The Crimson Sunrise

Even after all this time, the air was dense with the stink of ozone and depression. So much damage had been done and too many lives had been lost, and there probably wasn’t enough time in the world to wash the memories away. As he stepped aboard the Helicarrier, Clint could feel the hatred of his fellow agents on his skin. He hunched his shoulders and wished that whatever Fury was playing at was over so he could finally just take off and disappear.

There was something incredibly oppressive about being back on the crime scene. Poetic justice or something like that. Served him right, right?

”Took you long enough,” Hill snapped tiredly. ”Fury wants you all in the briefing room.”

”Why?” Tony asked snidely. He was allowed because he was Tony, and no-one else bothered to ask the question.

Hill gave him a flat look. ”How the hell would I know? Just get in there.” She looked like crap.

They glanced at each other and shrugged. Six months after the Battle of New York, and they were still physically and mentally exhausted, just like everybody else. Being bossed around by SHIELD’s Director didn’t exactly appeal to anyone even on better of days, but humoring Fury now would let them leave sooner rather than later, and then they could all be on their ways again.

The Helicarrier around them was busy with reparations and rebuilding. Carefully, they made their way through the debris, mindful of the areas under construction. They were given wide berth, either because they were the Avengers, or because they had the traitor with them. Clint wasn’t sure which one he preferred, but he no longer cared, because every step of the way, he saw flashes of blue, of things he had done and lives he had taken.

He wanted to throw up.

The briefing room was dim. The shades had been pulled down, but the silver screen was up, indicating that the shades were more for privacy than darkness. At least they wouldn’t have to listen to a presentation. The room was completely empty, sans a heap of protein bars and water bottles dumped in the middle of on the table. Not obvious at all, Clint huffed silently under his breath.

While the others helped themselves with protein bars and water, Clint backed up in the corner. He would not eat, not here and not now.

››You should eat.›› The voice of his Dragon was reproachful.

›› I’m not hungry.››

The Dragon tut-ted. ››Then at least drink something. You’re dehydrated again.››

Clint sighed internally. ››If I drink, will you shut up?››

The voice in his head was silent, but as Clint stalked to snatch a bottle from the table, he felt his Dragon’s quiet smugness radiating through his mind. Fucking lizerd.

After retreating to stand again in his safe corner, Clint took in his teammates. Steve and Thor didn’t look that different, being a Dragon-enhanced supersoldier and the god of thunder, and Tasha would probably need a lot more than an extra-dimensional alien attack to look ruffled. Bruce was twitchy to be on the Helicarrier again, and Tony was… well, Tony. Who the fuck knew if he was high, stressed, or just his normal maniacal self.

Clint pointedly ignored the one who wasn’t there.

››You could admit that you miss him,›› the Dragon pointed out.

Even though he should’ve known his Dragon would remind him, it hurt. Six months had done nothing to ease the pain, and the clenching in his chest made Clint gasp quietly. It came out as a sob. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tasha narrow her eyes at his direction. Fuck. He really should know better and be more careful, but sometimes his concentration slipped.

››Fuck you,›› Clint hissed at his Dragon, willing it to leave the matter be, but of course it didn’t. They were too much alike.

He closed his eyes, ignored the soft voice of his Dragon, and concentrated on his breathing. If only he could make it through this meeting, he could go. Just another hour, perhaps two. Then he’d made his mandatory team appearance and they would leave him in peace.

His musings were cut short, as the door opened and Fury strode in, the ubiquitous black coat billowing dramatically behind him, eye narrowed and sharp. The Director was far too fond of unnecessary theatricals, and Clint rolled his eyes at the showing off. The Avengers were the last bunch to be intimidated by Fury’s outfit.

Clint was about to snark about Fury to his Dragon, when he felt it go on high alert.

››Wha— ››

››There’s another Dragon nearby!››

Shit! Clint blinked and grounded himself, readying himself to run. To his side, Natasha automatically perked at his wake, adjusting to the minute changes in her partner with the fluidity of years working together. Clint ignored her, Fury, and the rest of his team, and threw his senses as far as he could, trying to detect what had alerted his Dragon. He could feel people walking in the corridors, but, apart from that, he sensed nothing out of the ordinary.

Clint frowned. ››Are you sure?››

››It’s a full Dragon. Yes, I’m sure!››

Clint’s heart missed a beat.

Swallowing back bile, he closed his eyes, tuned out Fury giving some sort of a speech, and concentrated harder, trying to pinpoint the other Dragon from the other people behind the briefing room walls, even though he knew it was futile. Of the two of them, the Dragon was the one to detect another Dragon from a distance, but Clint had no idea how to do that. He only found out if he was close enough, or if he saw their eyes when their Dragon revealed itself.

››I don’t like this,›› his Dragon rumbled uneasily. ››We need to leave.››

Clint didn’t like it either, but he wasn’t sure how to get away without drawing unwanted attention to himself.

He had only ever met a handful of full Dragons, and the encounters had ended up either with Clint badly hurt or running for his life. As far as Clint knew, there had never been a full Dragon in SHIELD before, and nobody knew Clint was one. Of course, with proper training, full Dragons were masters in hiding themselves. Clint of all people knew that. But he also knew that his own cover wouldn’t survive a direct contact with another full Dragon, not here, not when he was at the end of his rope like this.

He heard the door open again, and, suddenly, Clint was jolted from his thoughts when he felt all his hair stand up. With dread, he opened his eyes, and saw Coulson.

Which was impossible. Phil Coulson was dead.

Except, apparently, he wasn’t.

››It’s him!››

Clint didn’t need his Dragon’s frantic cry to understand that the Coulson standing on the other side of the room wasn’t the Coulson that had been his handler for over a decade. First of all, that Coulson was dead. Second, when this Coulson turned his head slowly to look straight at Clint, his eyes shone with liquid gold.

Clint froze.

Fuck.

››CLINT! RUN!››

His Dragon’s shout cracked out like a whip and, without conscious thought, Clint bolted. Out of instinct, he snatched a chair from his side and hurled it at the direction of the golden eyes as he went, using the moment of confusion to dart around Coulson (No, not Coulson!) to get to the door. Behind him, the briefing room exploded in shocked clamor, but he ignored the noise, trying to get away as fast as he could.

As he ran, the blueprints of the Helicarrier flashed through his mind. He calculated escape routes, mindful of the damages the Battle (Clint himself) had left behind, trying to come up with a way around the repair sites and blocked hallways. His Dragon’s fear throbbed in the back of his mind, and it only spurred him to run faster.

A brief moment later, Clint sensed someone chasing after him. He had a pretty good idea who it was, but he didn’t dare glancing back. His Dragon was practically screaming inside his head, drowning out everything else, but strangely enough, it only helped him focus: the chaos in his mind helped to overcome the chaos around him.

››To the left!››

››I know!››

He took a sharp turn to the left and felt a brief flash of satisfaction as he sensed the chaser miss the abrupt turn. But he didn’t slow down. He didn’t have the luxury.

Knowing what he had to do and what it would cost him, Clint raced towards the only place he knew would keep him alive. As he barged towards the launchpad, startled personnel jumped away from his path. Several cussed after him, but no-one tried to stop him.

Clint was pretty sure that if they knew what he was about to do, they would’ve formed a line to help him out.

When he neared the edge, he braved a quick glance behind, not even a bit surprised to see Coulson (No, not Coulson!) charging after him. As if sensing his glance, the golden eyes snapped up to look him in the eye. During that brief eye-contact, Dragon Coulson’s stare burned into Clint, and Clint felt like he was sucked in and drowned in a glowing haze. He tried to yank himself back, to break the eye-contact, but it was a sluggish, half-assed attempt, like his body didn’t really want to let go of the golden aura surrounding him.

Then he felt himself stumble, and, to his horror, realized that the non-Coulson was almost at a touching distance.

Please, fuck, no! Not like this!

››MOVE!››

Clint’s Dragon surged forward and to the surface to scream with open defiance, and the non-Coulson’s eyes widened as he faltered. That gave Clint the strength to tear his eyes away, clamber up, and hurl himself towards the edge. From somewhere behind him, he heard shocked cries and something that resembled a roar.

With the last, desperate surge of energy, he leaped, and, when air rushed to meet him, all he could hear was the joined scream of him and his Dragon, as his whole being erupted into a mass of pain.

Then everything went black.

The earliest thing Clint remembered, was the voice of his mother.

Mama had a sweet voice: like a low hum that reminded Clint of the buzzing of the bees, the waves of the seas, or the wind on the trees. Of course, Clint had never actually heard buzzing bees or the sea, but they felt familiar, because Mama sung to him about them. The voice and the songs wrapped Clint in a warm, glowing blanket, making him feel safe and happy.

The singing time was Mama and Clint’s special time. Barney didn’t get Mama’s songs, and Mama never sung when Dad was around. Sometimes Clint wondered why, but Mama always shook her head and kissed his nose, and told him that this was for Clint alone.

When Clint was older, he realized Mama didn’t smile when Barney or Dad were around, either.

It was a shame, because Mama had a beautiful smile.

The first time Clint felt The Other, he was five and hiding in the broom closet.

Dad was yelling again and Mama was pleading, trying to make it better. After the first hit, Barney had fled, and Clint had scurried into the closet, hugging his knees and trying to swallow his whimpers. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his forehead against his knees, and held his hands over his ears to muffle out the dull sounds of Dad’s fists hitting Mama, and Mama stifling soft cries of pain.

Usually Barney was fast enough to drag Clint away in time, but this time Dad had started with a kick on Barney’s side, and Barney had flown across the room like a limp doll, landing with a grunt. There had been no chance for him to come and get Clint, so Clint had turned and fled, scooting behind the bleach bottles, trying to make himself as small as possible.

Clint didn’t know why Dad got so mad. He would drink beer and scowl, and then, at some point, he would start yelling, garbled words of hate and hurt laced with venom and spit. Some of them, like ’useless,’ ’stupid,’ ’ugly,’ and ’dead’ made sense to Clint, but there were others he didn’t understand.

But Mama seemed to know what ’whore,’ ’wyrm,’ and ’freak’ meant, although Clint wasn’t sure why Dad would call Mama a worm.

Sometimes, when Barney was fast enough to get them out in time, they would huddle together under the porch, and Barney would tell Clint how, someday, he would be big and strong, and he would get Mama and Clint away from Dad. It was a nice thought.

Other times, Clint was sure they would never get away from Dad. It made his tummy hurt in a terrible way.

And now, he was once more huddling in the corner of the broom closet, trying to be as small as possible.

››Why are you sad?›› Someone asked, curious.

Clint’s head jerked up and he held his breath and looked around with wild and wide eyes. He had been sure the closet had been empty when he had gotten in. The voice didn’t sound like a child’s voice, and Clint knew that, besides him and Barney, there were no others kids in the house anyway.

He tried to stay absolutely still, even clamped his hands over his mouth, but he didn’t hear anything. A short moment later, his lungs started to burn for air, but he was scared to breathe, in case that someone heard him.

››You need to breathe,›› the voice said. It didn’t sound curious anymore, it was worried.

Clint shook his head, but at the same time, his body decided to take over, and he drew in a huge, ragged breath. Bright spots danced in front of his eyes, like the fireflies he had once seen in the woods. There was a loud, throbbing hum in his ears, and, had he not been squeezed in a tight spot under the shelves, he would’ve keeled over.

››Good,›› the voice said with obvious relief. ››Now, can you tell me why are you sad?››

Clint pressed his lips together and frowned. It was one thing to talk to Barney about things, but to tell some stranger… That was not safe. Not for Clint, not for Barney, and definitely not for Mama.

››Well, if you don’t want to tell me, I’ll find out eventually, anyway.››

Clint’s eyes widened and he huddled into an even smaller bundle. ”Please don’t hurt me,” he whispered.

››Why would I hurt you? I am you.›› The voice was clearly confused.

That made no sense to Clint.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his hands over his ears, and tried to remember the lullaby Mama always sung to him. It sometimes helped when Dad was angry, maybe it would help with this stranger too. At least Clint could pretend he didn’t hear the voice. He whispered the lullaby over and over again, rocked himself back and forth in the tight space, and tried to think about Mama’s smile.

Later, when it was silent again, Clint crawled hesitantly out of the closet. He heard soft clinking from the kitchen and guessed Mama was in there. Slowly, he stood up, glancing careful towards the living room. Dad had finally fallen asleep on the couch, snoring loudly, but Clint made sure to give him a wide berth, because sometimes Dad only pretended to be asleep only to jump at Clint when he was too careless.

Mama was doing the dishes, humming under her breath. Silently, Clint walked to her and hugged her. Mama let out a soft sigh, put the dishes down, and reached out to stroke his hair. They stayed like that for a moment, Clint with his head buried in Mama’s apron, Mama’s hand drawing small circles on the back of his head. Then Mama started to turn to hug him back, but when she took a good at him, her hand flew on her mouth.

”Oh, Clint,” she whispered, eyes wide and scared. ”Oh, no.”

Startled, Clint took a step back.

He didn’t understand. What was wrong? Why would Mama act like that when she was the one that was hurt? Her left eye was swollen shut, her hair tangled, and her lip split and bleeding sluggishly. She limped as she took a step towards Clint, and Clint saw her stifle a gasp of pain when she knelt in front of him.

”It spoke to you today, didn’t it?” She asked, staring intently into his eyes.

Clint didn’t know what to say. How could Mama know about what had happened in the closet?

Mama sighed, resigned, and shook her head. Then she glanced at Dad snoring on the couch, and something in her eyes turned determined. She took Clint’s hand, tugged gently, led him to the kitchen table, and pointed at the chair. Dutifully, Clint climbed on the chair and sat to face her.

Mama closed her eyes and her chin dipped slightly. She took a deep breath and, when her eyes opened, Clint gasped. They were glowing.

”Hello,” Mama said, her voice somehow odd.

››Hi,›› the closet voice answered shyly.

Clint’s eyes went so wide he felt like they would jump out of their sockets.

Mama sighed and the glowing eyes turned impossibly sad. ”We are sorry, Clint.”

››Why is Mama apologizing to us?›› The voice asked, worried.

Clint blinked and didn’t know what to say.

”We know you don’t know how to answer us directly, not yet. That’s okay,” Mama said with that odd voice. ”What’s more important is this: you must never, never let Dad know about you.”

”Why?” Clint asked.

”The voice talking to you is a Dragon, Clint,” Mama said, ignoring Clint’s question. ”It is part of you, your other half. You are separate, but still one, just like your mother and I are separate and yet one. After you learn how, you can talk to it, silently, in your head. You will grow up together and it will become your confidant and your best friend. Don’t tell anyone about it. Keep it hidden, keep it safe, and you will survive.”

Clint felt something sick clenching in his tummy. ”Mama, why can’t I tell Dad?”

Mama looked at him for a long while. The she sighed and blinked slowly, and when she opened her eyes again, they glowed no longer, but looked like they always did.

