Phil Coulson rarely went undercover anymore, not since he'd become the Avengers primary handler, mostly because he just didn't have the time. That was a shame because he was damn good at it, the perfect every man who blended in with the crowd. Mild mannered accountants were his specialty, as were funny, older men that appealed to those looking for a sugar daddy. When he said yes to this mission, Phil found himself in Monaco with a room overlooking the bluest sea, tickets for a lounge show later that night with shopping money and an unlimited food and bar account. Compared to some of the shit holes he'd been in, this was pure luxury.

The plan was easy – be an older, wealthy man and catch the eye of one Richard C. Bernson. At 23, Bernson had a daddy fetish a mile wide. His father was one of the founders of the eco movement of the 1980s and had virtually ignored his son, so Bernson spent his time searching for approval from older men, both in bed and out. As a mechanical genius, A.I.M. had taken his mental instability (courtesy of his mother's genetic history of schizophrenia) and convinced him to join them, where he'd risen in the ranks quickly. All Phil had to do was sit in the bar with an amazing view of the Mediterranean, drink the finest scotch, and enjoy the show. Oh, and be unavailable. Bernson only wanted someone who was already in a relationship.

By 7:30 p.m., there was a flurry of movement, shifting around tables and ordering drinks right before the set was to start. Bernson had yet to make an appearance, but Phil already knew the man ran late to everything, enjoying making other people wait. They'd met at the pool earlier, and just talking to him left a bad taste in Phil's mouth; pretending to be interested in someone else wasn't as simple now. Already, two women and one man had approached him where he sat at the bar, his grey flannel trousers neatly pressed, black tailored shirt tucked in with sleeves rolled up, and he'd gently turned each one down. Bernson might be quite handsome and charismatic, but he wasn't a certain sassy archer who had taken all the space in Phil's heart. So he sat, sipping his martini, when the music began, the lights dimmed and the singer came on stage.

"You'll never find, as long as you live
Someone who loves you tender like I do
You'll never find, no matter where you search
Someone who cares about you the way I do"

His head snapped around and the spotlight lit the singer; good God, but he was sexy as hell, silver suit slim and form-fitting, the one button highlighting the broad scope of his shoulders and his narrow waist. His dark shirt was open at the collar, a tantalizing glimpse of that dip in his collar bone and the long line of his neck. Dark hair was slicked back, wayfarer sunglasses covering those eyes that Phil loved. Yeah, he loved big band music and torch songs, part of his romance with the '40s. Steve always kidded Phil about it, but Steve was a kindred spirit. And here was Clint Barton singing like the best torch singer, his voice whiskey smooth, as slick as the ice in Phil's glass and perfectly pitched to throb with the instant arousal in Phil's cock. He held the microphone with one hand, wiggling his hips in time to the beat, moving his feet, unable to stay still. His fingers – those knobby, muscular, calloused fingers – held the mike stand like a lover, caressing the metal as he sang. The lyrics were a sexual lullaby that invited the audience to crawl into bed and get ready for the most incredible night, and Phil was drawn in just as much as everyone else in the room. Conversation died, women sighed and leaned forward, men's gazes centered on the stage, and Phil wanted. Just wanted. Because Clint turned those eyes to the bar and slipped the shades up on his head, looking right at Phil.

"Late in the midnight hour … you're gonna miss my lovin'," Clint sang. Phil couldn't tear his eyes away from Clint as he danced across the stage, crooning with that voice, as if there was no one but the two of them in the room. He stared, mesmerized as Clint started a second song. It wasn't like this was the first time they'd used the Evan Black cover; S.H.I.E.L.D. kept it active, even releasing small indie label records on occasion to keep up appearances. Hell, there was a website and a fan club complete with a fake president who posted pictures and other information. The P.R. department did a good job maintaining a twitter feed and a Facebook site for any number of undercover identities. When research dug up the fact that the mark was a big Evan Black fan, they had their entry, knowing Bernson couldn't resist stealing away Black's older lover/sponsor.

