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Chapter Text

           As a newly minted Senior Handler, Phil was a little peeved at being sent out on a collection mission. Sure, S.H.I.E.L.D. had gotten intel of a potential powered person at the travelling circus, and Phil was admittedly intrigued, but he had better things to do now that he was a Senior Handler. Didn’t he?

            Phil shifted on the hard wooden bench he was seated on. His dress shoes stuck uncomfortably to the floor, and the scent of old hay and plywood permeated the air. The canvas tent loomed above and around the crowd, which circled the dirt floor in the middle that acted as circus ring. The audience consisted mostly of families, young children with sticky fingers oohing and aahing between bites of popcorn or cotton candy.

            As far as Phil could tell, the show was almost over and there hadn’t been one sign of anyone powered. He was starting to wonder if this was a hazing ritual put on by Nick Fury when the ring master came back out.

            “And now, what you’ve all been waiting for. The Amazing Hawkeye!”

           Two spotlights thunked on as the other lights in the tent went out, creating a blindingly white circle of light in the middle of the ring. As if he had teleported, a young man stood in the middle of the lights. He had on a sleeveless purple leotard, black cargo pants and combat boots. Dirty blond hair was slicked back, and a small black mask covered the top half of his face. In one hand he held a black bow, the other hand poised artfully up above his head for his grand entrance. On his back was a quiver of arrows; he quickly plucked one out of the quiver and expertly sent it flying into a target that had been set up during his grand entrance.

         What followed was ten minutes of the most beautiful, preternatural movement Phil had ever seen in his life. The Amazing Hawkeye leapt and rolled around the ring, effortlessly loosing arrows and dodging various obstacles set in front of him. Phil watched with sharp eyes, trying to determine whether The Amazing Hawkeye had powers or was just very rehearsed, but even with his training and sharp eyes he couldn’t quite tell. And that intrigued him.

           When the show finished Phil clapped as loudly as the rest of the audience around him, standing and watching the man take a bow before stalking into the wings. As he slipped into the shadows, Phil could see the man’s shoulders bunch up by his ears and even from a distance could see the tension in the man’s back. Phil slipped out just ahead of the rest of the audience and left the tent, sneaking through the shadows to where the circus folk had set up living quarters.

            He could see that they were already starting to tear down some of the smaller tents- there went the fortune-tellers tent, and the one that had been selling roasted hazelnuts. Sticking to the shadows, Phil stealthily stole his way deeper into the tents and trailers until he saw an already familiar back bent over a pole in the ground. The Amazing Hawkeye, sans mask, was pulling at the pole, trying to get it out of the ground and having a lot of trouble. Phil couldn’t see anyone else from the circus around, so he crept out of the shadows and circled around behind the man.

            “Hello?” he called quietly, stopping a short distance away. The man didn’t react, still yanking hard at the stake in the ground. “Hawkeye?” he tried a little louder, creeping a few more steps closer. Phil was starting to take being ignored personally, which is what he would later blame his next move on. Moving forward, he grabbed one of the arms reaching for the stake in the ground and before he knew what was happening, he was slammed up against a nearby tree with a knife at his throat. Thankfully, he was quick enough to get a hand around the wrist at his throat, which left them at a bit of an impasse. Hawkeye’s face was inches from his, teeth bared menacingly.

            “Who the fuck are you?” The Amazing Hawkeye asked, voice coming out louder than the situation called for. He blinked a moment, then his free hand twitched by his ear. Phil’s eyes caught on his ear for a second before understanding dawned on him.

            “You couldn’t hear me!” he said with relief. “And here I thought you were just being rude. Do you sign?” Phil signed the last sentence one-handed while he spoke.           

            The Amazing Hawkeye scrutinized him for a moment, eyes calculating. “Don’t like signing when I have my ears in. Who the fuck are you?” he asked again, giving Phil a little shake. Holding up his free hand, Phil slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. On the front was the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo, and on the back was his name and phone number, written in neat type face.

            “Phil Coulson, agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he answered calmly, professional mask slipping into place despite the knife still at his throat.

            “What is this, some kind of government alphabet soup shit?”

            “Not how I would put it, but sure.”

            “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

            “You’re literally holding a knife to my throat right now.”

            Hawkeye seemed to consider that for a moment. He pulled back, letting go of Phil but not putting away the knife.

            “You spooked me. Beyond being spooked I haven’t done anything wrong.” He glanced around shiftily. “Say what you gotta say quickly. If anyone sees me with you, I’ll get in trouble.”

            “We’re looking for talented people, and you, Mr. Amazing Hawkeye, are extremely talented. Our goal is protection- of the world, of humanity, and of powered people,” Phil took a breath and a calculated risk, “- like you. You’ve caught our eye, and we want to make you an offer.” Phil offered his business card in the space now between them, but Hawkeye looked at his hand as if it was an alien being.

            “First off, I’m not that talented, I can just shoot some arrows. Second, the only person I protect is myself. And third, I don’t have any powers. Just the common sense that God and a shit childhood gave me.” He continued to eye the business card with disgust.

            “I can assure you that no one has taken me by surprise like you did in a long time. That’s talent. And you don’t need to have powers, I certainly don’t. We just keep a closer eye out for those who do, in order to help them.”

            “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m good here.” Clint reached up and turned off his hearing aid, stooping down and pulling at the stake again. Thoroughly rejected, Phil turned and made his way back through the tents. That was okay, he could wait.

            A few days later found Phil in a different small town, sitting on a familiar wooden bench surrounded by the same kind of families as the last town, screaming children clapping and running around on sugar highs while the performers paced through the show. Phil zoned out, mentally running through different self-defense patterns until the ring master got into the middle to announce The Amazing Hawkeye. Phil’s attention immediately zeroed into the middle of the ring, and there stood the Amazing Hawkeye once more, in the same pose he had been in last time. Now that he wasn’t looking for any signs of powers, Phil allowed himself to enjoy the show and the demonstration of physical prowess and marksmanship. He tried to stay professional as he watched the arm and back muscles ripple under the spandex, but it was a losing battle.

            He shook himself out of his trance as the crowd erupted into applause, glad that no one else from S.H.I.E.L.D. had seen him start to drool. Quickly he stood up, allowing himself to move with the flow of the audience as they all exited the tent. He melted into the audience, slipping from one shadow to the other until he had found the Amazing Hawkeye once more.

            This time Hawkeye was beside an old beat-up trailer, rolling up a rug that had been laid out front. Several camping chairs and a portable fire pit lay on the ground beside it. Learning from last time, Phil circled around until he was in front of the man. When he got in Hawkeye’s periphery he saw the man’s head whip up, and he narrowed his eyes at Phil.

            “You can’t be here.” Hawkeye threw the rolled-up rug down by the camping chairs, narrowly missing hitting Phil in the shins.

