So, I put this together because, well I do enjoy both reading and writing Darcy/Clint, I wanted to play with the idea of them being just roommates with Phil (basically, bros). So, here it is. More crack for your horror/pleasure.

Darcy groaned and dropped her head onto her desk beside her barely touched sandwich. She'd spent nearly all of her lunch break searching for a new apartment and still no luck. Why was it so hard to find somewhere to live in New York? With the number of people who lived and worked in the city, it should have been easier.

"Something wrong, Miss Lewis?" questioned Agent Phil Coulson suddenly, sending Darcy falling out of her chair with a loud crash.

Blinking up at her ninja of a boss, she nodded slowly from where she lay on the floor. Remaining there for a moment sounded like a good idea somehow, at least until her heart stopped pounding like a damn base drum. "Apartment hunting sucks."

Coulson simply raised an eyebrow at her from above, not bothering to comment on her place on the floor. Instead, he leaned against her desk and stared down at her with his usual blank expression. "I was under the impression you had a place to live."

"Yeah, I did, as much of a shit hole as it was," confirmed Darcy as she propped herself up on her elbows, then shifted to sitting cross-legged on the ground. "But they condemned it this morning, meaning I need to find a new place to live."

Both of Coulson's eyebrows furrowed into what passed for him as a frown. His eyebrows spoke for the rest of his face, she was convinced of this. "That doesn't sound like a safe place for you to be living."

Darcy just shrugged. "I'm pretty sure Widow and Hawkeye have lived in worse places."

"Yes, I'm sure," confirmed Coulson, brow still furrowed in an unhappy line. "When they're on assignment in foreign countries, not as a semi-permanent place of residence."

"Eh, moot point now." Standing again, she dropped back into her chair and turned towards the screen. "I'd still take my crappy, condemned apartment over no place to live at all. Apartment hunting in this city is murder."

Brow still furrowed, Coulson straightened and dropped a small pile of papers on her desk. "It is New York City. When you can, please file these reports."

"Right away," muttered Darcy as she noticed the clock and sighed, clicking out of her search. "Oh, bossman, don't forget your conference call at 1:15."

A faint smirk drew over Coulson's face. "Thank you for the reminder, Miss Lewis." Turning, he headed back into his office, tossing over his shoulder: "And good luck in your apartment search."

Two days later, Darcy still hadn't managed to find a replacement apartment. Seriously, everything was pretty much out of her price range and there weren't a lot of options to begin with. Plus, her forced move-out date was in three days.

Frustrated, she dropped her head onto her desk and groaned. Great, she was going to be living on the street in two days all because there weren't enough apartments in this place to supply the population. "This. Sucks."

A soft 'clack' echoed from in front of where her head was resting on her desk, drawing her attention and causing her to shift so she could see whatever had hit her desk. Maybe she'd get lucky and whatever it was would explode and eliminate the need for her to find another apartment. Well, not really because, hello, death would suck. Just maybe not as much as apartment hunting.

The glint of light off metal narrowed her focus to the small object resting in front of her. A key. It was a key.

Lifting her eyes further, she found Coulson standing in front of her desk, looking at her with his usual bland expression. Brows furrowing, she lifted her head completely and refocused on the key. Why had he dropped a key on her desk? Glancing up again, she gave him a completely puzzled look. "That's a key."

"It is," confirmed Coulson mildly.

Blinking, she reached out and carefully picked up the small piece of metal. "Why did you drop a key on my desk?"

Coulson held his bland mask in place. "So you could move in. You must move-out in three days and there are no suitable apartments in this city for you."

"So what's this a key for?" pressed Darcy, still completely confused.

"I have a spare room," explained Coulson, face blank. "It would be irresponsible for me to allow you to live in unsafe conditions."

Darcy blinked up at him, surprised. Well, she probably shouldn't have been. Coulson had always been aware of her living situation somehow and showed concern for her through little gestures such as sending an agent to shadow her on the date she'd gone on two weeks ago. That jackass was never going to try and drug someone again.

Looking at the key resting in her palm, Darcy let one finger brushed over it slowly. "You don't have to do that. Really, I can figure something out."