Nursing his martini, he sat back and enjoyed the set of songs, all picked by Clint to drive him crazy. From Sinatra's "Come Fly With Me" to Queen's "One Year of Love," Clint sang each as a love song to Phil. The words and the notes were caresses, and everyone in the room fell under the spell of his sensual tones. When Bernson came to stand next to Phil, he ignored the mark; it was easy enough to be caught up in the magic of the moment with their undercover roles meshing with real life. He did catch the smugness in Bernson's eyes as he watched the way Phil's possessive look followed Clint. When Phil's scotch was almost empty, Bernson made sure a fresh one was put in its place; the man was biding his time to make his move, believing the whole storyline.

Soon as Clint announced he was taking a break, the applause was overwhelming; he left the stage, a trail of women following. They crowded him, asking for autographs, a few passing over room keys, and Phil swore he saw a pair of red satin underwear disappear into Clint's pocket. One woman, dark black hair swirled up in a chignon, diamonds dropping from her ears, pressed up against Clint's side, her ample breasts – obviously not natural, far too perky for a woman her age – flattened along Clint's chest. She didn't give him much of a choice as she stretched up and planted a kiss on Clint's lips. Rubbing against him, she slid a hand into his jacket, palm sliding down the lines of his muscles, heading towards his crotch as she turned the kiss dirty, tongue fully involved.

Phil didn't have to pretend to see red; his vision fogged up, and the room tilted as he clenched his fists. He wanted to jump off the stool, stride over, and yank the woman away - show the whole room who Clint belonged to. His heart stuttered, and he forgot to breath. For a second he wondered if this was how Bruce felt just before he changed because Phil was perfectly capable of going ballistic on the bitch. He swore under his breath, drained almost half his glass, and 'noticed' Bernson for the first time with a brief glance.

Pushing her back, Clint set her away from him with an easy smile. Phil couldn't hear what he said, but she preened and copped a feel before she stepped back, avoiding Clint as he tried to capture her hand. Her laughter carried all the way to Phil as she leaned in and left a lipstick stain on Clint's cheek. Extricating himself, Clint picked up his drink and headed backstage, the women barred from entering. That was Phil's cue; the plan was for them to have an argument between sets, one that the security guard on the take would hear and report back to Bernson. The way Phil was feeling, fighting wasn't going to be that difficult. Draining his drink, the alcohol rushing to his head, he nodded to Bernson, and followed Clint's path, brushing past the gaggle of fans, bumping purposefully into the woman who'd kissed Clint. As he entered the tiny closet they called a dressing room, Clint looked up; there was just enough room for a table, a clothing rack, and a small loveseat, but it was private with a door. Shutting it behind him, he threw the deadbolt.

"Good show so far," Clint drawled; he'd shrugged out of his jacket and tugged his shirt out of his pants, getting ready to change for the next set. Phil assumed there were ears listening at the door. "What did you think?"

Normally, Phil would fall prey to the mischief in those blue-grey eyes, but the smudge of fire engine red lipstick on Clint's cheek overrode his brain's circuits. Fingers tangled in the tail of Clint's shirt, pulling him forward so Phil could back him up against the wall by the door.

"She seemed to like it." He smeared the red with his thumb and held it up for Clint to see.

"Oh, her. Sharp nails." Clint brushed it off. "Just a groupie."

Right then and there, Phil changed his strategy; the quick argument and back to drinking fell in favor of something more blatant. His hands settled on Clint's hips, finger tips digging in, and he stepped in, slotting their hips together. Clint's eyes widened when he felt how hard Phil already was.

"Did you enjoy it? That bitch's tongue down your throat?" Phil asked as he rubbed against Clint, staking his claim.