            “I didn’t get to go into detail last time-“

            “Shut up.” Stalking forward, Hawkeye grabbed Phil by the jacket lapel and towed him inside the trailer, slamming the door shut behind him. “If I get caught with a townie in here, man, I’m dead.” He leaned against the door of the trailer, crossing his arms, and tilting his chin up defiantly. “My brother is helping direct the pack up and roll and out and shouldn’t be back for a little bit. Say what you’ve gotta say and get out.”

            Phil took a moment to take in his new surroundings. They were in a small, beat-up trailer. It had a bedroom at one end, a living area/kitchenette in the middle and a bathroom, closet, and small bed at the other end. Everything inside the trailer seemed to be as aged as the trailer itself- the appliances were old and rusting at the corners, and the blankets and clothes strewn about were threadbare and patched. The only item that seemed to be in some semblance of cleanliness was The Amazing Hawkeye’s costume, carefully laid out on the small couch.

            Now that Phil could see him close and without the distraction of a knife against his throat, he noticed that Hawkeye was quite skinny for his age. He had the muscle mass associated with archery, but not much else- besides his arms and shoulders, he was skin and bones. Phil caught glimpses of hand-shaped bruises peeking out from the edges of the black tank top and green cargo pants he had clearly changed into after the performance. Phil, feigning casual, walked towards the costume laid out and ran a hand down the soft spandex, leaving his back to Clint.

            “Why did you have your hearing aids off, last time?”

            He heard him shift restlessly for a moment before he got an answer. “I like to turn them off when I’m performing so I don’t get distracted by the crowd. Forgot to turn them back on.”

            Phil wandered towards the bed tucked into the corner of the trailer. He could see a single pillow and blanket. He spotted the corner of a plastic wrapper poking from under the mattress. Immediately he recognized it as the corner of a pack of powder donuts that could be bought for less than a dollar at any convenience store. Now that he knew what he was looking for, Phil started examining the trailer while appearing like he wasn’t looking at all, and quickly spotted other small areas in the trailer where food was stashed.

            “We offer room and board,” Phil blurted and damn, he was trying to play it cool but the more he took in the more he wanted to force Hawkeye into SHIELD HQ, if only to ensure a warm place to sleep and consistent food. “Three full meals a day, salary, benefits, pension. All of it.” He took a moment to center himself. “We’re a security branch of law-enforcement, looking for candidates with unique skill sets that could come in handy. I think you’re an excellent candidate.”

            “What’s the catch?”

            “No catch.”

            “Yeah right, there’s always a catch. Get out.” He moved away from the door, pulling it open and poking his head out to make sure the coast was clear.

            “At least tell me your name.”

            That got him a wary look, before he made the sign for arrow, like throwing a paper airplane, but keeping his hand cupped in a ‘C’ shape. “Clint,” he said along with the sign.

            “Nice to meet you, Clint,” Phil said and signed. As he slipped by, Phil managed to tuck one of his business cards into a pocket of Clint’s cargoes without him knowing and considered it a mildly successful trip. At least now he had a name.

            The next time Phil saw the show, it was a few days later and they were in yet another small, mid-western town. He was once again sat on the hard wood benches in the same canvas tent. By this point, Phil could recite all the ring master’s lines, and tell exactly where Clint was going to fall and land and shoot, but he still couldn’t get over how graceful Clint looked doing it all. He moved like water in a way Phil had never seen a human move.

            And he was human, as far as Phil could tell. After the last time, Phil had tried to dig into any sort of background, but for all intents and purposes Clint didn’t exist. He was certain if Clint was some kind of powered person, he would have some hint of a record.

            When the show was done, Phil snuck among the trailers and tents, easily finding the right trailer now that he knew what he was looking for. Clint was standing outside his trailer, smoking. He had changed into the same tank top and cargoes as the other day. If Phil didn’t know better, he’d think Clint was waiting for him. Clint watched him approach, spotting him sooner than Phil thought he would. Without a word he threw the cigarette butt onto the ground with one hand, using the other one to pull open the trailer door and let Phil in. He closed the door behind them again, locking it and leaning against it.

            “For fuck’s sake, can’t you take a hint?”

            Despite his words, Clint had let Phil into the trailer, which he was taking as a good sign. Reaching into his pocket, Phil took out a pack of powder donuts, offering them to Clint. He lunged forward and snatched them out of Phil’s hands, quickly inspecting the wrapper to ensure it hadn’t been tampered with before ripping open the packaging and devouring the donuts. Once all the donuts were eaten, Clint licked any trace sugar off the plastic and crumpled it up, shoving it deep in a pocket.

            “Talk.”

            “How old are you?”

            “Eighteen.”

            “So you’re a legal adult. Who can make his own choices. Why stay here?”

            “This is my family, my home. I help provide for the family, I can’t just abandon-“ Clint froze, spinning to look out of the little window beside the door. “Fuck. Barney’s coming. Get in here.” He grabbed Phil and hauled him to the closet, stuffing him in and forcefully snapping the door behind him. Phil heard the door to the trailer rattle and then banging on the door.

            “Open up, Hawkeye,” Barney shouted, voice dripping with disdain at the stage name. Phil heard the door unlock and creak open, and heavy steps stomp their way up the stairs. “Have you gotten anything done? We’re supposed to be rolling out in two hours.”

            “I was just gonna grab something to eat first.“

            “Oh, he was going to eat first, how nice. Why don’t you just stay here and eat, princess, gorge yourself on the food I work to put on this table, and I can do your chores too while I’m at it, hm?”

            Phil listened from inside the closet, fuming. He heard Clint mumble something.

            “Don’t mumble,” Barney roared. “What have I always told you? God, without me and Jacques you’d be out on the street, unable to hear anything or understand anyone. Stupid little pig, you’ll never amount to anything. You’re lucky you have me covering for you around here. I’ve always looked out for you, Clint. I know what’s best. Now get out there and start packing our stuff away.” Phil heard them both leave the trailer but he didn’t get out of the closet, knowing it might not be safe yet. He was used to waiting; this wasn’t his first covert op. While he waited, he carefully pulled out a stack of his business cards and started tucking them into every pocket of the coats and pants that were obviously Clint’s.

            He was in the closet for five minutes before the door was pulled open, and Clint hauled him out. Phil noted that Clint’s eyes were red but didn’t say anything.

            “You heard him, I’m not good for anything. You don’t want me, get out,” Clint muttered, opening the door to the trailer and making sure Phil exited. At the bottom of the steps Phil turned around and looked back up at Clint.

            "He's wrong, you know. You can do great things.”

            “I don’t need your pity. Leave me the fuck alone!” Clint screamed, aiming a kick at Phil. He ducked it easily, backing away from the trailer. As he did, Clint turned off his hearing aids and turned his back on Phil, beginning to pack up the same chairs and fire pit as before. His shoulders were hunched inwards, and his back was bowed over. Phil thought he saw the shoulders shaking but, not wanting to anger the man further, left without a word.

            A week later found Phil at SHIELD HQ. While he still thought Clint was exactly what they were looking for, he didn’t want to force anyone into service, and he wanted to give the man space. Clint had his card, multiple of them in fact. If he wanted to reach out, he would.