Coulson shook his head, setting several folders on her desk. "It's only temporary, Miss Lewis, until something suitable becomes available. I don't allow my people to live in unsafe conditions when I can avoid it."

Nodding slowly, she can feel her cheeks redden a little. She won't admit it (she can take care of herself, dammit!), but it's nice to know someone is watching out for her. "Thanks. I really appreciate this, Agent Coulson." Using his formal name is the least she can do after this.

One of his eyebrow's rose in surprise, eyes a little uneasy. "I think I prefer one of your various nicknames. Disregard anything I've previously said about using formal titles." Turning towards the doors to his office, he adds as he passes: "And outside of S.H.I.E.L.D, it's Phil."

Clint grumbled as he came stumbling into Coulson's office, eyes bleary and hair a mess. Not that he expects to look any better, not after a week of sleeping on the couch in the S.H.I.E.L.D break room. That thing needed to be replaced ASAP. Possibly burned so it could never harm anyone again.

"Trouble sleeping, Agent Barton?" questioned Phil from where he still appeared focused on his paperwork. He hadn't looked up since Clint came stumbling into his office. "I can arrange for you to see a psychologist again."

"Never again," groaned Clint as he dropped into a chair. "And the couch in the break room sucks."

"Noted," stated Coulson as he finally looked up from his work, brow furrowing. "What does the break room sofa have to do with you sleeping poorly?"

"Because that's where I've been sleeping for the past week," muttered Clint, groaning slightly when he rolled his shoulder and it stuck wrong. "My apartment kinda blew up."

Both of Coulson's eyebrows shot up in a clearly confused look. "Things do not 'kind of' explode when you are involved, Agent Barton."

Clint had the mind to look a little abashed as he looked up at the ceiling. "Yeah, exploding arrows and radiators don't mix."

"No, that they don't," confirmed Phil with a sigh and shake of his head. "Should I assume, then, that you are effectively homeless for the time being?"

"Something like that," admitted Clint. "They kinda kicked me out after the outside wall blew out. Something about illegal explosives and ordinance laws. And repair bills. Really expensive repair bills."

Sighing, Phil turned towards the folder in front of him. "Just see that it's taken care of. Now, I have a few questions about your last report..."

Clint wanted to groan just looking at the break room couch. Sleeping on it again for the sixth night in a row sounded horrendous. And he'd slept in sand dunes before. Still, there weren't any other options available to him until Natasha got back from whatever chaotic situation she was currently dealing with and he had the chance to attempt to sweet-talk her into letting him crash on her couch.

Dropping onto the uncomfortable piece of furniture, he tugged the ragged blanket he'd been using the last few nights over his body and closed his eyes. S.H.I.E.L.D was pretty much abandoned at this time of night, so he allowed himself to attempt to relax into some kind of sleep. Which was why the sound of someone walking into the room had him immediately on edge. Still, he kept up the guise of sleep until something small and metal was dropped onto his chest. He nearly bolted upright at that point, reaching for his bow which was tucked under the sofa and out of sight. It was only the calm demeanor of the man standing in front of him that halted him mid-motion.

Coulson stood next to the couch, face as impassive as always. Clint's bag was clutched in one of his boss' hands, the other tucked neatly into a pocket on his suit. "Let's go, Agent Barton. Dinner is probably long cold by now."

Clint blinked at his boss, then looked down at the metal object which had tumbled off is chest when he moved. A key rested on the ground, glinting up at him. He blinked, then looked back up at his boss. "Uh, sir?"

"I have a spare room," explained Coulson as he set Clint's bag next to the couch. "It won't do for one of my best agents to suffer from sleep deprivation because their former residence exploded unexpectedly." He stepped back then, clearly waiting for Clint to get up and follow him.

For a moment, the archer looked up at his boss with thinly-veiled confusion. It didn't last though as the thought of sleeping in an actual bed rather than the lumpy couch outweighed any other concerns he had. Without another thought, he picked up the key from the floor and pocketed it. Slipping his bow from under the sofa and picking up his duffel in his free hand, Clint followed Coulson out of the break room without argument. Well, until he completely processed what his boss had said earlier.

"What do you mean, 'dinner is probably cold'?"