"What …" Clint didn't get to talk; Phil took his mouth in a demanding kiss, exerting his dominance by pinning Clint's body like a butterfly in a box, hips and hands and lips connected. He plundered, took what he wanted, wiping the woman's taste out of Clint's mouth and replacing it with his own. Grinding rough and fast, Phil notched their cocks together, felt Clint get hard and tension start to spiral in his body. His hand forced Clint's head up, baring his neck, and Phil sucked his way along the muscle, jerking the shirt aside to find the tender spot he knew turned Clint on, sinking his teeth in, just short of breaking the skin.

"Oh, ph … fuck." Clint moaned, barely keeping his wits enough to not blurt Phil's name. "Seriously, you don't get to be jealous, not after today."

"What?" That got Phil's attention; he lifted his head, and saw how dark Clint's eyes had gotten.

"I saw you at the pool with that man. Smiling at him, touching him, flirting with him." Clint bucked up with his hips, his hands circling Phil's biceps; he'd gotten the message and was playing the role of jealous boy toy.

"Perhaps I was." Phil stepped back. "Our arrangement stands. I have held up my end; I expect you to do the same. Knees." Clint didn't hesitate, dropping before him; Phil let his eyes drift closed as Clint freed him and took his cock all the way into his mouth. Bracing his arms on the wall, Phil rode out the waves of pleasure that rippled through him, joining Clint's rhythm by thrusting his hips in time. The only sounds were their aborted moans, the brush of fabric, and the hum deep in Clint's throat until Phil gasped and came in a fluid motion, biting his lip to keep the cries of pleasure inside.

"Stand up," Phil ordered when he could speak again, but he reached down and caught Clint under his arms to help him, pressing a filthy kiss onto his mouth, tongue slipping inside. He turned Clint around, wrapped an arm around his chest, and slid his fingers under the edge of the shirttail. "That was a good boy. You want your reward now?"

"Please," Clint groaned the word as Phil's fingers stroked his cock through his pants' fabric. "Please … sir."

Phil molded himself against Clint's back. "God, you're gorgeous and so damn sexy," he said. "And you belong to me."

"Yes, Daddy." Moaning, he dropped his head back onto Phil's shoulder as Phil unbuckled his pants and reached down to stroke the hot skin. "Feels so good."

"Only for me." He worked his hand up and down, spreading the precome for lubrication, twisting his wrist in the way he knew drove Clint crazy. Hips pressed back and Clint's arched with each of Phil's stokes, his body supported by the older man; Clint begged then, the words falling off of his lips in a steady flow as he neared the edge. Digging into his pocket with his other hand, Phil pulled out his handkerchief; as Clint tumbled into his orgasm, Phil caught all of the pearly liquid in the fabric, keeping their clothes … and the room … clean. "Mine," he declared as Clint was still gasping and shaking in his arms.

"I think that will get his interest, you kinky bastard. God, I love you," Clint whispered, head turned so his mouth was buried into the crook of Phil's neck. He kissed the tender skin and pulled away, getting himself back together, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it on a chair.

"I'll be waiting after the show." Phil leaned over and gave Clint a light kiss. "He turns my stomach," Phil whispered. Clint grinned in reply.

"Think about what I'm going to do to you later tonight to get you through," Clint quietly returned before he raised his voice. "I'll be ready."

When Phil walked back out into the bar, he knew there was no mistaking what he'd been doing. His shirt was unbuttoned one more, his hair askew, face still flushed and Bernson noticed every single detail, interest piqued. By the time Clint took the stage for the second set, Bernson had invited Phil to his table, introduced him to the two other men there – both on the S.H.I.E.L.D. most wanted list - and happily accepted the $7500 bottle of Macallan Fine & Rare Phil insisted on buying for Evan's biggest fan. Phil watched as the three slowly ingested the tracking isotope that would allow S.H.I.E.L.D. to follow them later tonight to their rendezvous. Then Clint started to sing, and Phil's attention was dragged back up to the stage. Damn him, he was getting even. He'd left off a jacket and switched into a purple silk shirt that slithered over his skin as he moved, sleeves rolled up and far too many buttons undone for Phil's peace of mind.