”Because he would kill you,” she finally said softly.

Clint wanted to tell Barney about his new friend, but he hesitated. Mama had been scared and ordered Clint not to tell anyone, and, even though Clint usually told Barney everything, he was reluctant to share this. Perhaps it was the way Mama had been so sad, or the way the voice had gone silent and somehow terrified. Whatever the reason was, Clint questioned the trustworthiness of his brother for the first time in his life. It was a thrilling and a terrifying feeling at the same time.

Back in the kitchen, Clint had tried to ask Mama more about the Dragon (Can I breathe fire, Mama? Can I fly?), but, before Mama had had the chance to explain more, Dad had stirred and growled something. Mama had frozen on the spot, and the moment had been gone. Afterwards, Mama had avoided Clint’s eyes and he had only gotten one song before bedtime. Barney had been gone, still in hiding somewhere, and Clint had been all alone.

Clint didn’t understand what he'd done wrong, and it had taken him a long time to fall asleep.

In the morning, Clint woke up to see that Barney had crawled back in at some point during the night from wherever he had been hiding from Dad. His brother was pale, and his breathing was shallow, but otherwise he seemed okay.

Clint wondered if Barney had a cracked rib. It had happened once before, and Clint remembered how Barney had been then. He looked a bit the same now.

››Is he hurting?›› The closet voice asked suddenly.

Clint jumped and let out a small startled yelp. Fortunately, Barney didn’t stir.

››I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,›› the voice — the Dragon — apologized. ››Why is he in pain?››

”Because Dad kicked him,” Clint whispered.

››Oh,›› the Dragon said, and it was like Clint could feel its shock. Weird.

Clint watched Barney for a moment, then left the room to wander into the kitchen. The whole house was silent, which meant that Dad was at work and Mama was somewhere, probably running some errands. On the kitchen table, he saw a note that had a smiley face and MAMA written on the bottom. That was enough for Clint. He couldn’t read properly yet, he barely recognized a couple of words, and Mama’s handwriting was too squiggly and the words too long for him. Barney could read the note when he woke up.

Mama had left a painkiller tablet on the kitchen counter, and, from experience, Clint knew it was for Barney. He opened the fridge, rummaged for orange juice, and very carefully poured a glass. Then he took the glass and the tablet back to Barney and his bedroom and put them on the floor right beside Barney’s mattress. Barney would see them when he woke up.

Then he went back into the kitchen and made himself a sandwich with peanut butter and jam. After carefully cleaning his mess, he took the sandwich with him, and went outside.

It was May and the weather was warm enough, but he still took his coat with him, just in case. It wasn’t necessary, because Clint could sit in bare pajamas in his tree for hours in the middle of the winter. But if he was given a choice, he liked to be warm.

Munching his sandwich, he walked towards his tree. It was an old, gnarled apple tree, with twisted limbs and enough small crooks for him to perch on. His favorite place was so high up that not even Barney dared climbing there. Clint tucked the rest of his sandwich into the coat pocket and started to climb. He went fast and steady, because this was something he knew how to do. Mama had once said that Clint had started climbing before he knew how to walk or talk, and the old apple tree was like couch to Clint.

Once securely on his favorite crook, Clint ate the rest of his sandwich. Then he leaned his back against the tree trunk, closed his eyes, and concentrated inwards.

››HI!››

››Hello. You don’t need to shout.›› Despite the slight chiding, the Dragon’s voice was smiling. Clint didn’t know how he knew that.

››Sorry,›› Clint tried again.

››Much better,›› the Dragon said. ››You learn fast.››

Clint preened at the praise. ››I’m Clint,›› he said next.

››I know,›› the Dragon said warmly. ››Nice to finally talk to you, Clint. I’m you and not-you. I’m your Dragon.››

That sounded complicated. Clint scrunched his nose, confused.

››I know it’s confusing, but we’ll understand better once we grow up,›› the Dragon assured him.

Clint smiled. ››Okay.››

He fell silent after that. Trying to talk silently in your mind was tiring, and Clint decided to rest for a while. He had slept in the tree before and he knew he wouldn’t fall.

Before he drifted off, he thought he could head the Dragon humming his favorite lullaby. It was almost as good as Mama’s singing.

Slowly, Clint learned to talk with his ’inside voice,’ as the Dragon called it. They practiced daily, usually in the apple tree or sometimes in the house, if nobody else was at home. It was still tiring, and Clint didn’t yet manage very long conversations, but he was getting better. He was quite sure the Dragon was a bit older than him, but he didn’t know how he knew that. Somehow, it didn’t seem important.

Sometimes, Clint forgot to speak with his mind only. To his defense, trying to remember how to silently talk to his inner friend to avoid getting killed wasn’t something normally required from a kid of his age. Usually, he remembered things really well, but sometimes, especially at night when he was really tired and almost asleep, he whispered aloud.

It was only a matter of time, before Barney took notice.

One night, when Clint was curled under his blanket, talking with his Dragon about their day and how good Mama’s caramel apples tasted like, Barney threw the blanket on the side with a whoosh, narrowed his eyes, and demanded, ”Who are you talkin’ to?”

Clint blanched. ”I ain’t talkin’ to nobody, Barney!”

Barney drew himself into the full height of an indignant eight-year-old. ”Yeah, you were. Don’t lie to me, Clint!”

Clint blinked, pressed his lips together, and stubbornly shook his head.

”I don’t like when you keep secrets from me, baby brother,” Barney said slowly.

”I’m not a baby!”

”Yeah, you are. A big baby. And you’ve got nobody but me,” Barney said with a lazy leer.

”That’s not true!” Clint hissed. ”I have a special friend. Who’s just mine. Mine!”

››Clint, don’t—›› the Dragon started, but its warning was drowned under Barney’s dismissive snort.

”Imaginary friends don’t count, stupid.”

Clint narrowed his eyes. ”It’s not imaginary,” he argued hotly. ”It’s real, like Mama’s! It’s inside my head and it’s gonna be my best friend.”

››CLINT, NO!›› His Dragon shouted.

Realizing his mistake, Clint clapped his both hands on his mouth in panic and curled up, but it was too late. The damage was already done.

Barney drew back, eyes wide, and stared at him for a long time. ”’Inside your head?’” He then asked slowly. ”’Like Mama’s?’ What are you talking about?”

Clint squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head frantically. Barney reached out, but Clint jerked away from his touch. Barney would have none of it, though. Clint was no match for his bigger and older brother and, after some struggling, Barney was able to pull Clint’s hands down.

”Clint, what are you talking about?” Barney asked quietly, slightly worried.

When Clint still didn’t open his eyes or say anything, Barney tried again. ”Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry if I scared you. But I don’t like secrets, you should know that. It’s us against the world, remember?”

Clint shook his head again. ”No. He’ll kill me,” he whimpered.

”Who’ll kill you?”

”Dad,” Clint whispered. ”If he finds out, he’ll kill me.”

Barney gripped his shoulders tight and shook him. ”Nobody’s gonna kill you, you hear me? Nobody. Not as long as I’m looking after you. Okay?”

He looked fierce and angry, and for a moment, Clint thought Barney was the bravest of all. Clint let out a watery sniffle and nodded. ”Okay,” he said with a small voice.

”Okay,” Barney echoed. ”Now get some sleep, shorty.” He bundled Clint up, tucked him in, lay down beside him, and held him close until he fell asleep.

Days went by, then weeks, then months. Nothing changed: Mama still sung to Clint in the evenings; Dad still got angry and started yelling and hitting; Barney still tried to get Clint out of the way in time. Whenever Dad got angry, Clint curled up and waited for Dad to kill him. But as time went by, it became obvious that Dad didn’t know that Clint had a Dragon in him. It didn’t spare him from the beatings, however.

Despite knowing about the Dragon, Barney didn’t change. He was still the big brother Clint looked up to, loud and brave and stubborn, ready to block Dad’s hits to keep Clint safe. He never asked about the friend inside Clint’s head, or comment when Clint forgot to use his ’inside voice’ to talk to his Dragon, and started whispering under the blanket instead.

But there were times when Barney looked at Clint with a small frown and opened his mouth like he was about to say something. Then he shook his head and went on with his business. Clint didn’t know what to think about that, but as Clint learned to talk with his Dragon properly, those times grew further and further in between, until Clint forgot about it.

But he never forgot Mama’s warning about Dad.

The man formerly known as Phil Coulson stood frozen on the launchpad and stared after the rapidly receding form he had known as Agent Clint Barton, code name Hawkeye. The growing distance made something inside him clench painfully and he stumbled, blindly reaching out for support from the Helicarrier’s wall. His breath caught in his throat and he had to fight to stay standing, to stay breathing. To stay silent.

He didn’t know what to think.

For some reason, Clint had fled from him in what seemed like blind panic and, without understanding why, Phil had charged after him, chasing Clint through the corridors. At the launchpad, when Clint had turned to look at Phil, he had frozen for a moment and stumbled. Phil had almost caught him. Then something had happened, like a weird power had pushed back at Phil. Clint had torn his eyes away from Phil, gotten up, turned, and, before Phil had had had the chance to intervene, Clint had hurled himself over the edge.

With a strangled cry, Phil had barged after him, but it had been too late. He had had no choice but to watch Clint fall to his death.

As Phil stared after Clint, his form shimmered and then morphed into something else.

Phil’s jaw dropped.

A Dragon.

Clint was a full Dragon, with the ability to transmorph.

The choking desperation in Phil’s chest turned into staggering relief and he let out a shuddering breath.

››We want him,›› the presence in his head said suddenly.

Phil ignored it, like he had ignored it for months now. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and tried to get a better look at the shape gliding away from the Helicarrier. From what he could see, it was sleek, strong, and covered in vibrant, brass-colored scales. Its huge wings stretched wide and arched in powerful beats as it worked to get away as fast as possible.

It — he — was beautiful.

››We want him,›› the presence repeated, more forcibly, with an unmistakable undercurrent of lust.

Phil shook his head in attempt to get rid of the annoying voice.

It had surfaced several times after his miraculous resurrection, but never like this, never with such force. So far, it had been an occasional murmur somewhere in the back of his mind, easily dismissed as his own drifting thoughts, even though Phil had felt suspicious about its coherence and conversational tone. It had made odd remarks about his daily life, about the people around him, about the look of things and the way things worked. However, the weird excitement he had felt when entering the briefing room earlier had been unexplainable, not to mention how something had literally roared to life in his mind the moment his eyes had connected with Clint’s.

››We. Want. HIM!›› the presence snarled.

Phil closed his eyes wearily. ”Shut up!” He muttered under his breath.

To his bewilderment, the presence hissed. Phil could feel that something coiling in his mind, like it was ready to strike, almost like there was a separate, living entity in his mind.

Resigned, Phil thought he must be going insane.

His thoughts were cut short, though, when a hand slapped him on the cheek so hard that his head snapped back and his eyes watered. When he turned his head and blinked to clear his vision, he found himself face to face with a livid Black Widow.

”You idiot!” Natasha hissed, adding a string of curses in Russian. ”Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Bewildered, Phil was only able to stare.

The voice in his head snarled. ››Who is this and how dares she touch us?››

Torn between Natasha staring daggers at him and the presence in his head hissing murder at her, Phil stammered, ”I— ,” but got no further.

In a flash, he found himself pinned to the wall with Natasha’s arm digging painfully hard on his throat.

Phil had sparred with her several times, but this time, she was holding nothing back. He understood instantly that she was on hair-trigger of killing him, but that wasn’t what shocked him. No, it was the fact that her eyes were glowing in deep red.

”We don’t know who you are, but listen to us very carefully,” she said, her voice oddly metallic and brimming with controlled rage. ”Clint Barton is our partner. They are under our protection. If you wish to go after them, you’ll have to kill us first. Is that clear?”

Phil blinked. He had never seen Natasha like this, and, for a moment, he was sure he was still in medical and under some drug-induced trip. However, the thing is his mind started growling, and when Natasha tightened her hold until Phil couldn’t breathe properly, it convinced him that he wasn’t hallucinating. He didn’t fight back, though, because even if he didn’t understand what was going on, he had every confidence in the Black Widow. If she thought it was imperative to pin Phil against the wall by his throat, he wasn’t going to argue.

Phil was vaguely aware that they had attracted quite an audience. It was no surprise, really: a sparring Black Widow always attracted an audience, but the Black Widow intent on killing the agent who was supposed to be dead was something else entirely, even for SHIELD’s standards. They were given a wide berth and no-one was willing to interfere. A smart move, Phil complimented somewhat hazily.

When the crowd hushed, it wasn’t hard to deduce who was present.

”Is there a problem, Agent Romanoff?” Fury barked his question from a safe couple of feet away.

From the corner of his eye, Phil saw Stark, Captain Rogers, and Thor standing warily behind Fury. It looked like Banner had stayed back in the briefing room, which was wise. Nobody wanted the Hulk loose on the launchpad.

Natasha tilted her head to the side and raised a brow at Phil. ”Is there a problem?”

The presence in Phil’s head snarled and spat like an angry cat, but Phil ignored it. Slowly, he shook his head.

Natasha nodded once and let him go, stepping back, but staying near. The red slowly bled away from her eyes, but her stance never changed. A bit gingerly, Phil stretched his neck, cleared his throat, and took several much-needed lungfuls of air. He was quite sure his throat was going to be sore for a while.

Fury came closer and gave them both a long look. ”If the pissing contest is over, I’d like to know what the hell is going on,” he growled.

Natasha narrowed her eyes at him and shook her head. ”Not in here,” she said under her breath.

Phil silently agreed. He glanced around, taking in the crowd around them, the unabashed open staring, whispering, and phone-tapping. It was more than clear that there would be no shortage of gossip in the coming weeks.

At least I can still contribute the community, Phil snorted at himself.

Fury rolled his eye. ”I don’t give a rat’s ass where, as long as I get to know what the fuck is happening on my ’carrier.”

He turned around and made his way back to the direction of the briefing room, not bothering to check if the Avengers followed him or not.

Without taking her eyes off from Phil, Natasha called out softly, ”Stark, wipe the security tapes.”

Phil fully expected Stark to brush Natasha’s request off and was therefore slightly shocked when Stark only asked, ”All of them?”

”Yes,” Natasha answered. ”Including the personnel phones and Jarvis.”

For a split second, Stark froze. Then, to Phil’s amazement, he concentrated on his phone for a moment, and nodded sharply.

”Done.”

Natasha inclined her head at Stark. Then she raised a brow at Phil, and said flatly, ”Walk.”

Without prompting, the team closed their ranks around him. Phil wasn’t sure whether it was to shield him or to restrain him. Nevertheless, as they walked back to the briefing room, Phil felt like he was a prisoner taken into custody. The whole time, he could hear the presence snarling and hissing in his head, but somehow it also felt subdued, like the way Natasha had acted had intimidated it. It was something to think about later.

››She is an abomination!›› Phil heard the voice spitting in his head.