            Frustrated, Phil sighted down the range and aimed his handgun, firing three rounds in quick succession- head, heart, and gut. He then gave the target two holes for eyes, a hold for a nose and a row of holes for a frowning mouth.

            “Recon and collect went that well, huh?” Maria, one of the girls from the same intake wave as him, watched from behind him, smirking.

            He hummed, making a line of holes that bisected the target horizontally. As he fired his last shot, his phone started ringing. Holstering the gun, Phil pulled out his phone.

            “Coulson,” he said shortly.

            “I need help.”

            Phil instantly recognized the voice as Clint’s.

            “What-“

            “I don’t have my ears, so I can’t hear what you’re saying,” Clint interrupted. “I’m at the Police Station in Audubon, Iowa. Come get me?”

            “Of course,” Phil said even though he knew Clint couldn’t hear him. The line clicked as Clint hung up, and Phil turned and looked at Maria. “I have to go. Tell Fury I’m picking up a new asset, and that I’ll be back A.S.A.P.” He turned smartly on his heel and started speed walking to the private airstrip S.H.I.E.L.D. had.

            “Need any help?”

            “No, just tell Fury.”

            Phil changed course and ran to his room to throw together a duffel bag with clothes and toiletries, tossing in a couple of protein bars and donut packs as well. By the time he got to the airstrip, there was a plane waiting for him. Fury had clearly gotten word of what he planned to do and was helping him out. Good.

            As soon as Phil was settled the plane took off, and he spent the five-hour flight reading up on by-laws specific to Iowa, making sure he had offer letters for Clint all in order and re-organizing his bag so that the snacks were at the top. They landed on a private air strip not far from the small town and then Phil drove to the police station.

            He rolled up to the small station and quickly parked the car out front. Straightening his suit, he opened the door and went up to the front reception desk. A middle-aged woman sat behind the desk, her blonde hair in a wispy beehive and her shirt showing a lot of cleavage. Behind her, he saw Clint in a small holding cell. His left eye was swollen shut, blood was oozing from a split lip and his nose looked different from last time. When Clint saw Phil he leapt up and grabbed onto the bars.

            “Phil!”

            “I’m here to pick him up,” Phil said, nodding to Clint.

            “Name?”

            “Phil Coulson.”

            Her inch-long nails clacked against the keyboard.

            “Of the person you’re picking up.”

            “Clint.”

            “Last name?”

            “Last name? Did he not give it to you?”

            “Honey, he can’t hear us,” she said as if he was stupid. “He could not give us his name.”

            “And you didn’t think to give him a pen and paper?” He signed “pen and paper” while saying it so that Clint got the gist of the conversation.

            “Can’t read or write,” Clint chimed in from behind them. His voice was loud and slightly slurred, but he was grinning as if he found the whole thing ridiculously funny.

            “Last name,” the woman requested again.

            “Yes, his last name is…” Clint fingerspelled B-A-R-T-O-N behind the woman. “Barton,” he finished, looking back at her. Clint shot him a thumbs up.

            “Alrighty, we’ll just need some money for bail and he’ll be good to go.”

            Phil pulled out his corporate card and used it to pay the bail. Clint was released and they went outside, Phil driving them a ways down to a coffee shop and ordered them each a hot chocolate and donut. They deserved the sugar.

            “Can’t read or write?” Phil asked one he got back to the car, signing along. They were leaning on the hood, enjoying the mild weather.

            ‘Nope’ Clint signed. ‘Can finger spell my name, and that’s it.’

            “Fuck,” Phil muttered, before switching to sign. ‘What happened?’

            Clint let out a big sigh before speaking. “I told Barney and Jacques I want to leave. They didn’t like their headliner trying to leave and started whaling on me, took my ears. Some townies saw and called the police. They left me here,” he said with a disbelieving chuckle. “I have no money, hell I was making THEM money, and they just left me.” His eyes started to water and he took a quick sip of his hot chocolate to cover it. “Thanks for coming to get me. The phone call must’ve been confusing.”

            “I understood perfectly,” Phil said, turning to make sure Clint was reading his lips clearly. They finished their drinks in companionable silence, and despite the upheaval of the day, Clint finally felt like he was going to be okay.

Chapter Text

             Phil and Clint had been working together for two years now. At this point they rarely needed to talk in tight situations, able to anticipate the other’s next move. They had developed a repertoire and shorthand that had most of the other handlers salivating in jealousy.

            Their plane had just landed in Budapest and they were headed to a swanky hotel, on a kill mission with a Black Widow as their target. SHIELD had been tracking this Black Widow for months, and although she was suspected of around 200 murders, they could only pin her down for five. She had recently been seen in the area, and it was time for them to take her out.

            Their taxi pulled up to the hotel and let them out at the front doors. They were large and gilded in gold, glinting in the early evening sun. Phil and Clint walked in, each pulling a suitcase as Phil headed for the front desk and Clint wandered away, feigning looking at the restaurant and bar just off the side of the lobby, but really scoping out the whole floor.

            “Reservation for two, one room two beds,” Phil said in Hungarian to the front desk worker when they got into the hotel. “Should be under the last name Smith, or with the company Knight Security.” Knight Security was one of the many shell companies S.H.I.E.L.D. had set up for undercover work.          

            The receptionist typed for a moment before nodding her head. “I have you here. And you are here for business? Do you need access to our business suite?”       

            “Yes, we’re here on business, but we won’t need access to the business suite, thank you. We will take two key cards, please.”

            “Of course.” The woman handed over a small envelope with two key cards in it, the room number written on top. “Enjoy your stay.”

            “Thank you.” Phil tucked the envelope into the breast pocket of his suit, gesturing to Clint to meet him at the elevators. Clint walked over and they waited at the elevators together. When one arrived, they got on, riding it in silence to their floor with Phil taking the lead, steering them towards their room. Phil let them in and once they got inside, they started setting up, both unpacking their suitcases- Clint’s packed with both their clothes and toiletries, Phil’s packed with all the equipment they would need to set up before they could start the op. They worked around each other easily, ducking and weaving around each other with the familiarity of having done this many times. With all the equipment set up, they decided to head to the hotel restaurant for dinner. They got changed into suits and ties and went down for dinner.

            The restaurant was nice, upscale but not so fancy that regular business attire was out of place. They ate, speaking of fake business meetings and goings-on in English, so as to solidify their cover story. When they were done eating, they went back to their room and got changed into their tac gear. Clint took first watch, settling into the chair in front of the computers Phil had unpacked and set up. Phil took the bed closest to the door, laying down facing it and putting his gun on the bedside table next to him, within easy reach. Halfway through the night Clint woke Phil by bouncing onto the bed and stretching out beside him.

            “You’re lucky I don’t shoot you,” Phil grumbled as he scrubbed his hands over his face. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Phil grabbed his gun and stood up, going to the chair Clint had been sitting in. One side of his mouth quirked up at the steaming cup of coffee Clint had left for him beside the keyboard.

