Work Text:
Phil isn’t sure there is a single safe place to kiss his lover as he lays, bruised, in the hospital bed. Clint’s lucky, he supposes, that it’s all bruises and nothing is broken. A minor crack in one rib, but that’s it. Piss-poor torture, but torture nonetheless.
He can just barely hold Clint’s hand without hurting him. He’d think there were secretly broken bones somewhere if he didn’t have all the x-rays from Clint’s entire body before him on his tablet.
Clint shifts slightly in his drugged sleep and makes a pained whine/moan that translates to "shit, fuck, ow, that shit hurts" in injured Barton speak. His brow furrows and a frown tugs at his mouth and each movement just brings him more pain.
Phil hums soothingly and strokes his thumb over the back of Clint’s hand. When that isn’t enough, he shifts into a bent-over crouch and carefully brushes his lips over each eyelid.
Clint relaxes into the bed, the wrinkles in his forehead smoothing out.