Yeah, whatever, Phil thought.

To his surprise, the presence huffed and turned… sulking?

Definitely something to think about later.

Back in the briefing room, Stark lasted a whole five seconds before he swirled around, arms thrown to his sides.

”Am I the only one surprised that bird-brain isn’t actually a bird at all?”

On his chair by the table, Captain Rogers shook his head. ”No, you’re not,” he said quietly.

Phil looked around and saw Banner shake his head, while Thor frowned. In his chair by the head of the table, Fury just looked pissed off or bored. They often were the one and the same.

”I do not understand,” the god of thunder said. ”Explain.”

”Ever heard of Dragons, Thor?” Stark asked, seemingly absent while fiddling with his phone.

Thor nodded, somehow managing to make it regal. Phil felt a strange jolt from the presence.

”I sure have,” Thor intoned. ”We still have those mighty beasts residing in Asgard.”

”Yeah, no,” Stark corrected. ”I don’t mean the mythical fire-breathing, princess-stealing sheep-eating things. I’m talking about the genetic human freaks.”

”Tony,” Rogers warned wearily. ”Perhaps we shouldn’t be using the word ’freak’ here?”

”Why not?” Stark scoffed. ”We’re all freaks here: I carry a shitload of Dragon genes myself, you’re a Dragon-enhanced super soldier, Lord knows what’s been done to Black Widow, and Bruce…” Stark glanced at the man, who rolled his eyes. Stark shrugged.

”At ease, Captain,” Natasha said kindly as she herded Phil to sit down by the table. ”It’s not an insult if it’s a fact.”

”Nevertheless, I don’t have to like the word,” Rogers said stubbornly.

Natasha inclined her head to indicate that his opinion had been heard and dismissed.

Thor was still standing, looking confused. ”What is this 'genetics' and what does it have to do with dragons?”

Stark and Banner glanced at each other.

”Well…” Stark started, looking pleadingly at Banner.

”Nobody knows where the genes originally come from, but they’ve been recorded over the millennia in countless ways: in lore, in paintings, in oral history,” Banner explained. ”Previously, all relevant information was buried within Far-Eastern mythology, but during the last hundred years or so, modern western science has had some significant breakthroughs. Isolating the Dragon gene sequence was a big hit, but, so far, exploiting the knowledge hasn’t been exactly a success.”

”What Bruce means is that the only documented, living example of a successful Dragon gene therapy treatment is sitting right there,” Stark said, nodding at Rogers.

From the corner of his eye, Phil saw Natasha’s lips tighten slightly. From her, that was a massive tell.

”Did Erskine ever explain what his formula contained?” Banner asked Rogers.

Rogers shook his head. ”No. I only later found out when fragments of his notebooks were discovered.”

”Steve’s not the only one,” Natasha said so softly that Phil barely heard her. When the team turned to look at her, she lifted her chin proudly, but Phil knew her well enough to recognize she was nervous.

”The Russians had their own serum,” the Widow said in a colorless voice. ”As far as I know, it was a variation of Erskine’s serum, but with more… side-effects.”

There was a moment of silence, then Rogers asked gently, ”Are there more or were you the only survivor?”

Phil admired his innate ability to sense the unsaid.

”I don’t know,” Natasha said. The barely-there hitch in her voice belied her statement.

”This is interesting,” Thor rumbled, ”but I do not understand what it has to do with our brave archer.”

”Okay, Sturm-und-Drang,” Stark said. ”The combination of the Dragon genes varies. They affect our physique, our mental abilities, our cell reproduction — everything. Simply put, the more genes, the more abilities, although the reality is, of course, too complicated for you to grasp.”

The presence in Phil’s head huffed in tune with Fury’s snort.

Stark raised his hands in a placating gesture. ”This time, I’m not bragging. Much. Despite studying the Dragon genetic sequence for the past twenty years, I don’t understand more than the basics, and I have JARVIS to help me. But, anyway.”

Stark paused, lowered his eyes, and tapped at the table for a moment with his fingers.

”If a person carries the complete Dragon genome, they are so-called full Dragons. The legends say that some full Dragons are able to transmorph.”

The briefing room fell dead silent. Phil dared a quick glance at Banner and Roger’s stupefied faces and Natasha’s impassive mask. Fury narrowed his eye at Stark.

The presence in Phil’s head let out something akin to purr. With considerable effort, Phil concentrated his focus back on Stark.

”I thought there weren’t any full Dragons anymore,” Banner said softly.

”Well, see, that’s because of this wonderful thing called modern western medicine,” Stark deadpanned. ”We have a name for people who hear voices, and that name has nothing to do with anything reptile.”

Phil blinked. Hearing voices?

”But what has this to do with the hawk-eyed-one?” Thor insisted.

”From what little I saw, it would seem that our hawk is actually a full Dragon,” Stark said.

››Of course he is!›› The presence in Phil’s head snorted indignantly. Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Rogers turned towards Natasha. ”Did you know?”

Her face was calm. ”He never told me.”

It was as good as an admission.

”But why did he flee?” Thor asked in genuine confusion. ”Surely he knew he was amongst friends!”

”Did he?” Natasha countered, raising a brow.

There was a moment of tense silence, and then Phil found himself in the center of the combined stares of the whole team. It was an unnerving experience. He wanted to inch away, but forced himself stay still and calm.

”Yes, why did Clint run from you?” Rogers asked, deceptively mild.

”I don’t know,” Phil said.

Rogers opened his mouth to continue, but Stark stopped him with a raised finger.

”That’s not the real question here,” Stark mused and cocked his head. ”We should be asking ’what are you’ instead, shouldn’t we?”

Phil swallowed. ”I don’t know.”

”Do you carry Dragon genes, Agent Coulson?” Banner asked.

”Of course, like majority of SHIELD agents,” Phil said, bemused. ”Why?”

”Still not the issue,” Stark singsonged, brushing away Banner’s answer. He rose from his chair, stalked towards Phil, braced his hands on the armrests of Phil’s chair, and loomed over him.

”What are you, Coulson?” He asked lowly, staring Phil in the eye. ”How did you come back to life?”

Bewildered, Phil leaned back against the back rest, trying to keep his calm. Stark’s eyes were hypnotic, boring into his own with a whole new level of intensity. Phil felt the presence in his mind grow gradually uneasy, hissing about the impudence of the man on his face. Phil tried to blink, even tried some of the simplest meditation exercises, but he didn’t seem to be able to relax. The tension continued to stretch in between them until Phil felt something unfurl and lash out.

In a flash, Stark scrambled back and Natasha’s knife pressed tightly on Phil’s throat. Blearily, he saw Rogers and Banner surging up from their chairs and Thor taking a hurried step towards him. Even Fury leaned forward a bit, an odd glint in his eye.

Phil blinked and swayed slightly on his chair, trying to get rid of the angry, low humming in his head.

”Well, that explains it,” Stark muttered and turned to tap his phone absently. Then he took a look at Fury. ”I’d like to get all Agent Agent’s medical files— ”

”I’m sure you would, Stark, but you’re not getting them,” Fury snapped.

”Umm… I wasn’t exactly asking… aaaand they’re transferred already,” Stark quipped smugly.

”What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Fury growled, raising from his chair to loom over the table.

”I’m looking after my teammate,” Stark snarled, suddenly furious. ”The one who fled in blind panic at the sight of a man you had told us to be dead. Care to explain why? Because by the look on Agent Agent’s face, he doesn’t know either.”

Stark’s change from the merry-go-round playboy billionaire into something of raw coiled power and menace was instantaneous and, frankly, fascinating, Phil thought. It was a palpable reminder that, with or without his suit, Anthony Stark was a force to be reckoned with.

Fury gave Stark an annoyed look. ”I don’t have to explain you anything,” he scowled.

Phil sighed, suddenly tired, and rubbed his face. ”No, not to him. But you do owe me an explanation, Nick.”

Fury turned to narrow an eye at him, but after decades of friendship and working together, Phil had no difficulty of staring him down.

Finally, Fury shook his head and let out a long breath. ”Damn you, Cheese,” he muttered and plopped back on his seat.

Phil shot a questioning glance at Natasha, who nodded once and removed the knife. However, she didn’t sheath it, and stayed standing beside Phil. It was okay. Because if things were, in fact, as bad as Phil had started to suspect, he was glad that Black Widow was guarding him.

The presence in his head huffed in indignation, but Phil ignored it.

After a short moment of silence, Fury asked, ”Remember what you signed when you joined SHIELD, Phil?” He continued without waiting for an answer. ”The permission to use experimental techniques in life and death situations.”

Phil pressed his lips together in a tight line, remembering the line almost immediately. ”I believe there was a sub clause mentioning something about ’within reason,’” he answered slowly.

Fury shrugged. ”It was within my reason.”

”What did you use, exactly?” Banner asked, leaning forward. ”Experimental gene therapy? Dragon serum? What?”

”Concentrated DNA.”

”Gee, that might mean just about anything,” Stark said flatly.

With a visible effort, Fury ignored him, took a breath, closed his eye briefly, and sighed. ”Concentrated… alien DNA,” he said quietly, lowering his chin.

There was a moment of shocked silence, then the briefing room erupted into chaos. Natasha started cursing violently in Russian, Banner and Stark were yelling at Fury, Steve was shouting at Banner and Stark to be quiet, and Thor demanded to know what was going on. In some other situation, it all might have been hilarious.

Despite the feeling of nausea clamming his gut, Phil didn’t say anything, just stared at Fury. Blessedly, the presence in his mind was silent.

When the clamor didn’t die, Phil raised the forefinger of his right hand and felt a flare of smugness as the team slowly quieted around him. Lowering his hand, he kept on staring at Fury, waiting him to raise his head and meet Phil’s eyes. In all honesty, he felt grimly satisfied when Fury seemed to have difficulties doing that.

After Phil felt the silence had stretched long enough, he asked, slowly and carefully, ”Was that all that was done to me?”

Fury didn’t meet his eyes. ”Yes.”

Fuck you, Nick, Phil thought and gritted his jaw. Feeling betrayed, he decided he had had enough.

”I believe we’re done here,” he said and stood up. ”Mr. Stark, am I correct to assume that you have a spare Hulk-proofed room in the Tower?”

Stark gave him a careful look. ”I might have,” he said slowly. ”Although I might have to shield you from a distraught Pepper. She’s going to be shocked, you know? You made her cry, after all.”

Calmly buttoning his suit jacket, Phil nodded. ”I’ll apologize to her thoroughly as soon as she sees fit to see me. In the meantime, I think all of us would be more comfortable continuing this conversation in a more secure location.”

”Right,” Stark said, hopped up from his chair, and started tapping away with his phone.

Fury cleared his throat. ”Cheese, wait a minute— ”

”I don’t think I will,” Phil interrupted. ”I’m placing myself under house arrest and in the Avengers’ custody for the foreseeable future. The search for Agent Barton will be conducted from the Avengers Tower. I will update you when — and if — I see necessary.”

Phil held Fury’s stare long enough to see a flash of regret in his friend’s eye. He knew his message had been received.

”Good day, Director Fury,” Phil said softly before he turned Fury his back. As he walked out, he saw a slight smirk on Stark’s face.

››You stood up to your superior. I like you,›› the presence said, admiring.

You just might be the only one, Phil thought, not bothering to wonder about it anymore.

He noticed Natasha falling in line with him and shot her a sideways glance. She had her professional mask on, but the slight tightness around her eyes revealed how worried she was.

”We have to hurry,” she said under her breath.

When Phil quirked his brow, she shook her head minutely.

”You’re not the only one after him.”

Two weeks after Clint’s eighth birthday, he was woken in the middle of the night by the blue lights of a police car. Even before the doorbell rang, he guessed what had happened. Trudging behind his brother with a heavy heart, he let Barney open the door to two police officers.

”Evening, boys,” said the bearded officer with a round belly. ”Are you Harold and Edith Barton’s sons? Can we come in?”

Barney nodded mutely and opened the door to the gruff officer and his partner. They stepped in, but didn’t go further than the hallway. Clint watched the way the officers took in the shabbiness of their home and how their noses curled slightly in distaste. He immediately disliked them.

”There’s been an accident,” the bearded officer started, then cleared his throat uncomfortably. ”Unfortunately, your parents are dead,” he said bluntly.

Clint closed his eyes and hung his head.

››I’m sorry,›› his Dragon said softly. ››But you already knew, didn’t you?››

Clint swallowed. ››Yeah. I knew.››

”Do you have any relatives? Grandparents? Aunts or uncles?” The officer asked.

Barney shook his head. ”No.”

The officer sighed. ”I should’ve guessed as much,” he muttered. ”I need to make some calls.” Jerking his head at his partner, the bearded officer turned around and stepped out to make his phone calls.

Blinking wearily, Clint sagged to sit onto the couch.

He felt numb. Not because Mama and Dad were dead, but because he knew what had happened. With a half ear, he listened to the other officer explaining Barney how Dad had been drunk, losing the control of the car, and ending up under a truck.

Barney believed it all, but Clint knew better.

Earlier that day, when Mama and Dad had left to run for some errands, Dad had already been drunk. Usually Mama didn’t want to get in the car with Dad when he had been drinking, but, this time, it had been like Mama had been encouraging Dad to take a ride with her. Something about her manner had been off, and it had made Clint feel cold all over, watching her shrug her jacket on. Once by the door, she had stopped for a moment, turning slowly to look at Clint, and her eyes had glowed. It had been so fast that, for a moment, Clint had thought he had imagined the flash of Mama’s Dragon through her eyes.

Then Mama had smiled, a gentle smile full of sorrow. ”Goodbye, Clint,” she had said quietly.

That was when Clint had known they wouldn’t be coming back.

He was jostled from his thoughts, when Barney shoved him. ”Clint? Wake up, little brother. We need to gather our stuff.”

Feeling lost, Clint looked up. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.

”Are you deaf, kid?” The officer asked impatiently.

”A little bit, yeah,” Clint said sullenly. ”Getting boxed on the ears with an ash tray does that.”

››I don’t think that was necessary,›› his Dragon chided gently. Clint ignored it.

The officer blinked, looking a bit taken aback. Obviously that hadn’t been the answer he had expected.

”Clint, come on,” Barney sighed and tugged him up. ”They’re taking us to St. Mary’s, and we need to pack whatever we want to take with us.”

”What?”

Barney stopped and turned around. ”Mom and Dad are dead, Clint,” he said, like Clint was a bit slow. ”We’re orphans.”

”Right,” Clint said and frowned.

”We can’t stay here, dumbass. We’re too young.”

”Okay, kids, move along. I don’t have all day,” the bearded officer rushed. ”I’m sure you can come back later for more stuff.”

Mutely, they nodded and went upstairs to pack a bag each. Clint wasn’t sure what he was supposed to take with him, but he stuffed his duffel with most of his clothes, a book of Robin Hood, and a purple dragon plushie Mama had bought him soon after his Dragon had made his presence known.