            “You like me too much to shoot me,” Clint said smugly as he rolled into the warm spot Phil had vacated, taking up the same sleeping position with his gun on the bedside table.

            Phil woke Clint up a few hours later by throwing a pen at his chest.

            “I thought I was the Amazing Hawkeye,” Clint grumbled as he sat up.

            “I’ve found her,” Phil said without preamble. “Café a couple blocks away.”

            “Great, give me two minutes.” Clint was immediately up and moving, picking up his gear bag and throwing on a sleeveless hoodie over his tac suit. Looking at the screen, Clint memorized the coordinates and the topographical map that Phil had brought up. He pulled up his hood, slipping out of the window and scaling the building up to the roof. He jumped from roof to roof until he was across the street from the café.

            “In position, boss,” he said into his hearing aid that doubled as a comm with Phil. “Give me two minutes for set-up.” He efficiently took out and set up his equipment, two years of practice making it muscle memory.

“Ready,” he said two minutes later. He looked through the scope on his rifle. “I have eyes on her.”

            “This is shoot to kill,” Phil reminded him. “You’ll only have one shot. Fire at will.”

            The woman had chosen a café that was out of the way, tucked into a corner down a side street. There were only a few other tables outside the cafe, and they were all empty in the early morning sun. She was dressed in a white floral print sundress, red hair curling in big waves around her face. She had a notepad and a pen and seemed to be idly doodling as she sipped from the coffee cup in front of her. She looked relaxed, and Clint had a hard time believing that she could be responsible for so many deaths. He had his orders though, and he didn’t doubt Phil’s judgement for a second, so he took a deep breath and waited until the woman put down her cup again and fired, exhaling after he pulled the trigger. As he watched, the woman seemed to disappear, but not in the way that bodies usually fell out of his scope’s view. Using the scope, he looked around the area but didn’t see her.

            “What the-“

            “Where’d she go?” Clint asked.

            “I can’t see her,” Phil replied, and Clint heard his fingers flying over the keyboard as he tried to find her on the cameras in the area.

            “I’m going in.”

            “No Clint, don’t-“

            Too late, as Clint was already swinging through the window and down the building, sprinting across the street to the little wrought-iron table the woman had been sitting at. Looking down, he noticed a piece of paper fluttering from underneath the coffee cup. He leaned forward and pulled it free.

            “Oh, shit,” he said, tucking the note into a pocket of his tac vest and scaling the building back to his nest, packing up and slinking back to the hotel room.

            “She left us a note,” Clint said when he got back to the hotel room, pulling it out and handing it to Phil. On the piece of paper, written in English, was the words “do not try that again”, with a little black widow doodled in the bottom right corner of the page.

            “That’s not ideal,” Phil said drily as he looked down at the note. “But our mission hasn’t changed. We’ll just have to be more careful. And patient. It worked with you, didn’t it?”

            “You weren’t trying to kill me.”

            “Kill, recruit. Same thing.”

            They decided to lay low over the next two days, taking turns going out to do recon in the area, watching the café they had first spotted her at and asking locals about a redhead. They didn’t get a hit until day three, when a greased palm told them that he had heard of a foreign redhead attending a gala at one of the museums that night. As soon as they knew where to look, they decided to move quickly, lest they miss their chance. Phil made sure they had cameras to hack into and full-range view of the area they would be in. Once he was sure they had audio-visual coverage, he sent Clint in.

            The museum had a grand circular entrance, which was where the majority of the mingling would be taking place. Clint arrived at the museum two hours before the gala was set to start, found a corner up in the rafters, and set up his rifle. And waited. As a sniper, he was good at falling into the hyper-focused waiting pattern that came with the job. The two hours passed with Phil breathing quietly in his ear, keeping him updated as guests started to arrive. When the Widow arrived, Phil breathed “showtime” into his ear.        

            She was tall, with red hair swept up into a smooth chignon and wearing a dark blue dress that fell off her shoulders and sparkled in the soft light. Diamonds glinted at her neck and throat, and her hand would reach up occasionally to graze against her necklace. She was on the arm of a plain looking man, large with a military haircut and in an ill-fitting suit. Clint watched as they mingled, letting an hour slip by as we watched them through his scope. She kept herself plastered to one man or another throughout the night, never alone long enough for him to get a clear shot.

            It was nearing the two-hour mark when an announcer came over the sound system to inform the crowd that speeches would be starting soon. A few spotlights started rotating around, and Clint caught one right down the barrel of his scope, momentarily blinding him. He hissed and swore under his breath, quickly trying to blink the spots out of his vision.           

            “Clint, you okay?” Phil asked.

            “Spotlight caught my scope,” Clint murmured. “I’m okay.” As his vision cleared, Clint looked around for the redhead once more. “Shit, boss, I lost her,” he said as he methodically scanned the entire room, noting the lack of bright red hair.

            “Okay, keep looking. I haven’t seen her leave on any of the cameras surrounding the area.”

            Clint was suddenly jerked backwards, a line of fire lighting up his throat. His training kicked in and he managed to grab the hands holding the garrote, feeling it dig into his palms as he pushed against the hands. He struggled, slamming a foot down and back while throwing his head backwards. He felt something connect with the back of his skull and a dull crunch, so he threw his head back a second time, feeling it connect once more. The hands loosened and Clint ducked down, pushing the garrote up and away as he went. He spun in place, the nest he had built for himself not leaving much room for maneuvering. The Black Widow was leaned up against the wall, eyes dazed and half lidded. She blinked hard, brows furrowing in confusion and dabbed at her nose, which was trickling blood.

            “Who are you?” He asked.

            The garrote slid from her limp fingers and pooled gracelessly at their feet. She squinted. “I am here… on a mission…Nikolai…” she blinked down at the crowd below them and, spotting an upturned face, she swore under her breath. “They’re going to kill me.” She looked back up at Clint, fear in her eyes.

            “Who?”

            “The Red Room, The Hand, the government, whoever gets to me first.”

             “Come with me,” Clint said, making a split decision.

            “Who are you?”

            “My name’s Clint Barton. I’m with S.H.I.E.L.D. We can protect you.”

            She blinked at him, eyes going in and out of focus. “I hope so,” she said quietly, “because we’re going to have to fight our way out.”

            Clint immediately started packing up his rifle, slinging it securely over his shoulder and taking out the pistol at his side. “You got a gun?”

            “Of course,” the Widow responded, reaching up under her skirt to pull a gun out of her thigh holster.

            “Let’s go,” Clint said, swinging down from his nest and scaling down the wall, the Widow hot on his heels.

            “Shit boss, I lost her.“

            ““Okay, keep looking. I haven’t seen her leave on any of the cameras surrounding the area.”

A sharp burst of static, loud and long enough that Phil half pulled the earpiece out until it ended. At the same time, the cameras all cut out, surrounding him in snow and fuzz.

            “Shit, Clint? Clint, report!”

            Dead silence.             

            Phil took a few deep breaths. They had a protocol in place for things like this. Unfortunately, the protocol was for Phil to sit tight for twelve hours before he was allowed to pursue.