"Awww, go on and show 'em who you call "Daddy"
I guess they're just mad cause they wish they had it
Oh, my killer, my thriller, yeah, you're a classic
And you're all mine tonight."

The change in the lyrics didn't go unnoticed; leaving out the 'girl' made the song much more ambiguous. And Phil stopped himself from rolling his eyes at Clint who knew how he felt about this tune. Clint crooned it all the time to drive Phil crazy. There was no way to avoid the fact that watching Clint aroused him so he didn't bother to try; he shifted and stared hard when Clint bent and reached for a woman's hand down front, trailing his fingers over hers. "Let me show you a few things," Clint repeated, dropping out the rap verse to add another pass through the chorus. He finished with a flourish, spinning on his heel, and nodding to the crowd. The applause was loud; Clint basked in the accolades, loving it. Phil could easily imagine Clint as a real singer, an entertainer at heart. Of course, then they would never have met and Phil was selfish enough to be glad they ended up here.

"He's good, isn't he?" Bernson asked, smiling at him, a knowing look that flicked down to the evidence of Phil's reaction in his trousers and back up to Phil's face.

"He can sing, among other things." Phil chuckled, eyes locked on Clint's ass as he started the next song, an old Springsteen ballad about burning.

"Hey there baby, is your Daddy home? Did he go and leave you all alone? I got a bad desire. Oh, I'm on fire." Clint winked and smirked; the crowd went crazy for him.

"How long has it been?" Bernson asked; his body was close, the table small and crowded.

"Ten months." He sipped his drink. "He's a good boy. Most of the time." Bernson raised an eyebrow at that.

"Love his voice, his take on the songs," Bernson threw out. "I think I might be a little jealous of him … talent, looks … and great taste in men."

"True," Phil replied. "But there's something to be said for a man who appreciates the finer things. Evan never has developed a taste for Scotch." He topped off Bernson's glass, then the other two before he refilled his own.

"Well, there is that." The scientist saluted Phil before he drank more of the amber liquid, unaware he was signing his own incarceration papers as he did.

Phil spent the rest of Clint's set making small talk with two men who wanted to destroy the world. S.H.I.E.L.D. actually had training protocols to cover that situation; it was easy enough to talk about Evan Black's career or the best steak in London, all of which marked Phil even more than before as a wealthy man. As they chatted, Clint sang about regretting how young and dumb he'd been and then hit the Roy Orbison classic "Crying." He kicked up the pace with an older country song re released recently by Toby Keith telling the audience that he had it so come and get. He added in a unique cover of that old Rod Stewart song about being sexy with more come hither looks at Phil and finally, he started the last song.

"You can dance-every dance with the guy
Who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight.
You can smile every smile for the man
Who held your hand 'neath the pale moon light.

Phil had to laugh; there was no mistaking the smugness in the way Clint sang, every word directed at Phil. That damn smirk, the one where he barely lifted the corner of his mouth – Phil remembered exactly what that mouth had been doing earlier and how great it felt – and there was no faking the chemistry that crackled between them. Bernson backed off, sitting up in his chair, leaving a little more space; that was Phil's exit strategy opening up, no need to worry about how to extricate himself now that the trackers had time to start working.

"I never said he was subtle," Phil said with a shrug. "There's another show tomorrow, so we'll be busy, but I think we could arrange, say, dinner on Sunday? Since you're a fan and all." He knew Bernson had a meeting later tonight, so Phil let him be the one to call off. The mantra of good undercover work – make the mark think he was making the calls.

"Unfortunately, I can't." He snagged Phil's phone and entered his number. "Do call me, though, if you're in the Atlanta area. I have some '67 Macallan's I think you'd appreciate."