In all honesty, there wasn’t that much stuff to pack, because Dad had been more interested in spending money on drinking than on his family.

It was a strange feeling, to hear the front door click shut behind them, and be led into the police car while their neighbors openly stared at what was happening. Barney scowled, but Clint didn’t have the energy to care. None of the neighbors had interfered, even though they must’ve known what was happening: they must’ve heard the yelling and seen the bruises and limps the boys and their Mama nursed week in and week out. And yet, they had looked on, deciding to do nothing.

To Clint, they were just as bad as Dad.

St. Mary’s was a stern-looking brick building, surrounded by fields on one side and forest on the other. It seemed well maintained, but perhaps it was because it was run by nuns. Clint wasn’t sure, but he guessed nuns wanted to keep things clean, to please Jesus or something. Mama had never been that keen on religion, and Dad had mainly cursed at God for making his life miserable.

››It looks okay,›› the Dragon said hopefully.

›› I guess,›› Clint answered and sighed.

The officers herded them inside and into a sparsely-furnished office with an elderly nun sitting behind a massive wooden desk. She introduced herself as Sister Julienne, asked some questions from the officers, and, after dismissing them, turned towards Barney and Clint left standing in the middle of the room.

”Well,” she said after a moment and gave them a piercing stare. ”At eight and eleven, you are still young enough to have some hope for a foster home, although there aren’t that many families that are willing to take in two boys at the same time.” She sighed and shook her head. ”Nevertheless, you’ll stay here for the time being.”

There was a sharp knock and then the door opened to admit a plump middle-aged woman.

Sister Julienne glanced up. ”Ah. Sister Gibbs will take you to your dorm and get you something to eat. We’ll meet later. Goodnight Clint and Barney. May The Lord grant you peaceful sleep tonight.”

Clint and Barney blinked at each other, then picked up their bags and trotted after Sister Gibbs. The walk to the dorm seemed endless, a strange dream-like journey through bare corridors and narrow stairways, until they reached their destination. The room held twelve narrow beds, two of them unoccupied. Sister Gibbs pointed the brothers to the direction of the beds, then she turned and left.

Barney looked around, frowned, looked at the beds, and shrugged. Then he stepped forward, and, without saying a word, started to pushed the beds together. The iron frames screeched against the cheap linoleum floor, and the noise made Clint wince.

The Dragon groaned. ››He’s going to wake everyone up, you know…››

Which was exactly what happened.

Variations of ”What the hell? / Shut the fuck up!” came from at least seven of the occupied beds, but Barney ignored them. When the beds were tightly side by side, he beckoned Clint closer.

”You take the wall side,” he said gruffly.

Clint nodded.

When Sister Gibbs saw the beds, she pressed her lips together in a tight line, but said nothing. Instead, she handed them a plate with two sandwiches and two cartons of chocolate milk.

”Eat up,” she said before leaving. ”And for further notice: this is the first and only time you get to eat in bed. Wake-up is at 6:30. Follow the lead of the other boys, they’ll know what to do. Goodnight.”

Mutely, they nodded their thanks and dug in. The bread was a little stale, but it wasn’t like they hadn’t eaten stale bread before. At least it wasn’t moldy.

After they had wolfed the food down, they wrapped themselves into the thin blankets and lay down.

”Night, little brother,” Barney whispered.

”G’night, Barney,” Clint answered.

A short moment later, the Dragon asked, softly, ››Would you like me to sing to you?››

Clint was glad he could answer without his voice, because he suddenly had something in his throat. ››Yeah.››

The Dragon started to hum Clint’s favorite lullaby, the one Mama had sung so perfectly, and with the sound of the song in his head and the taste of tears in his mouth, Clint drifted off.

Slowly, Clint and Barney learned they way around St. Mary’s. It helped that they days were always the same: wake-up at 6:30; breakfast at seven; school from eight to twelve; lunch; chores; dinner at five; and then chores and homework until evening snack at 7:30. On Saturdays, school time was dedicated for laundry, and on Sundays, they attended Mass.

Clint enjoyed the structured days. Knowing the schedule and what came next gave him a sense of security he had always craved. When nothing else seemed to make sense, the rules were easy to remember, and albeit strict, they were consistent and made sense. Of course, he didn’t always follow them, but at least he knew the consequences if he broke them. And, most importantly, he didn’t get beaten up for just existing.

Barney on the other hand hated it all.

Even though the orphanage was a decent place, it didn’t mean they didn’t get picked on. As the newcomers, they were automatically singled out, and years later, Clint figured that the pranks and bullying were either a coping mechanism or an initiation rite. Barney bore the brunt of it, but Clint had his fare share too. Because of his poor hearing, he was an easy target for mean jibes and name-calling, but it was usually easy to ignore.

For some reason, the most offensive thing about him seemed to be his purple dragon. However, no amount of bullying was enough to make him get rid of it.

››Why don’t you just say it was a gift from Mama?›› His Dragon asked one day, genuinely confused.

››Because I don’t want to. I’m okay with them calling me a faggot because I have a purple plushie,›› Clint said stubbornly.

The Dragon sighed. ››Sometimes, I don’t understand you.››

Clint huffed a non-committal sound and said nothing more.

After the crash, they had talked less. The Dragon reminded Clint of his Mama, and it just plain hurt too much to actively talk with it. The Dragon seemed to understand and didn’t push. It stayed as a familiar presence somewhere in the back of Clint’s mind, asking a random question every now and then. Sometimes, it offered an opinion, and it always hummed him a lullaby when going to bed.

It didn’t make the sadness go away, but Clint didn’t feel so alone. He wasn’t sure how to thank his Dragon, but he sorta guessed it knew already.

As it was, it took the orphanage almost five weeks to find a foster home willing to take them in. During their brief stay, Clint and Barney had already learned that, in the fostering business, the younger kids were always more wanted, and the older the kids got, the less wanted they were. Especially if they were boys.

Clint didn’t mind it so much. He would’ve been content to stay and give the chance to a family to younger kids, which was why he was surprised when they were summoned to Sister Julienne’s office to meet Mike and Michelle Dutroux.

Mike was a stern-looking middle-aged man with dark hair and a full beard, his eyes intense behind wire-framed glasses. His wife, Michelle, was a mousy, ash-haired, quiet woman, who looked at Barney and Clint with serious eyes. The Dutrouxes had recently moved to Iowa because of Mike’s job, but they had fostered before, and were familiar with the system. They had no qualms taking in two slightly older boys, and since the nuns were more than eager to get rid of them, they were handed over to Mike and Michelle as soon as possible.

The couple lived in a small suburban house, with apple trees on the yard and a picket fence surrounding the premises. The house wasn’t big, but both Barney and Clint got their own rooms, which was a novelty. The rooms were small, more like stuffed closets with only a bed, a desk, and a drawer, but they were clean and comfy. The doors even had small locks.

”To make you feel safe,” Mike said with a smile. ”We won’t be offended if you want to lock your doors for the night.”

That night, they had a simple supper of grilled cheese sandwiches and ice cream. It wasn’t as good as the grilled cheese Mama had made, but it was okay, and there was plenty. Clint ate until he was stuffed, and blushed as he burped. Barney called him a pig, but Mike and Michelle just huffed a laugh, so Clint guessed it wasn’t too bad.

Later, when he and Barney climbed upstairs to get ready to go to bed, Clint could feel Mike’s eyes on the back of his neck. Something about the man made Clint’s skin crawl, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. But whatever it was, Clint made sure to lock the door for the night.

As their life slowly settled, they started to relax. Mike and Michelle were okay. They weren’t as stern as the nuns, but strict enough, demanding the brothers to do their homework and take care of their share of the chores, and expecting them to behave. They had enough food (which hadn’t always been the case in St. Mary’s, given the lack of money and the sheer number of kids), new clothes, and they even went to the movies together. It was enough for Clint to brush aside the itching unease under his skin and start leaving his door unlocked.

On the third night of unlocking his door, he woke up to a hand on his mouth and a weight pinning him down.

”Don’t make a sound,” Mike growled in his ear. ”I know exactly what you are, and if you even whisper about this to anyone, I will kill your brother and make you watch.”

He yanked Clint’s head to the side, and, to his horror, Clint saw that Mike’s eyes were glowing.

››Clint!›› The Dragon’s voice was scared.

Belatedly, Clint realized what the weird feeling had been.

Apparently, he had sensed Mike’s Dragon, but hadn’t understood what it was. Paralyzed with fear, his Dragon’s terror enhancing his own, he stayed absolutely still as Mike fumbled with something, his breathing hot and urgent against Clint’s neck. It wasn’t until Clint’s pajama pants were tugged down and his legs shoved apart that he realized that something terrible was going to happen.

Before he had the chance to think about it further, something hot, blunt, and impossibly big was pushed inside him. Clint thrashed and tried to get away, but Mike pushed him against the mattress so hard he could barely breathe. He bit into his pillow to stifle a scream and pressed his hands into fists so hard his nails split the skin. On top of him, Mike was jerking, gasping, and muttering into his ear, Clint’s dragon was screaming and thrashing inside his head, and the pain was so much, so so much that he couldn’t handle it and —

When Clint came back to, he didn’t understand where he was or what had happened. His throat was hoarse, his palms ached, and, when he tried to move, his ass hurt like he had been torn into two.

Then he remembered what had happened.

His stomach convulsed, and he only barely had time to turn a little to his side to throw up on the floor. He lay there, panting and trembling, trying to get his breathing under control, terrified that he was making noise.

He was supposed to be quiet, right?

››Clint? Clint? Please, answer me! Clint?››

His Dragon’s urgent voice drifted somewhere in the maze of his scattered thoughts. Clint was having serious trouble concentrating on it.

››Clint? You need to get up. You need to clean that up and clean yourself, or you’ll be in trouble. CLINT!››

The Dragon was right, of course.

It took Clint a very, very long time to clean up the puke and himself, and he nearly became sick again. Leaning on the toilet seat, he heaved, his stomach empty but for bile.

He didn’t understand why Mike had done that to him. Was it a Dragon thing?

Why was he hurting so much?

He pushed himself up and his vision went gray on the edges and he swayed, bracing himself on the wall with a shaky hand.

››Clint!›› His Dragon yelled. ››You can’t pass out in the bathroom! You have to get up!››

Fore the life of him, Clint didn’t know how he managed to crawl back into his bed. Perhaps the years spent as Dad’s punching bag finally paid off with the ability to push back the pain and focus on moving slowly forward. Gasping with pain, he drew himself onto the bed and curled on his side, finally giving way to tears.

In the morning, moving hurt, staying still hurt, and sitting up hurt more than anything. When Barney came searching for him, he looked alarmed about the pallor and the slight sheen of sweat on Clint’s face, and scrambled away, calling out for Mike.

Clint tried to stop him, but he wasn’t fast enough. The footsteps echoing from the stairs sounded like gunshots and he almost got sick again.

Then Mike peered in from the doorway.

”What is it, Clint?” His face was concerned with a gentle smile, but this time, Clint saw behind the mask.

”Stomach bug,” he managed, trying to ignore the frantic hissing of his Dragon in the back of his mind.

Mike frowned emphatically. ”That’s nasty. Don’t feel like getting up?”

Clint shook his head. Behind Mike, Barney made an emphatic face.

”That’s okay. You stay here and I’ll bring you some soup later. Okay?” Mike smiled and winked.

Clint wanted to throw up. He closed his eyes and turned his head away instead.

A short while later when Mike came back upstairs, he put a bowl of chicken noodle soup on Clint’s desk before he knelt beside the bed.

”That was some quick thinking, Clint,” he murmured. ”I’m impressed. Good boy.”

His hand caressed Clint’s back and stopped to pet his ass for a moment. Clint couldn’t prevent trembling.

”Oh no, not yet. But soon,” Mike crooned, and stood up.

Clint made the mistake to glance at Mike and got a good look of the obscene bulge in Mike’s slacks. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and didn’t open them until the door clicked, telling him that Mike was gone.

››You need to eat,›› his Dragon said.

››I can’t.››

There was a long moment of silence.

››He’s going to do it again.››

Clint swallowed. ››I know.››

In a feeble attempt to prevent it from happening again, Clint started locking his door again, as if it would stop Mike.

A couple of days later, he woke up at some point at night to a quiet tugging on the door handle, and then he felt something cold, slimy, and terrifying creeping through the walls to reach out for him. He scooted back on the bed, pressed both of his hands on his mouth to stifle a whimper, and closed his eyes. Inside his mind, his Dragon was somehow curled up in a trembling heap, just as scared as Clint was.

He didn’t know how long he sat there shivering uncontrollably. Then finally, right when Clint thought he wouldn’t be able to handle more, the presence vanished.

Clint barely stifled a sob.

››Is he gone?››

››I don’t know,›› his Dragon said in a wobbly voice. ››I don’t feel him anymore.››

In the next morning, Michelle told them over breakfast that Mike had been called to work and that he would be gone for the weekend. Apparently it was a thing he did sometimes. She then said she would go run some errands and asked if Barney and Clint would like to accompany her. Barney jumped the opportunity to escape the boredom and visit the mall and library, but as Clint was still not feeling well, he decided to stay back to sleep.

It was a huge mistake.

Clint woke up with a jolt when he was grabbed and thrown against the wall. A sharp pain flashed in his head, and, when he tried to move, he only managed an odd wobbling shake. Through loud thrumming in his ears, he heard his Dragon screaming in full panic, and somewhere someone was growling.

Clint tried to get up, but he was grabbed by his throat and roughly tossed on the bed. The movement sent bright jolts of pain through his head. From the corner of his eye, Clint managed to get a glimpse of his attacker.

Mike.

Mike pressed Clint’s head against the pillow and ripped his pants down in one violent move.

”Think you were fucking clever, did you, blocking my way like that?” Mike growled. ”Don’t you understand that you’re mine? Mine!”

He yanked Clint’s legs open, and shoved in, and Clint screamed, screamed, screamed; and there was nothing he could do, nowhere to flee; he couldn’t get free; and it hurt, it hurt, it hurt so much —

”Scream all you want you little cunt,” Mike growled breathlessly. ”You’re nothing but a wyrm whore, mine to use, mine, mine, mine!”

He punctuated his words with violent pushes, and Clint felt something break inside him. With a cold certainty, Clint realized he was going to die.

Abruptly, Mike was shoved off of him. The momentum sent Clint sprawling and he hit his head on the corner of the desk.

From somewhere far, far away, he heard Barney yelling, then there was a sickening crunching sound, and a scream of pain.

Then, emptiness.

The journey to the Stark Tower — which was the Avengers Tower now, apparently — was strange.

Phil tried to relax against the obnoxiously soft seat of Stark’s limo, but it was quite difficult, what with Natasha staring at him with her knife ready and the rest of the team in various states of alertness. Some of them (like Captain Rogers) hid it well, others (like Stark) didn’t even bother pretending. All the while, the presence in his mind was grumbling lowly, but Phil did his best to ignore it.