            The next few hours were some of the longest in Phil’s life. He was no stranger to waiting or to ops going wrong, but it always hit different when it was Clint on the other end of the comm. It was something Phil rarely let himself think about- the feelings he harboured for Clint in the private back corners of his mind.

            He resisted pacing, only because he’d been trained better than that. Instead, he waited, hoping the snow would turn to pictures, the static to Clint’s voice. He lasted two hours before he stood and started gathering his gear, getting ready to go after him. He’d just pulled on his bullet-proof vest when Clint came tumbling in through the window, dragging the Black Widow behind him.

            “Holy-“ Phil whipped out his gun and pointed it at the Widow. Clint flashed him the sign for ‘ok’, and Phil holstered his gun, keeping it close. He slung one of the Black Widow’s arms over his shoulder, half carrying half dragging her to the sofa in their room and dropping her on it.

            “Put your head between your knees if you get dizzy,” Clint said, sitting heavily beside her. The Black Widow groggily leaned forward, elbows on knees and head in her hands. Now that Phil had a moment, he took stock of both people sitting on the sofa. Clint had several cuts and bruises up and down his arm, and deep cuts on both of his palms. He had a thin red line, already scabbing over, along his throat. The Black Widow had a graze on her upper arm, and bruises forming that made him think at least two fingers were sprained, if not broken, as well as a trickle of blood coming from her upper thigh. He couldn’t see her face, as her head was still cradled in her hands.

            “Can you grab my spares?” Clint asked, tapping his ear.

            Phil nodded and went for the first aid kit they always brought on missions, stopping by their bags to grab Clint’s spare aids. He grabbed two water bottles and brought them over, too.

            “What happened?” he asked and signed one-handed as he opened the first aid kit on the coffee table in front of the sofa, sitting and handing Clint one of the bottles of water and his aids. Clint quickly swapped his hearing aids out, putting the broken ones on the table beside the first aid kit.

            “Turns out she was there to take a guy out. Someone from The Hand? They made her, but not before she made me and tried to take me out.” He tapped meaningfully at the line across his throat. “I may have cognitively recalibrated her,” he said. Phil just raised an eyebrow. “Head butted her. Twice,” Clint grimaced. “I know this wasn’t the mission, but I made a different call. The right call.”

            “I trust you,” Phil said simply. “Anything worse than your hands?” Phil asked perfunctorily.

            “No,” Clint answered, holding out his hands so that Phil had access. Phil quickly cleaned, stitched, and bandaged the wounds- at this point it was routine for them both. Phil was efficient but gentle, as he always was, and Clint offered up his various injured appendages as Phil finished with the previous one. The Black Widow watched them quietly, wary eyes looking a little unfocused. She didn’t disturb the quiet though, and besides a few murmurs from Phil or Clint, the room was peaceful.

            Once he was done with Clint, Phil turned to her. He flipped his hands palm-up on his knees.

            “We start with the worst and move on from there,” he explained quietly. He wasn’t sure if his help would be welcome, so he waited patiently until the Black Widow pointed at the graze on her thigh.

            “Bullet,” she muttered.          

            Phil hummed in sympathy before he set about cleaning it, telegraphing each move carefully.

            “So, what brings you here?” he asked, half joking.

            “He does,” she said without hesitation, tipping her head to the side to point at Clint.

            “What’s your name?”

            There was a long pause, as she seemed to think. “Natasha,” she finally decided. “Natasha Romanov.”

            “Nice to meet you, Natasha Romanov. I’m Phil Coulson.”

            Silence descended once more as Phil cleaned up the rest of Natasha’s scrapes and bruises and handed her an ice pack for the bump forming on the back of her head. He checked her nose but, finding it unbroken, cleaned the blood off her face and left it alone. Once he was satisfied that both of the sofa’s occupants were adequately taken care of, he packed away the first aid kit.

            “Finish your waters,” he said to both of them. “I’m going to get changed.”

            As Phil changed in the bathroom, Clint and Natasha sat in silence.

            “How’s your head?”

            “Fuzzy,” she waved the hand not holding the ice pack vaguely towards her brain. “In here.”

            “Sorry.”

            Natasha shrugged in response. “I’ve had worse.”

            Phil came back out, wearing soft grey sweats and an old Captain America t-shirt, his shoulder holster on over the shirt.

            “Bedtime,” he said to the two spies on the sofa. “Barton, you can take that bed, Natasha you take the other one.”

            “I’m okay here,” Natasha murmured, pulling one leg up and wrapping her arms around her knee. “You take the other bed.”

            “I’m taking first watch,” Phil replied, pulling the chair from the desk so that he was sitting on the other side of the coffee table from Natasha. “Nothing personal.”

            “Probably the first smart thing either of you have done all day,” Natasha replied with a small, sardonic smile. “I don’t trust myself, you certainly shouldn’t.”

            “You’ve got good in you, Romanov. I have an eye for these things.” Clint waved away her self-deprecation. “Also, no putting yourself down while injured. It’s a Coulson Rule.”

            Phil rolled his eyes at the idea of “Coulson Rules” but didn’t disagree.

            “You two have fun.”

            Clint crossed to the bed and flopped down face first, immediately passing out.

            Phil sat and quietly watched Natasha. She watched him back, barely moving. It didn’t feel like a standoff, more like a meditation, a silent promise from Phil that he would have Natasha’s back, that he would catch her if she needed to fall.

            When Clint woke up a few hours later, he went over to Phil.

            “Have you guys just been staring at each other this whole time?”

            Neither one of them answered, blinking simultaneously, and looking at Clint.

            “Creepy. Phil, your turn to sleep.” Clint bypassed Phil’s chair and plopped himself back onto the sofa, leaning his back into Natasha’s side. “Let’s see what’s on TV.” Grabbing the remote off the table, Clint turned on the TV for the first time since they arrived in Budapest, finding the most inane thing he could and putting it on low. “Do you think they have pizza here?”

            They went back to S.H.I.E.L.D. the next day, a small private plane coming in to pick them up and take them back to HQ in New York. Natasha had tried to insist they cuff her, but both Phil and Clint had pointedly ignored her, Clint going so far as to turn off his hearing aid when she tried to insist one too many times. He then spent the plane ride yelling “What’s that??” every time someone tried to talk to him. An added bonus was the vein on the side of Phil’s forehead he only got to see on special occasions.

            When they touched down in the United States, Fury was there to meet them.

            “What the fuck, Coulson, this isn’t what I told you to do,” he said with crossed arms when Phil met him on the tarmac. Clint and Natasha were hanging back by the plane, clearly reading Fury’s lips. Phil put his back solidly to the pair, straightening his cuffs and giving Nick his most bland agent face.

            “We made a different call,” Phil said, meeting Nick’s gaze steadily. He didn’t waver and after a solid sixty seconds, Fury shook his head and laughed.

            “Damn, Cheese, always keeping me on my toes.” He sobered up. “She’s going to have to go through psych evals. Several.”

            “That’s fine,” Phil said steadily.