Later the next day, after they'd not only prevented the sale of biological weapons and rounded up not just Bernson, but the other two scientists, and three top arms dealers, Phil lay exhausted in their plush bed, the warm body of Clint Barton sprawled half on top of him. He snaked a hand underneath the muscular chest and pulled Clint snug against him, tracing the dip and curve of Clint's back with his other hand, fitting them together like puzzle pieces. Nose buried in Clint's hair, he sighed and shifted, tucking a foot between Clint's.

"Stop it," Clint mumbled. "You're thinking too loud again."

"I mean, I am older than you. Going bald and glasses and … do you ever think that? The whole 'daddy' thing?" Once he'd gotten the idea in his head, he couldn't seem to get the thing out; it was stuck in his consciousness like a buzzing fly trapped in a car.

"Phil. If you want me to call you daddy or sir or follow orders, just say so. Blindfolds or eat crackers in bed, play pool boy or whinny like a horse, I'm in." Clint tilted his head up to see Phil better. "I draw the line at the whole plushy thing and water sports, but otherwise, hit me. If it gets you off, hey, I'm all for it."

"No. That's not …" Phil sighed. "No crackers in bed. Ever. Pool boy? Pirate's more appealing. And I might have liked it when you called me sir. Just a bit. But that's not the point. There are a lot of people out there, younger, better looking; if you want to …"

"Oh, hell." Clint pushed up onto his arms so he could stare down into Phil's face. "Listen to me. I know you're going to lose your hair and probably get a little paunch and go grey around the edges. I've seen photos of your dad, remember? And I don't give a damn. I love you, just the way you are. Sir."

"Just checking." The words settled the ache in Phil's chest, that little nugget of doubt that had wormed its way into his happiness.

"I don't wanna lose you now. I'm lookin' right at the other half of me. The vacancy that sat in my heart is a space that now you hold," Clint sang, dropping down effortlessly on his arms to kiss Phil.

"Oh, God, not more Timberlake," Phil pretended to complain. Actually, Clint singing to him never got old.

"Let's try … what's your definition of dirty, baby, what do you call pornography? Don't you know I love you to it hurts me, baby? Don't you think it's time you had sex with me?" Clint added a little bump and grind of his hips to the lyrics as he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Recovery time slows with age, you know," Phil said with a laugh. It was impossible to have anything approaching a normal conversation when Clint got like this.

"Kissing, Phil. Nice, long, leisurely, tongue in mouth, kissing." He swiped his lips across Phil's jaw line to emphasize his intent. "We don't need to rush this, let's just take this slow … Just a kiss on your lips in the moonlight, just a touch in the fire burning so bright …"

Phil gave in to the kiss as Clint continued to sing, words vibrating along Phil's teeth and down his throat to settle somewhere near his heart. "I don't know that one," he found a moment of breath to say.

"One of tonight's repertoire. You'll have to wait. I've got big plans."

Long minutes, tiny busses that chased across cheeks and brushed behind his ears, and Phil had to draw his thoughts together to ask, "Tonight? We're done here. There's no tonight."

"Director Fury believes finishing the gig would be best for the benefit of the cover." Clint nibbled Phil's earlobe. "Oh, and Tony will be here. With Pepper. Maybe Bruce."

He should be concerned. Stark would make all kinds of trouble; the man probably had a recording studio and would insist Evan Black release some singles. But Clint's kisses were siren songs that lured him to forget his worries even as Clint whispered against his skin, "Don't forget whose taking you home and in whose arms you're gonna be. Darling, save the last dance for me."

So Phil did.

PLAYLIST (In order of appearance and by version/singer):

You're going to miss my lovin' – Michael Buble

Come Fly With Me – Michael Buble

One Year of Love – Queen

Suit and Tie – Justin Timberlake

I'm On Fire – Bruce Springsteen

When I Was Your Man – Bruno Mars

Crying – Roy Orbison

Who's Your Daddy – Toby Keith

Do Ya Think I'm Sexy – Tim Snider

Save the Last Dance for Me – Michael Buble

Mirrors – Justin Timberlake

I Want Your Sex – George Michael

Just a Kiss – Lady Antebellum