It was clear he had a lot to take in, and Nick’s betrayal wasn’t the least of his problems.

If Phil was being honest, it was unclear whether the Director was Nick or Fury nowadays. Back in the Helicarrier, it had been Nick who had deflated and admitted what had been done to Phil revive him, but the man behind the decision had been Fury.

Phil wasn’t sure what to think about that.

He and Nick had been friends for almost thirty years, ever since Nick had recruited Phil straight from high school. Over the years, their easy camaraderie had grown from occasional shared post-op beers into a deep friendship and respect, but somewhere along the way they had grown apart. It was understandable: in their line of work, their daily lives were bound to have secrets upon secrets, but so far, Phil had always thought Nick and their friendship were above such trivialities. Apparently, he had been naïve.

Phil sighed and pinched the base of his nose. He could feel a migraine the level of the apocalypse creeping in on him.

”You alright there, Agent Agent?” Stark asked warily.

Phil rolled his shoulders. ”Migraine, I think. I’ve had them before, and I have a prescription for the drugs to stop it, feel free to check.” He glanced shrewdly at Stark and added, ”So if you’re looking for a symptom of something new, this isn’t it.”

Stark snorted, but Phil could see the small twitch of his lips.

”Do you have any new symptoms?” Banner asked, leaning forward on his seat.

Phil huffed an unamused laugh. ”You mean besides the voice in my head? None that I’m aware of.”

Said presence hissed. ››I am right here!››

Phil made a move to shake his head, but aborted the move. Stark and Banner shared a look.

”About that…” Stark started slowly.

”Not in here,” Natasha interrupted.

Stark opened his mouth to retort, but changed his mind in the wake of an impressive glare from Natasha.

The conversation dried up after that, and they rode the rest of the journey in silence. Phil didn’t exactly mind. He leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, they were at the Avengers Tower. Apparently, Stark had cleared the way, because when they went inside, the lobby and the corridors were deserted. Once again, the team formed a circle around Phil, and he was swiftly escorted into the Tower’s private elevator.

It spoke volumes about Phil’s mental state that it took him a while to realize where they were heading. When he did, he reached out to press the emergency button to stop the elevator.

”Something wrong?” Stark asked, narrowing his eyes.

”Yes. I’m not going into a regular guest room.”

Stark cocked his head and shot Phil a calculating look over his tinted sunglasses. ”You weren’t shitting, were you?” He mused softly. ”You actually want to be shut in a Hulk-proofed room.”

Phil nodded. ”I’d prefer that, yes.”

Rogers frowned. ”I’m sure that —”

”Thing is, I’m not,” Phil interrupted gently. ”I have… something in my head, and I don’t trust myself.”

››I am not a thing!›› The presence snapped.

”Son of Coul!” Thor exclaimed. ”Your eyes just flashed golden!”

”Aaand that’s our cue to get moving, kids,” Stark said and poked Banner on the side. ”The laboratory or our resident rage monster’s guest quarters?”

Banner rolled his eyes at Stark and cleared his throat. ”If you don’t mind a bit more poking…”

Phil gave him a small smile. ”No, I don’t, on the contrary.”

Banner blinked and nodded. ”JARVIS,” he said, ”floor 75, thank you.”

”Are you granting access to the whole team, Dr. Banner?” Stark’s AI asked politely.

Phil felt the presence jolt in surprise at the incorporeal voice.

”Ah, yes, please,” Banner said, glancing at the elevator ceiling out of habit.

The elevator started smoothly moving. ”Very well,” the AI confirmed.

Once in Banner’s lab, Phil calmly subjected himself to extensive poking, prodding, scanning, and testing. It was nothing new, since he had been the pet project of the SHIELD doctors for a while now, but, this time, he was treated as a person instead of an elaborate lab rat. Also, this time he knew why he was examined so thoroughly.

Respectful of the equipment, the others hung back except for Natasha, who kept a close eye on Phil, and Stark, who didn’t respect anything, least of all scientific equipment.

Several vials of blood, a skin scrape, full-body MRIs, hair and saliva samples, and an EEG later, when Banner was finally done, Phil sat up from the scanning table and slowly started pulling his shirt on. From around him, he could feel eyes bore on the scar on his chest and back, but he forced himself to stay calm. Practically the whole SHIELD medical team had already seen his scars, and he reasoned that five more persons didn’t really count.

Except they did.

Bracing himself, Phil swallowed and looked up. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but the level of understanding he saw in the team’s eyes made his breath catch in his throat.

Stark huffed a non-humorous laugh. ”We’re all a bit broken here, Agent. Did you really think a scab on your chest would shake us?”

Phil blinked. ”I didn’t think—”

”That’s because you’re an idiot,” Natasha deadpanned, the softening in her eyes belying her feelings.

However, to Phil’s side, Thor sighed and hung his head in shame. ”I am sorry,” he said quietly, unwilling to meet Phil’s eyes.

Phil shook his head with a barely-there smile. Trust Thor to be more honorable than actually needed, and carry the guilt on behalf of his homicidal brother.

”You are not responsible for your brother’s actions,” he chided gently. ”His shame is not yours to bear. It belongs to him and him alone.”

Thor inclined his head, graciously accepting Phil’s judgment, but the forlorn look lingered on his face.

Phil nodded at Thor, then shrugged his jacket on, stood up, and raised his brow at Stark. ”If you’d please lead the way, Stark.”

Understanding his need for enhanced security, Banner let Phil use the guest quarters on his floor. As he walked into the room, Phil glanced curiously around. It didn’t look much different from the other rooms of the Tower he had seen so far, but he figured the Hulk-proofing was on the walls instead of furniture. There were only narrow windows near the ceiling, an accommodation to Hulk, who wasn’t that keen on heights.

Phil turned around and looked Natasha in the eye. ”Is this acceptable?”

Natasha’s eyes darted around assessing the room before she nodded.

”JARVIS, enable privacy mode. All recordings off,” Stark said. ”Unless any of you objects?”

They all shook their heads and settled down.

Stark nodded. ”Okay then, showtime!” He cocked an eyebrow at Phil and bluntly said, ”So, Agent Agent, you have a snake in your head.”

Before Rogers had the chance to chastise Stark for his manners again, Phil raised his hand to stop him. Honestly? Right now, he appreciated the bluntness.

”At this point, it would seem so, yes,” he said mildly.

››I am NOT a snake!›› The presence in his head spat.

”Your eyes glowed again,” Stark said. ”What happened?”

”It seems the thing in my head doesn’t like being called a snake,” Phil said carefully.

”Do you think it could answer questions?” Banner asked.

”What do you mean?” Phil asked at the same time as the presence snorted, ››Of course I can!››

”I mean… could it somehow come forward and answer us directly?”

Before Phil had the chance to answer, Natasha jerked her head sharply and snapped a vehement ”No!”

They all turned to look at her. Phil was bemused and slightly apprehensive when he realized how emotional she actually was under the seemingly calm mask.

”No,” Natasha repeated. ”Absolutely not. In Russia…” Her voice trailed away and she paused. Then she turned to look at Phil.

”You have to learn to control it. If it takes over, you’ll go insane.” Her voice was cold, but her eyes told tales Phil didn’t want to learn.

Phil nodded. ”Okay,” he said easily. ”Why don’t we start from the beginning? The voice in my head: what is it and why is it there?”

Stark shrugged. ”Well, the easiest answer would probably be paranoid schizophrenia. But because Fury already confessed using some alien thingamajig to revive you, and we all saw your eyes go on Maglite mode, we can safely assume that you’re not a mental case.”

”Thank you,” Phil said dryly. ”You mentioned the eyes?”

”Ahh… yes,” Stark muttered. ”Seems like your eyes go all funny when your brain-buddy gets active.”

”Excuse me?”

Banner cleared his throat. ”What Tony means is that your eyes seem to betray the moment when the… voice in your head gets excited,” he said carefully, stumbling only a little on the definition of Phil’s inner voice.

››I am not your ’brain-buddy!’››

Stark leaned forward. ”Okay, what did it say?”

Phil cocked his head. ”It said it’s not my brain-buddy.” He frowned. ”What are you, then?” He asked aloud.

››There is no need to talk out loud for their benefit. I can hear you just fine,›› the voice huffed.

”Well, I’m talking out loud for their benefit for now, deal with it,” Phil said flatly. ”What are you?”

There was a moment of silence, then the presence gave a resigned sigh. ››I am me. But I am also you. This is… inconvenient.››

”What do you mean?”

››I do not know why I am here. Your mind is very different from the mind I shared earlier. It is… alien.››

”Believe me, this is unusual for me too,” Phil muttered dryly.

››What are you?››

Phil raised his brow. ”Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”

The voice snorted. ››As far as I am aware, you know more about me than I know about you. However, I sense that you are small, weak, old, and injured, and your people do not trust you.››

Phil blinked. ”Well, that was just rude, don’t you think?” He asked mildly.

The team around him shared bemused glances. Phil realized the one-sided conversation they were hearing was probably even more surreal to them than it was to him.

The voice snarled. ››This is not amusing! I shared my existence with a fierce warrior before we were plunged into darkness. When I awoke, I found myself confined in a small mind of a puny being.››

Phil turned sharply away from the team in an attempt of privacy.

”I went against a god that was about to destroy our world because his daddy liked his brother more, and I died because of that,” he hissed, fully aware that the Avengers heard every word he said.

”I don’t know why or how I was brought back, but I was, and as a thank you, I seem to have an alien inside my head. The next thing I knew was that the man I would trust my life with fled from me because of you. So no, I don’t find this amusing either.”

The presence exuded indignation and cold fury. ››He should not have run. He belongs to us!››

”He doesn’t belong to anyone but himself,” Phil snapped. ”You drove him away!”

The voice roared.

Phil felt an odd sense of power coiling into itself, ready to lash out. Instinctively, he closed his eyes, focused inwards, and tried to contain the power.

The first surge was like a punch in his brain, a whiplash of energy that made him let out a strangled cry. He was distantly aware of people moving around him, of someone shouting, but he ignored it. Instead, he concentrated on the furious energy while he spun up an image of a net, and tried to wrap it over the raging mass of power. He was barely able to reach out, when the net was incinerated.

Unfazed, Phil created another net, this time woven of thin vibranium threads, and, after a brief struggle, managed to wrap it around the power.

The mass writhed, spat, and snarled, but couldn’t break out.

Phil concentrated on holding himself steady. ”Calm down and I’ll let you go,” he said. ”Keep on going, and I’ll put you in a cage.”

As the power continued its thrashing, Phil tightened his hold. ”Yield,” he growled.

The energy tried to worm its way out from the net, and, when failed, to lash out and rip the net apart, but Phil persevered. After a long moment, realizing that resistance was futile, the coiled power started slowly to loosen up and relax, until it was serene.

”Are you done with the temper tantrum?” Phil asked.

The presence snorted. Phil got a distinctive sense of aggressive sulking from it.

Letting out a rugged breath, Phil opened his eyes and realized he was slumped on his knees on the floor, leaning on his hands. His ears were ringing, his heart was beating erratically, and when he raised his head, he realized his face was wet.

His nose was bleeding.

Someone moved to his side. Blearily, Phil blinked to clear his vision and saw Natasha kneel down beside him, offering him a tissue. Her face was unreadable.

”I contained it,” Phil managed hoarsely.

Natasha nodded. ”For now.”

”I think I’m going to pass out now,” Phil said calmly and started slowly to keel over.

Natasha’s mouth quirked as she caught him.

”Go ahead, sir,” she said softly.

When Phil regained consciousness, it was to a splitting headache and barely contained nausea. His brain felt like it had been through a meat grinder and his everything hurt. Carefully, he peeled his eyes open and was relieved to see the room was dimmed.

››The abomination is watching us,›› the voice said.

”Use your words like an adult,” Phil muttered.

Natasha huffed from a chair near the wall. ”What did it say?”

”It called you an abomination.”

Natasha cocked her head and hummed. ”It’s not wrong.”

Phil didn’t say anything, more intent on containing his nausea than contradicting the statement he fully believed was false. He closed his eyes and went through a series of standard breathing exercises, forcing the nausea down, eventually managing to stop the spinning in his head.

After a moment, Natasha shifted in her chair, letting Phil know she needed to talk.

”You have to learn, Phil,” she said in a low voice, words intense and laced with need.

Carefully, minding his aching muscles, Phil turned to his side to face her, opening his eyes only a fraction.

”Tell me,” he said simply.

Natasha leaned back on her chair and turned her face away from him. She was a silent presence in the darkness, face obscured with shadows.

”You know of my past,” she said quietly.

It was a statement, not a question, so Phil said nothing.

”They were intent on replicating Erskine’s serum. No,” she corrected herself, ”they didn’t want to replicate it. They wanted to improve it. To surpass it.”

She fell silent. Phil waited, giving her time. He knew she needed it.

”They made… experiments.” She paused and swallowed. ”The ones who didn’t learn, ended up clawing their own brains out by their eyes.”

She stopped again. In the dim light, Phil could see the wet gleam in her eyes.

When she continued, her voice was an emotionless monotone. ”With time, they learned to… erase the part that would develop into a full consciousness, while still keeping the abilities intact.” She shivered.

Phil knew enough of the Red Room training methods to understand that, whatever had happened, must’ve been horrible to make the Black Widow react like that.

She turned her head to look at Phil, and her eyes glowed red. ”So, when your Dragon calls us an abomination, it’s correct. The real question is, what are you?”

Phil felt the presence — his Dragon? — twitch. ”I don’t know,” he said softly.

”As long as it stays that way, you are a danger to yourself and Clint.”

The Dragon’s reaction was immediate. ››We would never hurt him!››

Natasha narrowed her eyes. ”It wants Clint, doesn’t it?”

Phil nodded minutely, ignoring the Dragon growling in the back of his mind. ”It said Clint ’belongs to us,’ whatever that means.”

››They are our mate, not hers. You should know what that means!››

”First of all, Clint and Natasha were never together. Secondly, I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Phil snapped. ”Meanwhile, I suggest you calm down and let me handle this, unless you want to be bound again.”

The Dragon growled, but slowly retreated.

Phil let out a careful breath. He really didn’t think he’d be up to another pissing contest.

Natasha watched Phil from the corner of her eye for some time with a calculating look.

”How much do you know about Clint’s past?” She asked softly.

Phil sat carefully up and shook his head. ”Not that much, bits and pieces.”

Natasha made an impatient sound, and Phil raised his hand to placate her.

”His father was an abusive drunkard who used to beat up his wife and kids. After their parent’s death, Clint and his brother were placed in an orphanage. Apparently, they were in one foster home for a short while, but the records were lost in the fire years later. When they were thirteen and sixteen, they ran to a circus, where, at some point, Clint was trained in knife throwing and archery.” Phil paused and sighed. ”After his mentor and brother left him to die, he went off the grid only to later re-emerge as the Hawkeye. He gained a lot of enemies on the way.”