           They got her settled into a small room in S.H.I.E.L.D. barracks and level one clearance, enough to get her into the caf and the psychologists offices, and the gym if she was accompanied. Natasha didn’t argue, simply let them put her through the ringer, slowly deconstructing all the programming the Black Widow program had worked into her.

           “You want me to come in with you?” Clint asked the first time Natasha went to see a therapist. She had only been at S.H.I.E.L.D. for a few days and Clint had been tagging along with her everywhere she went, keeping up a constant commentary while Natasha kept silent.

           “No, thank you.” They were standing outside the therapist’s office.

          “You sure?”

          “Yes.”

          “Well, I’ll be waiting outside when you’re done.”

          “You don’t need to do that.”

          “I don’t mind.” Clint leaned against the wall facing the door, making himself comfortable. “I don’t have anywhere else I want to be right now.” He stared steadily back at Natasha, who was looking at him as if she was trying to figure him out.

         “Whatever.” She turned her back and knocked on the door and was let into the office a few seconds later.

          An hour later Natasha came stumbling out, eyes rimmed red.

         “Your place or mine?”

        “Yours,” Natasha said, following along like a ghost behind him. When they reached Clint’s apartment, he opened the door and let her in, motioning towards the couch in the living room. His apartment was bigger than her room in the barracks, a small one-bedroom apartment with a narrow kitchen and cramped bedroom, a bathroom with a standing shower across from the bedroom.

        Natasha curled up in the corner of the sofa, drawing her knees up to her chin and wrapping her arms around them.

        “Rough session?” Clint asked, his own experience leaking in through the understanding in his voice. Natasha just nodded, looking off into the distance. Clint sat down on the other side of the couch, laying his arm along the back but giving her space if she needed it.

       “Does it get better?” she asked, her eyes darting over to him before looking away.

       “Yes, and no,” Clint said as he looked down at his pager. He sent a quick message before looking over to her. “Before I got here, I almost never had my ears turned on because it was too much, all the time. Now I only do it occasionally, on my really bad days. It takes time, though. You just have to be patient.”

        “It’s hard to be patient when you’re the mark.”

        “Yeah.”

        They sat in silence for a minute, and then Natasha leaned sideways so that her head was resting on his shoulder, rearranging so that her legs were tucked under her. Clint wrapped his arm firmly around her shoulder, resting his cheek on the top of her head. He reached forward, turning the tv on but keeping the volume low, and they lost themselves in the distraction of tv for a while.

        Eventually, a knock came at the door and Clint called for the knocker to come in, not getting up from his position on the sofa. They heard the lock disengage and Phil slipped through the door, holding a bag dripping in grease and a drinks caddy.

        “Heard you had a bad day,” Phil said as he crossed over, putting the bag down on the coffee table. “Food doesn’t always fix it, but it often helps.”

        He unpacked three burgers and three containers of fries, passing them out along with the drinks.

        “Thanks, Phil,” Clint said, leaning forward and unwrapping his burger. Natasha followed suit, not saying anything. The grease smell was cloying but comforting- a smell that she had never encountered in the Red Room, as their diet had been strictly controlled. Phil and Clint kept up a steady stream of small talk as they all ate. When they were done, Phil got up and cleared the wrappers, throwing them in the garbage in the kitchen. He walked back over to the sofa and put his hand on Clint’s free shoulder.

       “You guys’ll be okay?”

       “Yeah Phil, thanks for dinner.”

      “Thanks,” Natasha echoed quietly from under Clint’s arm.

      “Anytime.” With one last squeeze of Clint’s shoulder, Phil let himself quietly out of the apartment.

      “He has a key to your room?” Natasha asked once she was sure Phil was away from the door.

     “Yeah, I trust him. He’s gotten me out of a few tight spots, and he’s helped me come up from some of my worst days.” Clint stared at the door Phil had just left through, lost in thought.

     “Does he get a key to all his assets rooms?”

     “No, I gave him the key to mine. Makes things easier.”

     Natasha was silent for a long time. Clint gave her thinking space, holding her in silence. The light of the tv flickered, casting shadows on Natasha’s face and making it hard for him to read the emotions flickering through her eyes.

    “I do not know if I will be able to trust him, but I’d like to try.”

    “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but if you decide to, Phil is a good guy to trust.”

Chapter Text

          It took a few months but eventually she didn’t always feel the niggling in the back of her mind calling her a traitor, telling her that she’d come back to those who created her. But it wasn’t always easy.

          It was about a month after Natasha had been brought in, and Clint and Phil had been called out on their first mission since she had arrived. They had already been gone for two days, and Natasha was really starting to feel the lack of company. She was still only allowed to go to the caf and the psychologist’s office on her own and since she didn’t have anyone to accompany her to the gym, she was left pacing around her room. Clint had introduced her to a few of the other S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives around HQ and she was considering trying to figure out how to track them down so that she could go to the gym and let out some frustrations before her next psych session.

         As if feeling her desperation, there was a knock on the door.

        “Yes?” she called through the door, not opening it.

        “Natasha, it’s me.” She heard Phil call through the door, and she immediately opened it, Phil practically falling in at how quickly she yanked it open.

       “Where’s Clint?”

       “Medical. He was hit in action.” Phil hesitated for a moment. “He’s asking for you.”

       “Take me there.”

       She followed half a step behind as Phil took her down halls she’d never been down before, barely slowing down to swipe his card through several doors on their way. They finally came up to a set of doors that led into a hospital-looking hall, lined with doors that led into individual rooms. Phil confidently walked up to one and knocked before pushing it open.

      “Look who I brought,” Phil said out loud as he signed along. The room they entered was sterile, the smell of disinfectant immediately making Natasha’s nose itch. Clint was lying in a hospital bed, machines and screen surrounding him and emitting fake beeps.

      “Tash,” Clint said weakly, hand waving half-heartedly from where it was resting on his stomach. “Miss me?”

      Natasha bit back a sob as she rushed to the hospital bed, punching Clint in the arm before wrapping him in as much of a hug as she could. One of his hands came up to pat at her back.

      “Careful,” Phil murmured as he watched them. “He got a bullet dug out of his side, and a through and through on his thigh.”

      “’S nothing,” Clint said as Natasha pulled away.

      “This is not nothing,” Natasha replied sternly, hands clumsily signing along. She laid down alongside Clint, slinging her arm over his stomach but careful of the bandage bulging through his hospital gown. Clint’s eyes slid closed, and he reached out with the hand not pinned between himself and Natasha. Phil pulled a chair up to the bedside and reached forward, clasping Clint’s hand in both of his, leaning his forehead on Clint’s hip and closing his eyes.

      The three of them were roused a few hours later by a nurse coming in to check on Clint’s wounds and change his bandages. Natasha climbed off the bed to allow the nurse more room to maneuver, perching on the windowsill out of the way. Clint whined at the loss of her body heat, clinging onto Phil’s hand as his bandages were changed. His eyes were cloudy with pain.

      Home? Clint signed to Phil with the hand not gripping onto Phil’s.

