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Phil jerks awake when his chair is tugged away from his desk. He looks around blearily at Clint pulling the chair back while Natasha sets about shutting down his computer. He scowls at them, but the severity is somewhat lacking what with the half-asleep thing. He turns his glare to the empty coffee cup on his desk like it had betrayed him.


“You gave me decaf,” he accuses, voice slurring around a yawn. Clint affects an innocent look and tugs him to his feet. Natasha doesn’t bother to pretend and just gives him a soft look that says: “duh.” Phil shakes his head and tries to get back in his chair.


“Gotta finish this,” he tells them.


Predictably, they ignore him. Clint takes one arm and Natasha the other as they haul him away from the chair towards the door.


“This is how this is gonna go,” Clint informs him. “We’re going home and we’re going to sleep. There has been a distinct lack of Coulson Cuddles in our bed lately and that is just a cryin’ shame. And then, in the morning, we will have sex. Loud, athletic, fantastic sex. And then we will shower, preferably together, and have breakfast. There will be waffles. Then, maybe, we’ll let you get some work done. Or we might tie you up and have sex again. Depends on our mood.”


Phil has been missing the Coulson Cuddles, too. He'll complain about being used as a giant teddy bear, but he rather enjoys being crushed between them with Clint spooned against his back and Natasha snuggled against his chest. He glances back at his desk and makes a half-hearted attempt to get back in his office. Neither Clint nor Natasha give an inch, steering him down the hall towards the elevators.


“Sitwell can handle it when he gets in,” Natasha assures him as they step into the elevator. “The building won’t collapse if you delegate once in a while.”


“That’s why you have minions,” Clint adds.


Phil shakes his head, but gives up fighting them. It’s an old argument and unless the world is actually in peril, he never wins. Not that he particularly wants to fight, after all. Sleep, sex, and waffles? That sounds like the best kind of Sunday.


He must really be out of it, because he didn’t realize he’d said that last part out loud until Clint and Natasha gave him identical looks of incredulity and fond exasperation.


“It’s Monday, Phil,” Natasha corrects.


“Almost Tuesday, if you want to get specific,” Clint adds.


“Oh,” Phil says. Well. Maybe he has been working too long.   


The elevator door opens in the underground parking garage and they lead him over to their car. Clint climbs in the backseat with Phil while Natasha takes the wheel.


“It’s okay, boss.” Clint arranges him so Phil’s head is pillowed on his shoulder. “That’s why you have us.”


Phil must doze off in the car, because when he opens his eyes next they’re pulling into the parking lot next to their Bed-Stuy apartment building. Phil is stumbling and half asleep as they make their way up the stairs, but they manage. He was more that willing to just collapse on the bed in his suit, but Clint and Natasha get him to stand long enough to strip him down to his boxers and undershirt before they let him.


“You know how cranky you get when your suits get wrinkled,” Natasha chides with a smile.


He mumbles something in reply, but he’s not sure what he said or if they even heard him. He scoots into the middle of the king bed and curls up on his side under the covers. Closing his eyes is a relief and he feels his body melt into the familiarity of their bed. The sheets smell like gun oil, lavender soap, Clint’s deoderant, and Natasha’s coconut shampoo. He’s only distantly aware of the rustle of fabric as the two of them change into their pajamas. The bed shifts as they climb under the covers and arrange themselves around him. Clint spoons against his back, wrapping an arm around Phil’s waist to hold him flush to his front. While Natasha curls up against Phil’s chest, her face tucked under his chin and tangles her fingers in the fabric of his undershirt. Phil settles against them, pressing back against Clint and tugging Natasha closer with an arm over her waist. Clint is warm and solid curled against his back and Natasha's soft curves fit comfortably against his chest.


Phil is asleep almost immediately, lulled by the steady rhythm of their breathing and the easy familiarity of being safely ensconced between Clint and Natasha like they are pieces of the same puzzle slotted together.


He knows he’ll wake up too hot and sweaty from their body heat, and they’ll be so tightly wrapped around him that he won’t be able to escape, but he’s more than willing to admit that there’s really no other place he'd rather be.