”You know he was abused,” Natasha said.

”Yes.”

”And were you aware that at least one of his abusers was a Dragon?” Natasha asked.

When Phil opened his mouth to ask for more, she shook her head.

”It’s not my story to tell, but… from what I’m aware of, Clint’s trust in older men has been irreversibly broken,” Natasha said carefully, looking at Phil expectantly.

When Phil realized what Natasha implied, he wanted to throw up. The panicked escape and the utter desperation and horror in Clint’s eyes made a lot more sense now. No wonder Clint had thrown himself off the Helicarrier!

Oh, Clint. I’m so sorry, he thought.

››What is it? Tell me!››

”Shut up and wait for your turn,” Phil muttered to his Dragon. His mind was reeling from the new information, and he had no time for hissy fits or fragile egos.

Phil narrowed his eyes at Natasha. ”You said I’m not the only one after him. What did you mean?”

”Madame Masque,” she simply said.

Phil’s eyes widened.

Madame Masque had been linked to several ruthless human trafficking rings and illegal and highly unethical cloning facilities, and she’d been on SHIELD’s most wanted list for some time. She had always claimed to be a full Dragon, but due to her skyrocketing paranoia and almost clinical insanity, it had never been confirmed. What was recorded, though, was the brutal torture she conducted on her victims, hailing the work as the art of her Dragon.

If she was after Clint…

Natasha sighed. ”Remember the time when you tracked him to Singapore? He had fled to Borneo a while earlier because he had destroyed a human trafficking ring. Unfortunately for Clint, the compound was one of Masque’s, and she saw Clint when he made his escape.” Natasha paused to give him a stilted smirk. ”He was recognized.”

Phil frowned. ”Recognized? How?”

Natasha just raised her brow and waited.

Phil’s eyes widened. ”The Helicarrier wasn’t the first time he transmorphed,” he breathed.

The Black Widow pressed her lips together in a tight line. ”Do you understand now?”

”Yes.”

››I do not understand. Explain!›› The Dragon demanded, but Phil ignored it. There would be time for explanations later.

Natasha’s lips twitched. ”Perhaps you two should talk?”

”I guess so, yes,” Phil admitted and rubbed his face, watching as Natasha stood up.

”Natasha,” Phil said when she was by the door. ”Thank you for telling me.”

She paused and looked at him coolly. ”I didn’t do this for you,” she reminded.

”I know,” Phil nodded. ”Thank you anyway.”

Natasha gave him the last appraising look before she turned and left.

Phil sagged back against the mattress and sighed. He had work to do.

Snippets.

Pain; white; light.

Barney.

Pain.

Soft, cool fingers brushing his brow.

››Clint? Can you hear me?››

A monster.

”Don’t touch me!”

Pain.

When Clint finally swam back to consciousness, everywhere hurt.

Carefully, he took a cautious breath. Then another.

Little by little, he blinked to focus on the cracks on the ceiling, tracking them from left to right and then back again.

There were a lot of cracks on the ceiling. They looked like the small canyons on the ground after a heavy rain. Clint wondered where they went.

He spied a flicker of movement to his left, and slowly, carefully, he turned his head.

He saw Sister Julienne sitting on the uncomfortable chair with her Bible on her lap, holding her rosary in her hands. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved, but no sound came out. She seemed to be praying, but Clint had never seen her looking like that, face drawn and gray, her outfit in slight disarray, and a tremor in her hands.

Something was not right.

Clint blinked and turned his head to stare at the ceiling again.

What had happened?

››Clint?›› His Dragon asked tentatively.

››Hi. Where are we?››

››Seems like back at St. Mary’s.›› A slight pause. ››Do you remember what happened?››

Clint closed his eyes and thought back.

Behind his eyelids, flashes of big hands, gripping, choking, pressing; pain — pain — pain —

››CLINT! Breathe!›› The Dragon snapped, and Clint drew a ragged breath that zinged through him like a knife.

A soft touch on his left shoulder made Clint lash out. The sudden movement jerked a flash of pain through him, and he couldn’t hold back a strangled shout of pain. His voice sounded off in his ears, like someone was pushing a fluffy pillow on his mouth.

A short moment later, the touch returned, more hesitant now. Confused, Clint opened his eyes to meet Sister Julienne’s worried gaze.

She opened her mouth and said something, but all Clint heard was a barely-there soft mumble.

”I can’t hear you,” he said, his words an odd croak reverberating through his skull.

Sister Julienne blinked, frowned, then leaned closer.

”What about now?”

From the stream of air on his left cheek, Clint knew she had practically shouted into his ear. All he had heard was muffled words, barely able to distinguish one from the other.

”Not really, no,” he said.

Sister Julienne nodded, walked around the bed to his right side, and shouted the question into Clint’s right ear with pretty much same results.

Clint closed his eyes in defeat.

So. He was practically deaf.

››But you still have me, remember?›› His Dragon said, pitifully eager, reaching out for Clint. ››You’ll always hear me.››

››Yeah. I know.››

Sister Julienne tapped his right shoulder. When Clint opened his eyes, there was a paper in front of his eyes, saying, ”HOW — — — READ?”

Clint blushed. He only recognized two words out of five. ”Not that well.”

Sister Julienne shot him a tight smile and wrote something on the paper.

”IT IS A START.”

It was hard to try and find out what had actually happened. Because of Clint’s illiteracy and extensive hearing loss, it was nearly impossible to go through the events. He guessed that the authorities had already been informed, but no-one tried to interrogate him, either because of what he had gone through, or because the interrogation would’ve most likely been really frustrating on both parties.

Later, when he had learned to read and sign fluently, Barney told him that Mike Dutroux had, in fact, been a notorious, sadistic pedophile. He had moved across the States and somehow managed to slip under the radar of the authorities to get a fresh start in Waverly. Apparently, nobody had known what the couple had done, hence making it possible for the Dutrouxes to foster Clint and Barney. At the age of 11, Barney was already too old for Mike, and Clint had gotten his whole, undivided attention.

It had almost cost him his life.

According to Barney, he and Michelle had returned from their errands sooner than Mike had anticipated. While Mike had been busy raping Clint, Barney had run into the tool shed, grabbed an axe, run back into the room, and buried the axe into Mike’s side. It had bought Barney enough time to grab his unconscious, bleeding brother and haul him out, screaming for help. The horrified neighbors had taken them into the hospital, where Clint had been immediately rushed into surgery.

In all honesty, it had been almost too late for Clint. In addition to the extreme internal injuries resulting from the brutal rape, he had several broken ribs, a fractured pelvis, and a head trauma that, combined with his previous injuries, had permanently damaged his hearing. He had almost bled to death, and, after being stabilized, he had been kept under for several days while the doctors had waited the swelling in his brain to go down.

The Dutrouxes had tried to run, but hadn’t made it very far. Barney said the rumor was that Mike had caught a nasty infection from the dirty axe and died in the hospital. Something about the glint in Barney’s eyes made Clint uncomfortable, but he didn’t dwell on it. For her part, Michelle had claimed she had been coerced and terrorized, but she still was convicted and sent to jail. Barney sported an ugly smirk as he told Clint how she had been beaten into a pulp even before arriving. Apparently, child molesters were not well-loved even within the criminal community.

However, for the time being, all the nuns were willing to tell Clint was that Mike had been a very bad man, Clint had been very, very hurt, and that they wouldn’t be put into the foster system anymore. In truth, the promise was probably more about Clint being damaged goods than the orphanage wanting to give them a safe haven, but Clint didn’t care.

After he had been released from the hospital and moved back into St.Mary’s, it took Clint weeks to even get out of bed and start walking again. Pain was his constant companion, making him snappy and irritable. The other kids avoided him, and, eventually, even Barney grew tired of his mood swings, leaving Clint to sulk in peace.

If it hadn’t been for his Dragon and Sister Bernadette, a young and bright nun, Clint would’ve probably gone crazy.

››She’s nice,›› the Dragon hummed the first time Sister Bernadette came to visit.

››She’s just like the others,›› Clint grumbled, and decided to ignore her.

But she wasn’t just like the other nuns, who didn’t even try interacting with Clint any further than their absent-minded smiles and basic gestures got them.

Despite her young age and shy manners, Sister Bernadette wasn’t at all fazed by Clint’s grumpiness and lashing out. Because of her deaf mother, she was fluent in ASL and eager to teach Clint everything she knew. It was a very slow going, but little by little, she wormed her way behind Clint’s defenses to help Clint to learn how to sign properly.

In the process, they gradually became friends.

››Okay. She’s nice,›› Clint admitted one day, almost a year after the Dutroux catastrophe.

››Ouch,›› his Dragon mock-gasped. ››Did you just admit you like her?››

››Piss off, snail,›› Clint groused.

The Dragon’s hearty laugh echoed around his brain, making him grin into his book.

By the wall, Sister Bernadette ducked her head to hide her smile. It felt good to see Clint grin.

Weeks turned into months, seasons changed, and life in St. Mary’s remained the same.

After finding his bearings again, Clint liked his life in the orphanage. It was nothing fancy, not even near plentiful, but it was peaceful, steady, and most of all, safe. The number of children was a bit jarring at times, but he learned his way around them. Clint had always been a loner, but now, due to his hearing loss and injuries, he turned even more solitary. He didn’t even crave company. He had his Dragon, Barney, and Sister Bernadette, and it was enough. If necessary, he managed bigger crowds, but they made him nervous, because he couldn’t hear if someone approached him from behind.

Fortunately for him, his reputation as the resident orphanage freak pretty much guaranteed he was left alone.

Barney, on the other hand, hated the orphanage with passion. After three years, he felt confined and restricted by their roles and schedules, complaining that his true potential was stifled. Clint wasn’t sure what Barney meant bythat. He tried to ask about it several times, but Barney merely scoffed at him like he was a bit slow. He signed that if Clint was going to pretend he didn’t understand, Barney wouldn’t bother explaining himself.

Whenever Barney became frustrated and angry, his signs were all over the place, almost impossible to read. Fortunately for Clint, Barney usually signed and spoke at the same time, and Clint usually reverted to lip reading when Barney’s hands evolved from ASL to FUBAR, although Clint had to admit that sometimes lip reading was just as difficult as reading Barney’s hands.

Today seemed to be that kind of a day.

”I have to get out! Out, you understand?” Barney exclaimed.

Clint frowned. ”Then go out,” he said, and hoped that his volume was okay. Hard to regulate how loud you were when you couldn’t hear yourself, you know?

Barney threw his hands in the air, yelling at the ceiling. Clint had no idea what the matter was, and, because Barney was half turned away, he couldn’t lip read him. So he turned back to his reading and ignored his brother’s tantrum until Barney slapped his hand over the open pages.

”What are you reading?” Barney signed, calmer now.

Clint raised the book to let Barney read the title.

”’The Song of Roland?’ What the fuck is that?”

Clint shrugged. ”It’s a medieval epic story, knights and battles and shit.”

His Dragon snorted. ››That’s one way of putting it.››

››Shush, snail,›› Clint chided. He didn’t need his Dragon’s input on his daydreams of great heroics and everyday champions.

Barney let out a massive sigh and flopped on his back on Clint’s bed with a dramatic whirl.

”I’m just so bored! Nothing happens here,” Barney said/signed, punctuating ’nothing’ to the point of ridiculousness. ”I’m going to die of boredom!”

Clint narrowed his eyes. ”Boredom is a good way to die, I guess,” he said.

Barney gave him an eyeroll, but had the sense to look a bit sheepish. ”You know what I mean, but, whatever,” Barney signed lopsidedly, slapped Clint on the shoulder, and left.

Clint blinked and shrugged.

››Is he okay?››

››I guess. I don’t really know what’s going on with him.››

Clint was okay, living in the orphanage, but at fourteen, Barney probably wanted more.

››Hmm…›› The Dragon’s response was a non-committal hum, and Clint didn’t read anything more into it.

As time went by, Barney’s restlessness surfaced time and again, more prominent in the spring and summer. He was itching to get away, and, even though Clint didn’t understand his need to leave, he felt sorry for his brother.

The next summer, they visited the traveling circus, and Barney was instantly hooked.

”Don’t you get it? It would be AWESOME!” He signed, grinning widely. ”To travel across the country, free, without any ties to anywhere. We should go!”

Clint frowned. ”You really think so?”

”YES!” Barney shouted, and Clint didn’t need a sign to get that.

Barney started making elaborate plans right away, and Clint couldn’t help a slight twinge of uneasiness in his gut. He didn’t want to go, didn’t want to trade the calm of St. Mary’s to the uncertainty of a traveling circus. However, they didn’t get a chance to go run away with the circus, because Barney caught a nasty stomach bug from the corn cob stall and spent the next nine days puking his guts out.

By the time he had recovered, the circus was long gone.

When Barney met Laura from the town, he calmed down somewhat. Or perhaps he didn’t calm down as such, but redirected his restless energy on wooing Laura instead of continually pestering Clint.

Clint watched with some bemusement at Barney’s posturing, not really understanding what it all was about. His only experiences with any kind of physical closeness were either hugs from Mama (and, occasionally, from Sister Bernadette) and what he had gone through in Mike Dutroux’s questionable care. But he was happy for Barney. Laura was a nice girl, with an easy smile and the will to learn rudimentary signs to communicate with Clint. However, Clint suspected that Laura was more a distraction and a way for Barney to escape the dullness of his life in the orphanage, than his true love, which was why he wasn’t surprised when it ended several months later.

The worst thing was that Barney’s restlessness returned with a full force. He became almost obsessive about getting away, presenting Clint even more elaborate plans of escape. It was only a matter of time until Clint woke up to Barney tugging him out of his bed in the middle of the night and dragging him along, refusing to say anything.

Ignoring the apprehension in his gut, Clint followed him to the back doors. Then he stopped and refused to budge until Barney turned to face him.

”What are we doing, Barney?” He whispered.

Of course, Barney didn’t say anything. It was night, so Clint couldn’t see him even if he was trying to sign. Instead, Barney shoved a piece of paper at Clint and showed some light from his flashlight.

”WE’RE RUNNING TO CIRCUS!”

”What?” Clint hissed, and his Dragon grumbled ››This is a bad idea,›› at the same time, uneasiness rolling inside his head.

Barney shook his head, shook the piece of paper, and pointed at the door.

”Barney, we can’t! All my stuff —” Clint started to whisper furiously, but then Barney swung the flashlight to point at the floor. When Clint glanced down, he saw a haphazardly packed bag with some of his clothes spilling out.

Barney shoved the paper against Clint’s chest, turned, and started walking towards the door.

Torn, Clint looked back towards the dorms.

Despite the lack of pretty much everything, St. Mary’s was the only stable place Clint had lived in his life. It was home. The calm environment made him feel safe, the daily routines helped him ground himself, and he didn’t feel like such a freak, with his deafness, Dragon, and everything.

››You’re NOT a freak, Clint!›› The Dragon snapped.