     Soon, Phil signed back before turning to the nurse.

    “What’s the verdict, Martha?”

    “Things are looking as good as can be expected. We’ll talk to the doc, but we should be able to release him to your care this afternoon.” She reached up and injected a syringe into his IV bag.

    This afternoon, Phil signed to Clint. If you’re good.

    I’m never good, Clint signed with a smile.

    Phil’s mouth quirked into a half-smile as he slid his hand free from Clint’s. “Time for you to go back to sleep,” Phil said out loud as he signed it. “We’ll be back later to break you out.”

    “Don’t go,” Clint whispered, breaking out the puppy dog eyes.

    “That’s not going to work,” Phil said sternly as he signed it, squeezing Clint’s shoulder before waving Natasha over. “Say bye to Natasha.”

    “Bye, Tasha,” Clint said sadly. “See you later.”

    “Get some sleep,” Natasha said before she bent down, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and squeezing for a moment. “See you later,” she said and signed. Clint’s eyes had already started to slide closed.

    Phil led her out of the room.

    “Where would you like to go?” he asked when the door closed behind them. “You’ve got an appointment with Dr. Johnston in an hour.”

    “I think I’ll head to the caf before my session.” She wasn’t particularly hungry, but she also didn’t want to be alone with the various “what if” scenarios trying to play through her head.

    “Would you like some company?”

    Natasha hesitated, the want for company warring with the small uncertainty she still felt towards Phil, as well as the need to not be a burden. She must have hesitated too long, the struggle evident on her face for Phil, because he stared at her steadily for a moment before speaking again.

      “I have nowhere else to be right now. You and Clint are my number one priorities, always.”

     “Let’s go eat, then.”

     Two hours later saw Phil standing outside Dr. Johnston’s door, waiting for Natasha to come out. He checked his watch, concern starting to creep in when the time ticked past the hour that should have marked the end of the session and slowly crept towards the hour and a half mark. By an hour forty-five he was considering knocking on the door to see if everything was alright, despite knowing that sometimes sessions ran over time and that Natasha was safe in the room. His nerves, already rubbed raw from watching Clint have a bullet dug out of him, were not as patient as usual.

    His thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and Natasha stood there, face devoid of emotion. Phil was immediately worried- he hadn’t seen her go this blank since they first brought her in, and he was afraid the stress of the day had made her regress.

    “Your place or mine?” he asked, keeping his voice steady. The question, so similar to the way Clint had asked her after her first session, broke Natasha’s carefully constructed façade and she crumpled, face falling into her hands as she sat on the floor right outside Dr. Johnston’s office.

    “It’s okay,” Phil murmured as he knelt down beside her, careful to keep his distance. “It’s been a big day.” Natasha’s shoulders shook with the force of the sobs escaping her. “Let it out.”

    She didn’t cry for long, and the hallway remained mercifully empty as the sobs slowed, petering out and morphing into long, shuddering breaths. Her hands scrubbed roughly at her face before she looked up at Phil, tears still glistening in her eyes.

    “Yours?” she asked. Without hesitation Phil stood up, offering his hand to her. She took it, pulling herself into a standing position before taking her hand back and following wanly behind while Phil led her through even more halls she had never seen before, leading her to an elevator that took them up, up, up, down another hallway and to a door. Phil took out a key card, swiping it and punching in a combination on a keypad that appeared out of the wall. The door clicked quietly open and he led her inside, motioning to the couch.

    “Make yourself comfortable.”

     Phil’s apartment was larger than Clint or Natasha’s, with a bedroom and an office, two bathrooms, a spacious living room and a kitchen with enough counter space to cook a whole meal on and still have room left over. Natasha snuggled into the sofa, pulling a throw blanket off the back and wrapping up in it. Phil moved towards his bedroom, frowning slightly at the door left ajar. Nudging the door open wider, he breathed a sigh of relief before scowling.

    “Clint, you’re supposed to be in medical,” he chastised as he moved into the bedroom. Clint, who had dragged himself out of medical and to Phil’s apartment before collapsing in a heap on his bed, grinned a Cheshire grin at him.

    “I got bored,” he replied, shrugging. “There’s nothing to do in medical.”

    “That’s sort of the point,” Phil replied drily as he slung Clint’s arm over his shoulder, careful of his injuries. “Let’s go get you set up with Natasha, and then we can contact medical.”

    Once Clint was snuggled up with Natasha on the couch, Phil wandered into the kitchen to give medical a call and arranged to have a nurse check on Clint twice a day. He moved back into the living room, settling himself on Clint’s other side.

    “You’re off active duty until further notice,” Phil said, idly flipping on the tv. “And I’ve got the next two days off to help you recoup and to get our reports in order.”

    “Who ever said getting shot wasn’t worth it?” Clint responded as he sunk further into the couch, feet landing in Phil’s lap as he leaned back against Natasha. “Two whole days off. Whatever will you do with yourself?”

    “Well, I’ve apparently got two super spies taking up residence in my apartment for the next two days, so I don’t think I’ll be bored.”

    That evening Natasha got up as if to go back to her room.

    “Where are you going?” Clint asked as she started walking towards the front door.

    “Back to my quarters,” she said as if it was obvious.

    “You don’t have to,” Clint responded, looking over at Phil. “Right?”

    “You can stay here if you want,” Phil assured her, gaze steady even as he lounged back into the couch. “But if you need space, you can go back to your quarters too.”

    “Boo,” Clint drawled. “Boo going back to your place.”

    Natasha hesitated for a moment longer, chewing on her lip. “Can I have the sofa?” she asked after a moment. “To myself?” She hated asking for anything, but she hated even more the idea of being forced to share a bed with any man.

    “If that’s what you want,” Phil reassured her. “Whatever space you want.”

    “The bed is more comfortable,” Clint said, “but we won’t judge you for wanting the sofa all to yourself. It’s pretty comfortable, too.”

    Phil made sure Natasha was all set up with blankets and pillows before he helped Clint into bed. Tucking the archer under the blankets, Phil moved to the bathroom and quickly changed and got himself ready for bed. This was not the first time Clint was in his bed and although it was always completely platonic, it settled a twitchy part of Phil’s hind brain that wanted to take care of those under his protection. Crawling into bed, Phil rolled over so that his back was to Clint, turned out the light and quickly drifted off to sleep.

    He was woken up by Clint shifting restlessly in the bed. At some point he had rolled over so he was facing him, and Phil could see the sheets tangled around Clint’s legs, and a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.

    “Clint,” Phil said gently as he reached forward and shook Clint’s shoulder. “It’s just a dream.”

    Clint’s hand shot out and he jerked Phil forward as he let out a yell, waking himself up in the process.

    “Don’t-“ he cut himself off as he realized where he was. “What’s happening?”

    “You were having a nightmare,” Phil explained as he extracted himself from Clint’s grip, giving him some distance.

    The door to the bedroom burst open and Natasha came stalking in, a knife held firmly by her side.

