he'd stepped behind a clear blast screen just moments before. He never did get to see the new designs for Clint's uniform because he had to rush now to his meeting with Fury about his team's next assignment. He had just enough time to grab a cup of coffee from the cart outside HQ's doors despite the usual line of customers for Dave's amazing blends.

By the time he got to order, the Royal Kona blend was sold out and he had to settle for a Columbian dark roast; as he reached for his cup, a taxi slammed into the back of another one, sending a wave of muddy water from the large pothole that the city about supposedly fixed three times already. Stepping to the right, he judged the trajectory of the spray and emerged unscathed, shielding his drink with his hand. Dave and the people in line behind him weren't so lucky; whole pots of delicious black nectar were contaminated and had to be thrown out. It was enough to make Phil tear up at the loss, if he had time to worry about things like that.

Fury was in rare form when Phil squeaked in with only 42 seconds to go; Hill eyed him then settled her envious gaze on the paper cup that was wafting steam into the room. From the stack of files in front of her, she'd been sitting in that seat for far too long this morning. Right to the point, Fury dropped a hell of an assignment in Phil's lap, one that he knew would stretch his team's resources to the limit. He argued against it, flat out warned them the whole thing was a bad idea, then wrangled additional help in the form of Stilwell and Johnson, knowing full well that Johnson's illness would at least buy him a day or two more to prepare. The negotiations - that's exactly what this was, how little do you need to pull off a miracle and make sure no one gets killed - netted him a promise of time off for the team and the okay for Black Widow's first real mission without the WSC imposed leash.

His mind full of the details, all the myriad of things he needed to accomplish, he headed back to his office, balancing the mission files while sipping the delicious black nectar that kept him going in the face of utter bullshit like this. Turning the corner, he came to an abrupt halt. Leaning against the wall outside the cafeteria was one Clinton Francis Barton, marksman, asset, all around pain-in-the-fantastically-firm-ass. For a second, Phil forgot where he was going, what he had to do, and what his middle name was. Gone were the white dress shirts that were always wrinkled and usually stained by the end of the day with bow oil, sweat, mysterious black smudges, plus whatever the cafeteria had as the day's special, and the black dress pants that were frayed around the bottom of the leg because Clint didn't hem them. His way of fitting in, or at least showing he was trying, the shirts were always just a little too big, his ties, when he kept them on, were askew, knots pulled out of shape by those knobby agile fingers, and the pants never fit right.

But now? The t-shirt was old, washed so many times, soft and snug in all the right places that made Phil's libido peg to ten in seconds. Worn and dirty, probably from working on that piece of shit motorcycle Clint was salvaging or oiling up his bow (and, wow, who knew Phil had an eleven setting on his lust meter?), the shirt may or may not have been white or grey at one point, but now it looked comfortable as hell and Phil wanted to run his fingers over the contours of those abs, maybe brush his cheek along the cozy cotton that had to smell like Clint. And the jeans. Damn, those faded folds that ran out from the crotch, drawing everyone's attention right to the bulge highlighted there, spinning out fantasies about zippers that easily slid down. Legs clad in dark denim, thigh muscles visible, and the curve of his ass cupped by the material.

Then he turned and saw Phil; he hooked a thumb in one pocket, verboten cigarette dangling between his fingers, rested his other palm on a thigh, putting a foot on the wall behind him and smiled. One of those smiles, the 'I can see right into you and know just how much you want to throw me over your desk and fuck me until I beg for more' smiles that made Phil's brain scramble and leave his dick in charge. Blue-grey eyes sweep over him from head to toe, and Phil shifted the manila folder down to hide his erection. The coffee cup slipped and three drops splashed out onto his tie, leaving dark spots amid the blue stripes.

"Hey, Coulson. Need some help there?" Clint pushed off the wall and came over to him.

"Interesting outfit." Thank God his voice was steady and in control because the images spinning in his brain were anything but. "A change for you?"

"Yeah. I'm leaving the fancy ass shirts to you," Clint grinned. "You care?"

"As long as your clothing is practical and fits the guidelines, you can wear what you want. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot to do. Briefing at 4 p.m. in the conference room. Tell Natasha, please."

He walked away at his normal brisk pace, turning the corner and making his office in record time because his scowling face steered everyone else away. Shutting the door behind him, he rested against it, dropping his head back and closing his eyes for the allowed ten seconds of fantasy time. Setting down the file and cup on his desk, he pulled his backup tie out of his desk drawer and carefully removed the soiled one, pre-treating the spots with his Tide pen.

Clint Barton was fast on his way to becoming a distraction. But he did have a knack for making horrible, terrible, no good, bad days much better.