››You know what I mean.››

The Dragon huffed. ››Nevertheless.››

Clint let out a resigned sigh and turned around. The orphanage might feel like home, but Barney was his brother, his only family. Without Barney, he had nothing.

With a heavy heart, he picked up his bag, tugged the zipper shut, and hurried after his brother.

Clint wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when Carson’s Carnival Of Traveling Wonders wasn’t as glorious as Barney had made it sound. There was the Big Top, caravans, animal cages, and cotton candy stalls, but as a whole, it looked a bit… sad. But Barney was feeling happy and carefree, grinning so widely that Clint was sure his face would split, so Clint swallowed his doubts and gave his brother an answering smile.

They weren’t the only kids in the circus, which was probably the reason why Carson took them in, even though Clint was sure he knew Barney lied about their ages. Barney might have passed as a seventeen-year-old, but there was no way anyone believed Clint was fifteen: he was small and scrawny even for the boy of thirteen he actually was.

That night, Clint fell asleep on the back of the zebra cages, surrounded by Barney’s happy fidgeting and the smell of hay, the lullaby of his Dragon humming in his head.

When they got the hang of it, the life in the circus wasn’t that different from the life at St. Mary’s.

To get everything rolling smoothly, there was a strict routine to follow every day, and the hierarchy was even more rigid than in the orphanage. Clint’s days were filled with chores, from shoveling dung in the animal cages to climbing up the Big Top to attach pennants to juggling for the customers waiting in line to get in. Mostly, it was pure and hard physical labor, something he didn’t need his ears to get by.

During the first days after their arrival, Barney made sure the whole circus knew Clint was deaf, and that if anyone wanted to give Clint shit about it, they would have to have a conversation with Barney’s fists first. As a result, nobody bullied Clint, but nobody really talked to him either, apart from brief instructions shouted with exaggerated articulation or basic rudimentary signs Barney taught them.

It soon became a common knowledge that Clint was not only deaf but a bit stupid too, which made his life rather lonely. Apart from his Dragon, Barney, and the animals, Clint didn’t have friends or anyone to talk to. In truth, it wasn’t such a big change compared to St. Mary’s, but sometimes Clint missed Sister Bernadette with a force that left a hollow ache in his chest.

Barney thrived. He loved the unconventional, bohemian lifestyle of the circus, the constant moving, new towns, and new people. He was a natural charmer when he chose to be, able to talk his way in and out from almost anything. Between the two of them, Barney was the smart one, and Clint was more than okay with it. He'd much rather stay in the background and let Barney shine.

After weeks of begging, Barney had somehow managed to talk the Swordsman over to teach him how to throw knives. Sometimes, if he had time, Clint trailed after Barney to watch him practice, cocking his head and trying to figure out the mechanics behind each throw. Barney was a fast learner, but he lacked discipline and wasn’t that keen on listening to instructions, which often resulted in a messed-up throw. On pure instinct, Clint knew what Barney would have to do to fix things, but he was smart enough not to say anything out loud.

Instead, he asked if Barney would like to teach him too. Graciously, Barney complied, eager to show off.

The first time Clint threw the knife, he felt a surge of something.

››What was that?›› He asked his Dragon, bewildered.

››I don’t know,›› the Dragon answered, confused. ››Throw again.››

When he had the knife in his hand, it was like everything slowed down and came into focus. His whole being centered on the target and it felt like there was a straight line from his hand to the exact center of the bullseye. He threw again, again, and again, each throw following more rapidly and with more force than the previous one, and he never missed.

Annoyed, Barney narrowed his eyes and made him move further from the target, but it made no difference. Clint just adjusted and hit the bullseye again. Focused on his throwing, Clint didn’t realize they had attracted quite an audience until Barney made him stop.

Slightly dazed, Clint glanced around to see the surprised and appreciative faces of the carnies. Confused, he turned to look at Barney, who had walked over the target to collect the knives. When he turned around to face Clint again, he was scowling, something bitter residing in the corners of his eyes. It made Clint’s gut go clammy and cold.

Clint was about to ask Barney what was wrong, when he felt a strange pressure and prickling on his neck, like something was burning into the skin right on his nape. There was something oddly familiar about it, and it made his skin crawl and bile burn in his throat.

››Clint!›› His Dragon shouted, it’s voice edging on panic.

Understanding washed over Clint and, even before turning, he knew what he would face.

There, across the yard, a massive Dragon was leaning on one caravan, staring calmly at him with a small smile playing on his lips.

With a quiet sob, Clint turned and fled.

After the discussion with Natasha, the Dragon had barely been able to contain its impatience, but Phil was determined to proceed at his own pace. Their earlier confrontation had been a clear indication of what the Dragon sharing his mind was able to do, and, if Phil was to survive and find Clint, he would have to learn how to cope with it. Fortunately, he had had more than enough experience with dealing with highly intelligent and dangerous personalities with the emotional age of a toddler and no impulse control.

After checking via JARVIS that it was alright for him to come out, Phil made his way from Banner’s guest quarters to the communal kitchen. The team was present, either because they actually spent time in the common area or, Phil actually suspected, because JARVIS had warned them about Phil’s plans.

Phil didn’t miss the way they eyed him warily. He couldn’t really blame them.

The team was forgotten as Phil got his hands full with a teary-eyed Pepper Potts.

”Phil! They told us you were dead!”

Phil cleared his throat. ”It would seem that the rumors of my death have been slightly exaggerated,” he deadpanned.

Pepper stared at him for a moment. Then she groaned and punched him on the shoulder. ”That’s a terrible joke.”

Phil shrugged, offering her a rueful smile.

With a more somber look, Pepper cupped Phil’s face between his hands and stared him intently in the eye. ”Never do that again, you understand? Never.”

Something caught in Phil’s throat and he swallowed. ”Okay,” he said, a little hoarsely.

Inside his head, the Dragon hummed thoughtfully.

Banner had made a huge pot of Indian lentil stew, and Phil practically inhaled the portion offered him. It felt good to have hot, wholesome, and spicy food in his system after the long and exhausting day. He made some polite small talk with Captain Rogers (”Please, sir, you should call me Steve if you’re going to live here.” — ”Fine, but only if you stop calling me sir.”), watched Natasha slip in and out of his periphery, and sensed his Dragon’s vague unease whenever Thor approached Phil. It was yet another thing to talk about later.

After eating a couple of naan breads, two bowls of lentil stew, and politely declining the third, Phil was ready to return to the guest quarters. To the Dragon’s den, he snorted at himself. The Dragon inside his head wasn’t amused.

He didn’t get further than to the doorway, however, when Stark ambushed him.

”Here,” the genius said, shoving a StarkPad at Phil. ”Here's everything I know about full Dragons. It’s not much, but perhaps it helps.”

Phil blinked. ”Thank you,” he said, genuinely touched.

Stark cleared his throat and avoided Phil’s eyes. ”It’s nothing,” he shrugged. ”He — Clint, I mean — had StarkTech hearing aids with a GPS tracker, but they’re offline. Probably fell off when he went all Saphira on us, except that Saphira was female and acted like a disapproving granny with sand in her pants. I don’t think Hawkeye is a granny, even though I wouldn’t object seeing him in a dress some day.”

Phil blinked at the non-sequitur.

Stark shook his head and cleared his throat. ”Anyway, if someone can figure out the way to get our Legolas back, it’s you. But you need to sort out your head first.”

He started to turn to get back to the others, but Phil stopped him by grabbing his arm.

”No, I mean it. Thank you,” Phil said seriously.

Stark met his eyes, and nodded. ”You’re welcome.”

Back in his room, Phil went to sit cross-legged on the bed, leaned his back against the wall, and set the StarkPad beside him. Taking a couple of deep breaths to center himself, he closed his eyes and concentrated.

››We need to talk,›› he said, directing his words where he sensed the Dragon resided.

››Are you planning on caging me again?›› The sneer in the Dragon’s voice didn’t surprise Phil.

››Do I have to?›› Phil asked mildly.

The Dragon didn’t answer.

Phil rolled his shoulders. ››How do you wish to proceed?››

››Why are you asking me?››

››Because between the two of us, you’re the one with experience of a shared consciousness. I am, like you said, ’small, weak, old, and injured.’››

There was a pause. ››I might have underestimated you,›› the Dragon said carefully.

Phil blinked. ››Okay,›› he said slowly, slightly bewildered about where the conversation might go from there.

››I would like to learn about you,›› the Dragon said after a moment of shared silence. ››Who you are, what you do, how you feel. If we are to share our lives, we should start by getting to know each other.››

Phil frowned. ››Don’t you already know? I mean, you are in my head. I kind of thought you would’ve learned all about me on your own.››

There was a sharp hiss and the Dragon recoiled. ››I would not invade your privacy like that!››

››You tried to overpower me,›› Phil reminded flatly.

››That is different. A struggle for power is honest. Trying to pry your life without your explicit permission would be dishonorable and cowardly.››

The Dragon sounded a lot like Thor. Phil wondered if that was one of the reasons it felt wary around the god of thunder.

››Later, when I know you, I should be able to predict your actions based on your history and personality, and provide advice if needed. But for now, I need you to tell me.››

Phil nodded. Right.

››My full name is Phillip James Coulson,›› Phil began. It felt like a briefing. ››I was born in Manitowoc, Wisconsin on July 8th 1964, which means I’m 48 years old. My parents were Robert and Julia Coulson, both deceased. I’m an only child, a Captain America nerd, and a lover of old, classic cars.

››I was recruited to SHIELD straight from the high school, but Nick — that’s Director Fury nowadays — encouraged me to enlist and complete my ranger training. I was 26 when I became a full SHIELD agent, and that’s what I’ve been ever since. I’ve never been married, and, as far as I’m aware, I have no children.››

There was a contemplative silence, then the Dragon hummed. ››But that’s only the shell. Who are you, Phillip James Coulson?››

Phil frowned. ››I’m not sure I understand. What else do you want to know?››

››Everything!›› The Dragon let out an impatient huff. ››This does not work. It would be so much easier for me to look for myself.››

››What do you mean?›› Phil asked warily.

››I would like to look at you, the true you. Your memories.››

Phil froze.

››I will not look deeper, unless you give me permission to do so. I swear that on my honor.››

In all honesty, Phil wasn’t sure he could trust the honor of an alien entity inhabiting his brain, but he also figured he didn’t have much choice. The Dragon was right: if they intended to live, they had to learn to work together. Besides, Phil was quite sure the complete privacy of his own mind was already gone.

He set his jaw, took a deep breath, and asked, ››What do you want me to do?››

››Just try to relax,›› the Dragon said.

Nodding once, Phil tried to do exactly that.

At first, he felt nothing, just the beating of his heart and the regulation of his breathing. Then he felt like he was gently pushed aside, something stepped forward, and started filing through his memories. It was… indescribable.

— Dad’s smile when he explained how to fix the carburetor —
— His first home run on the Little League —
— Mom’s ashen face when dad died —
— His first kiss with Janice in the prom —
— The glint in Nick’s eyes when Phil said yes to SHIELD —
— The first blowjob he ever gave —
— Getting his ranger tattoo —
— Melinda’s laughter —
— Peru and Camilla Reyes —
— Getting his level six clearance —
— Mom’s funeral —
— The disaster of Akela Amador —
— The wide planes of Michael’s skin under his palm —
— Clint kneeling in front of him, waiting to die —
— The look in Melinda’s eyes after Bahrain —
— ”I am Iron Man!” —
— Audrey’s sleepy smile —
— The heat of the Destroyer’s flame in Puente Antiguo —
— ”Barton’s been compromised.” —
— Loki’s giggle —
— The desperate terror in Clint’s eyes right before jumped off the Helicarrier —

It felt like time was standing still or rushing forwards, and Phil was frozen in the notebook of what seemed like the most memorable events of his life. When the Dragon finally retreated, Phil felt like he had run a marathon. He was trembling, his head was a mush, and he had trouble focusing his thoughts. Taking big gulps of air, he tried to will his racing heart calm. He could already feel the beginnings of a migraine lurking behind his eyes.

››You are a man of many layers, Phillip James Coulson,›› the Dragon said thoughtfully.

”If you say so,” Phil muttered and slowly keeled over. ”I need a nap.”

››Sleep. I’ll keep watch,›› the Dragon murmured.

Somewhere between wondering if there was a need to keep watch and how could the Dragon know what was going on when he was out, Phil dozed off.

When Phil woke up, the room was pleasantly dim. He wasn’t sure whether the lights were low or if it was night.

”JARVIS, could you tell me what time it is?”

”Certainly, Agent Coulson,” the AI answered. ”It’s 11:15 pm. You were asleep for almost five hours.”

The Dragon sputtered. ››What is that?›› Phil got the distinctive image of an annoyed, hissing and spitting cat.

››It’s Stark’s AI. It runs… well, everything.››

››I cannot sense it.››

››That’s because it’s an elaborate computer program. It has no body, but basically, it goes wherever Stark goes.››

The Dragon fell silent for a good while. ››So… it is like a Dragon for Stark?››

Phil huffed a laugh. ››I’ve never thought about it like that, but, I guess you could call JARVIS that.›› He raised his head a bit and grinned. ”JARVIS? Would it be correct to address you as Stark’s Dragon?”

The AI let out an undignified sound. ”It would certainly fit Sir to design himself a Dragon of his own when he failed having enough Dragon genes to produce a regular Dragon.” It paused for a split second, then continued, more seriously. ”No-one has compared me to a Dragon before. I would like to express my sincere thanks to your Dragon for the compliment.”

››He is most welcome,›› Phil’s Dragon said.

Phil wondered how had this become his life, what with JARVIS and the entity in his head having polite conversation with each other.

››Are you feeling better?›› The Dragon asked after a moment.

››Yes, thank you,›› Phil said, a bit surprised at the genuine concern in the Dragon’s voice. As he got up and stretched, there were a series of pops from his spine, and Phil grimaced at the aches in his joints. Even though he seemed to have recovered just fine from his encounter with Loki, apparently his age still managed to creep up on him.

››I have questions,›› the Dragon said.

Phil sighed. ››I’m sure you have. Can you hold on until I’ve used the bathroom and gotten something to eat?››

››I believe I can,›› the Dragon said graciously.

Phil huffed and rolled his eyes as he went to take a quick shower.

Afterwards, when he went into the communal kitchen to prepare himself a light supper, he was pleasantly surprised to find a ready-made tray in the fridge with his name on top. The handwriting was Natasha’s, but Phil was quite sure the cold pasta dish, turkey sandwich, and fruit salad were not of her doing. The electric kettle and a box of herbal tea on the kitchen counter spoke strongly about Banner. For a moment, Phil contemplated staying in the kitchen, but decided to eat in the privacy of his quarters instead, considering the uncomfortable talk he knew was ahead of him.

While Phil sat on the bed and ate, they discussed mundane things, his Dragon asking questions about daily activities, and Phil providing a somewhat shortened version of Human Life 101. When he was done eating and on his second cup of herbal tea, he once again leaned against the wall. Time to face the music.