    “It’s okay,” Phil hastened to reassure her. “Just a nightmare.”

    Natasha studied them both with steady eyes. Clint had leaned forward, head in his hands as his shoulders started to shake. Natasha took a few tentative steps towards the bed as she put her knife away, perching on the side, hands hovering uncertainly around Clint.

    “What can we do to help?” Phil asked quietly.

    “Hold me,” Clint said and Phil didn’t hesitate to reach forward and draw Clint into his arms, his head nestled on Phil’s shoulder. Natasha reached forward and rubbed Clint’s back in halting downward strokes.

    “Ears on or off?”

    “On,” Clint muttered. “Don’t want to hear the nightmare.”

    “You got it,” Phil said, and proceeded to hum in Clint’s ear, giving him something to focus on. They stayed like that until Phil’s back started to twinge and the tears that had been tracking down Clint’s tears slowed and then stopped.

    “Sorry,” Clint finally said as scrubbed his hands down his face.

    “You never have to apologize,” Phil reassured him.

    “Never?” Clint asked with a teasing glint in his eye.

    “Never about having nightmares,” Phil hastened to clarified. “Or about needing help.”

    “Well I’m still sorry I woke you both up.”

    “It’s okay,” Natasha replied. “I’ve been woken up for worse.”

    “Can we go watch TV?”

    “Sure,” Phil responded, helping Clint stand and walk through the bedroom and out to the couch in the living room. With a bit of rearranging, they managed to have Clint spread out on the sofa, his head propped in Phil’s lap and feet in Natasha’s. It didn’t take long for all three of them to fall asleep, safe and warm surrounded by people they trusted.

    The three of them ended up living in each other’s pockets after that night. They all had their own quarters at SHIELD but since Phil had the senior agent apartment, more often than not the three of them could be found on the sofa in a tangled heap and later, in the bed, helping each other through inevitable panic attacks and nightmares.

    Once she was cleared Natasha was put into trainee orientation, and Clint was assigned to accompany her (aw, newbies, no). She passed with flying colours and was immediately moved up to clearance level five to match Clint; she was assigned Phil as her handler- as if she’d work with anyone else, and Phil had a feeling that this was going to be the beginning of a beautiful partnership.

Chapter Text

           Phil should have known that Tony Stark wouldn’t be a follow instructions type. When he had handed over the note cards for that first press conference and caught the mischievous glint in Tony’s eye, he immediately knew it wasn’t going to go well. And, when a few months later, Fury tasked him with keeping Stark in his home while they found the cure for Palladium poisoning, he knew he would need to bring in the big guns. Which is why, when he got called out, he called Natasha in to babysit Stark. Phil was a little embarrassed that he had to call Fury in to support Nat with Stark, but needs must, and Stark was a tougher shell to crack than any of them had predicted.

            He brought Clint with him to New Mexico, where they found an unidentified object and watched a strange man single-handedly take out a dozen S.H.I.E.L.D. agents using various fighting styles, some of which even Phil wasn’t familiar with.

            “Barton, prep for takedown.”

            Clint, up in his nest, put his finger on the trigger of his sniper rifle, ready to take the shot. They both watched as the man reached for the object and tried to lift it, falling to his knees in despair when he couldn’t.

            “Show’s over, let’s take him in.”

            A fake identity, a city-destroying automaton and a revealed Norse god later, Phil found himself with a new ally and a lot of unanswered questions.

            A year passed and Phil let things simmer until he and Clint were called in to watch over the tesseract. Things went sideways quickly and having to watch Clint, the man who had been his best friend over the past eight years get mind controlled by Loki nearly destroyed him. It was only with his years of training that he was able to tamp down his emotions and focus on trying to get Clint back.

            Then, Nick decided to activate the Avengers Initiative, putting Phil in charge of assembling and handling them. Phil sent Natasha out to bring Bruce Banner in, while he went to try and officially recruit Stark.

            It was easier for Phil to crack through J.A.R.V.I.S.’s security protocols than he had expected. He had a feeling that the rapport he had built with Pepper Potts had helped ease his way. Once he was in, baiting Stark with the data about the initiative and the Tesseract was a piece of cake. The man was clearly desperate for some sort of connection, and Phil was hoping he’d be able to find it in the Avengers.

            Then it was on to Steve Rogers, a man out of time and so obviously lost and drifting, picking him up and transporting him to the Helicarrier. A stilted, nervous conversation about his vintage Captain America cards. His worry for Clint brought his emotions closer to the surface, his usually cool mask easily falling away in front of his childhood hero.

            Once they got to the bridge of the Helicarrier they were introduced to Bruce Banner, genius and man so lonely Phil could read it in the line of his shoulders and the empty look in his eyes. Their first fight as a team didn’t go well, Phil realizing that they needed some sort of motivation to work together.

            When Thor appeared, Phil thought they might have a chance.

            That feeling quickly vanished when Clint attacked the Helicarrier, releasing Loki from his cell and very much still brainwashed. This was starting to get personal, and Phil was ready to end it.

            “Move away, please,” he said in his most Agent voice. He watched as Loki moved away from the switch, following him with the Phase 2 weapon prototype. “Like this?” He brandished the weapon a little higher. “We started working on it after you sent the Destroyer. Even I don’t know what it does. Wanna find out?”

            Pain, heat and then cold sliced through his heart. He looked down, only to see a blade protruding from his chest. His breath started coming in shallow pants as he tried to slow his heart rate. His knees collapsed and Phil slid down the wall as he watched Loki fiddle with the control panel. He blacked out for a few moments, his brain short-circuiting as the pain radiated in pulses from his chest. When he came to, Loki was leaving.

            “You’re gonna lose,” he breathed at Loki’s back. Loki looked carelessly over his shoulder.

            “Am I?”

            “It’s in your nature. You lack conviction.”

            “I don’t think I-“

            Phil took advantage of the momentary distraction, shooting at Loki with the prototype. Loki went soaring through the wall behind him.

            “So that’s what it does,” he murmured, closing his eyes. He tried to focus on not going unconscious, thinking about Clint and Nat and how he had heard Clint say her name through her comm. He hoped that Nat had done the right thing- although he didn’t know right now what that was. He started thinking about the team and how each of them was so broken and alone. He regretted that he wouldn’t be able to get them to work together- he could tell that if they learned to trust each other, they could be good. Great, even. Turning his thoughts to his two super spies, he started to think about what they would do without him. At least they had each other, he supposed.

            He was roused from his reflections by a hand on his shoulder. Cracking his eyes open, he saw Nick’s face and he tried to smile, glad he could see his friend one more time.

            “Sorry, Boss. They rabbited.”

            “Just stay awake. EYES ON ME!”

            “No, I’m clocked out here, Nick.” He tried to reach up and put his hand over Nick’s, but the movement was aborted as soon as he started it.

            “Not an option.”

            “It’s okay, Boss. This was never going to work… if they didn’t have something…to…” Phil’s eyes went unfocused, and he let out a shaky breath, last thoughts lingering on Nat and Clint. And then, nothing.