››You had questions,›› he said. ››What do you want to know?››

The Dragon didn’t even pause to think. ››Why was our mate kneeling in front of you, expecting to die?››

Phil sighed. ››Counter-question: why do you keep calling Clint ’our mate?’››

››Because that is what they are. They belongs to us — with us.››

Phil closed his eyes and shook his head. ››I already told you: He doesn’t belong to anyone but himself. You can’t own someone.››

››Who said anything about owning?›› The Dragon asked, confused.

››You did.››

››No, I did not,›› the Dragon huffed. ››Belonging is not the same as owning. They belong to us like we belong to them.››

››But —››

››Dragons do not force other Dragons. It is not allowed.››

Silence.

A low growl filled Phil’s head.

››Phillip James Coulson, explain why our mate ran away in panic when he realized what we are.››

››Clint was abused as a child, and Natasha said that at least one of the abusers had been a full Dragon.›› Phil paused. ››Unfortunately, I have a good guess what was done to him.››

››What? Tell me!››

Phil hesitated. He had interpreted much about Clint’s behavior since the day they had first met, and Natasha’s words had only added to his nagging suspicion. However, he was reluctant to share his thoughts, his need to protect Clint making him hesitate.

The Dragon was in no mood for waiting, though. It snarled and tore into Phil’s mind in a whirlwind, forcibly shoving Phil aside as it went.

Phil could feel the moment the Dragon understood. Its shock, revulsion, and rage reverberated through Phil’s skull in a blinding wave, engulfing him in a torrent of intense emotions. He was barely able to gasp a pained ”JARVIS!” before he was dragged under.

When he slowly swam back into consciousness, it was to a peculiar feeling of being a passenger in his own body. He was laying on his side, and once again, sporting a massive headache. It was becoming a pattern.

”This world is very different from what we have grown used to,” he heard Thor say gravely.

”I am beginning to realize that,” Phil said.

Except it wasn’t Phil.

Bewildered, he realized his mouth had moved and sound had come out, but it wasn’t him that had been doing the talking.

”Calm down, Son of Coul, you are safe,” Thor said, gently gripping his shoulder. ”The mighty warrior cohabiting your mind asked for me, and I am here to provide him councel.”

”Thank you, Thor of Asgard,” Phil heard himself say, oddly formal.

”You are welcome, Warrior of the Kree,” Thor answered gravely.

Then Phil felt the Dragon’s presence shift and fade back into the back of his mind, and his self being gently pushed forward.

Stark’s face swam into Phil’s line of sight. ”Agent?”

”Present,” Phil answered. ”What happened?”

Thor gently helped Phil to sit up, providing him much-needed support as his head swam. Apparently, he had had another nose bleed. Delightful.

”You called, we came,” Stark said, watching him sharply with narrowed eyes.

”Aye,” Thor agreed somberly. ”When we arrived, you were in a rage. However, we soon realized it wasn’t you but the warrior in you that was enraged.”

”It was screaming murder for ’the wrongdoers.’ It was very dramatic. Really Shakespearean,” Stark said. He sighed and added, more softly, ”It had something to do with our family drake.”

In the back of Phil’s mind, the Dragon hissed in annoyance. Phil ignored it, and raised his brow at Stark instead.

”Your Dragon seemed to take very personally everything Clint had gone through,” Stark said. ”Especially the possibility of another Dragon hurting Clint.”

››It is forbidden!›› The Dragon growled.

››Any kind of an abuse of a minor is illegal, Dragon or no Dragon,›› Phil said, even though he already knew that, to his Dragon, it was the idea of a Dragon abuser that enraged it the most.

”Thunderbird here was able to talk it down,” Stark said. ”Seems like the honor code of the Asgardians and the Kree are somewhat similar. I stopped listening at the second bout of thees and thous.”

Phil frowned. ”The Kree?”

Thor nodded. ”A mighty warrior race my people is aware of. We do not interact much.”

››The Asgardians think the Kree are butcherers,›› the Dragon said dryly, at the same time as Thor flatly said, ”The Kree are ruthless and thrive on war.”

”Well, nice to have that settled,” Phil deadpanned and made a half-hearted attempt to get up.

Thor didn’t say anything else, but helped Phil up and supported him to sit on the bed.

”Bruce would like to check you up, if the Godzilla is amiable,” Stark said.

Phil nodded, his lip twitching at the Dragon’s confusion about the newest nickname Stark had come up with.

As it turned out, Phil’s blood pressure was high, he had a low-running fever, and he was showing a wide variety of stress signs. Banner shook his head and frowned, but didn’t scold him. Phil figured that Banner of all people knew the costs of trying to control something powerful that was living inside oneself. What Banner did tell, however, was that if the rage fits continued, Phil was in serious risk of an intracranial bleeding.

Phil nodded, thanked Banner for the check-up, and pushed the warning into a corner of his mind labeled ”later.”

In the following days, Phil and his Dragon talked over Phil’s memories. It was intense and emotional, but, as a whole, calmer than the discussion about Clint’s past. The Dragon didn’t lose its temper in a white-hot rage again, even though it was brimming with fury on several occasions. Phil let it dictate what they talked about, figuring it was easiest that way. As it was, the Dragon was strangely curious about things Phil might have brushed off as insignificant, like Phil eating pancakes in a desert diner, and completely ignored things Phil had thought world-shaking, like the day he had learned his mother had died.

They had lengthy discussions about what had happened to Melinda, about the persona of Tony Stark, the secrets Fury kept from everyone, and whether or not Natasha actually ever went to Bolshoi to learn ballet.

And, of course, they talked about Clint.

Phil wasn’t blind: he had obviously noticed Clint’s good looks. As an openly bisexual man he could fully appreciate the lethal beauty that was Clint’s body, but he had never considered there might be more. He certainly hadn’t thought Clint might have wanted more. The archer had never implied anything, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Clint had always been extremely private about his feelings and things that could be considered as weaknesses.

››Do you mean you did not recognize him as your mate?››

Phil sighed. The Dragon kept steadfastly calling Clint their mate, using a reverent tone, like they were soul-bonded or something.

››No, I didn’t. And even if I had, I wouldn’t have acted on it.››

››Explain.››

Phil pinched the base of his nose. ››First of all, he’s 14 years younger than I,›› he said, ignoring the Dragon’s impatient huff of ››Semantics.››

››Second, I was his superior officer, which meant there was a definite power imbalance on my favor. Thirdly… Clint has massive trust issues. He’d been more or less abused by authority figures for his whole life, and even when in SHIELD, he still thought he was expendable. Him kneeling in front of me after a busted operation, grateful that I would end him myself, was a clear sign of his view of the world and his place in it.››

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Phil was grateful they were having the conversation in the privacy of his own head, because he wasn’t that sure his voice would’ve held steady.

››So, you did nothing.››

››I did my everything to be a safe, steady, and reliable person in his life,›› Phil snapped.

››And look how well that turned out.››

››I didn’t exactly expect to be brought back to life as the very embodiment of what Clint fears the most!››

The Dragon was silent for a good while. ››What do you want to do?››

››We need to find him. I don’t care that you believe we belong together, but I don’t want him out there, thinking I want him dead.››

››What do you suggest?››

››We need a team.››

From the start, Clint knew he had no chance.

Trick Shot, the Dragon who had noticed him on the knife throwing lane, didn’t let Clint out of his sight. No matter where Clint went or where he tried to hide, Trick Shot knew where he was. Not that Clint actually had places to hide: as one of the oldest members of the act, Trick Shot knew the circus way better than Clint. He was also an adult and in tune with his Dragon, while Clint was thirteen, and had barely started to learn what he and his Dragon were capable of. So far, they had mainly achieved enhanced awareness of their surroundings, the Dragon’s senses compensating Clint’s deafness.

The biggest advantage (or disadvantage, depending on how you thought about it) was that now Clint was always aware of Trick Shot, the other full Dragon’s presence felt like crawling under his skin.

Trick Shot shadowed him everywhere, always a little distance away, never imposing or pushing into Clint’s personal space. But he was there: Clint could see him from the corner of his eyes, could feel his stare as a prickling on his neck, could sense his presence hovering nearby. It didn’t matter whether Clint was shoveling dung in the horse stalls, climbing the tightrope, or queueing for scraps for supper, Trick Shot was there to watch over him.

It was as terrifying as it was grating on his nerves.

After two months, Clint had had enough. One day, when he was sweaty, tired, hungry, and pissed off at Barney dumping all the chores for him again, Clint strode straight to Trick Shot, ignoring his Dragon’s urgent ››No no no no no! Clint, don’t!››

Stopping in front of the older man, Clint narrowed his eyes, and spat, ”What do you want?”

Trick Shot’s eyes flashed, and for a split second, Clint thought his life was over. But instead of charging right at him like Mike Dutroux would’ve done, Trick Shot grinned, mouth full of teeth.

”You,” he said, clearly enough for Clint to lip read without a problem.

His courage left him in a whoosh. Clint turned and ran.

Of course, he had nowhere to run, not really. The circus was too small, and running away completely wasn’t an option because Clint would never leave Barney behind. Instead, he tried to hide in his chores. It worked only so far and, eventually, he had to emerge to eat and sleep.

When he did, Trick Shot continued to circle him, like nothing had happened. He didn’t exactly do anything, but his behavior was a loud and clear enough for the other carnies to look away. The man was quite high on the hierarchy, and no-one was willing to cross him.

Of course, that also meant that no-one was willing to help Clint.

Not that he needed help. He was just fine, right?

The circus was constantly on the move. As winter approached, Carson steered them south. Clint wasn’t sure if it was for the love of traveling or Carson’s need for money, but he didn’t really care. The work was the same day in and day out, and the only thing Clint was interested in was whether or not he would get enough food each day.

Barney had managed to talk Swordsman over to take him as an actual apprentice, and acted like he was on top of the world as a result. Clint had congratulated him like a good brother, and then gone back to cleaning the animal cages. After his status had been elevated, Barney had quickly shoved all his chores to Clint, because apparently they were now beneath him. Clint didn’t complain: the increased workload gave him a way to hide from Trick Shot.

Trick Shot continued to keep an eye on Clint, and he was slowly starting to get used to it. It was still uncomfortable, knowing he had a Dragon staring at his back, but since the man hadn’t actually done anything, Clint tried to ignore him for the time being. Sometimes, in the privacy of his bunk, when he was tired enough, he entertained the idea of confronting the man, to demand him to make his move or leave him alone. However, those plans never lasted longer than the night, his courage vanishing with the morning mist as soon as Clint caught a glimpse of the man.

Ever since the first time with the knives, Clint kept on practicing every now and then. Hitting the bullseye was easy, and he soon found himself lost inside his own head, completely focused on the target and the motion of his hand. He tried to practice in secret, because he already knew it didn’t take him much to become better than Barney. He didn’t want that.

But of course Barney found out and had a hissy fit right there, at the throwing lane.

”So are you trying to get my place now?” Barney seethed with narrowed eyes, not bothering to sign at all.

”No,” Clint said, furiously shaking his head. ”I just want to practice, that’s all.”

”That’s right,” Barney said, jabbing Clint painfully in the chest. ”You better make fucking sure that’s all.” He spat on the ground and stormed away.

Clint was left standing there, blinking after his brother.

When someone touched his shoulder, Clint startled and whirled around. To his bewilderment, he came face to face with Trick Shot, and his jaw dropped. He hadn’t sensed the Dragon coming near him.

His shock must’ve been obvious, because Trick Shot raised his brow and let out a chuckle.

”Surprised you, didn’t I? With training, you can learn to hide your true nature from other Dragons just like I do. It’s easy,” he grinned again, showing too much teeth.

It was tempting.

››It’s a bad idea,›› Clint’s Dragon warned.

Clint sighed internally. ››Yeah, it probably is. But do I have a choice?››

His Dragon didn’t have an answer for that, so, after a moment of hesitation, Clint nodded.

Trick Shot’s eyes flashed. ”Good!”

When Barney found out that Trick Shot had taken him as an apprentice, he collapsed with laughter.

”You? An archer? Do you even know how to shoot arrows?”

Clint shrugged. ”I can learn,” he said and pretended to concentrate on his book.

Barney didn’t call him on it, didn’t try to sign to him, just got up and left, shaking his head as he went.

The training started easy. Trick Shot made him practice with a smaller bow first, testing his reflexes, his aim, and his strength. When it became obvious that both his aim and reflexes were way beyond average, Trick Shot started pushing him. He gave Clint a bigger bow, moved the targets further and further away, and made him pull hour after hour, until Clint was a trembling mess of spent muscles.

And the next day, they started all over again.

It was grueling, exhausting, and sometimes plain cruel, but Clint couldn’t deny that he enjoyed it. Shooting the bow grounded him, made him calm and centered, and let him enter a headspace where only the target and his aim mattered. Hitting the bullseye time and again gave him a sense of belonging, a deep satisfaction that hummed under his skin.

After Clint had mastered the bow, Trick Shot demanded him to train on the tightrope and trapezes, on horseback, and blindfolded. The last one was trickiest because Clint didn’t have his hearing to help out, but he learned to sense the space around him and to use the miniature changes in air pressure to his advantage. His bond with his Dragon grew steadily stronger and he learned to trust implicitly in its intuition and guidance. However, in silent agreement, they decided to keep the depth of their connection secret from Trick Shot, just to be on the safe side.

When Clint turned fourteen, Trick Shot told him that he would enter Trick Shot’s show as an assistant. Clint had no idea how Trick Shot had made Carson to agree on the addition, but perhaps the director was just curious about what turn the performance would take. Determined to make the new show a success, Trick Shot revved up Clint’s training, pushing him more and more, until Clint thought he would break into pieces and fly away.

He didn’t, though, and the new show with Clint standing on the tightrope shooting at the coins Trick Shot threw at him was a success.

Slowly, Clint gained fame and name, and, as his part gradually gathered more applause than Trick Shot’s performance, he was given his own solo act as ”The Hawkeye.” It was thrilling and terrifying, but with Trick Shot’s relentless coaching, Clint mastered his part. It was an elaborate act combining acrobatic moves on the tightrope and the trapeze, shooting upside down, with the blindfolded scene being the highlight of his performance.

His act was an instant hit, and, as he started to draw even more audience, Carson granted him more performance time. Clint was slightly worried it would make Trick Shot angry, but he seemed mainly amused.

Two weeks after Clint’s Hawkeye routine had made it to the grapevine, Trick Shot invited him to his trailer after the night’s show and offered him a shot of whiskey. Clint was slightly confused, but accepted, because he didn’t know how to decline.

”Good,” Trick Shot said and his eyes started to glow. ”Now, kneel.”

Clint frowned and opened his mouth to ask why. Trick Shot’s eyes flashed, and with sudden dread, Clint dropped on his knees. Confused, he started to look up, but froze when he saw the bulge in Trick Shot’s pants.

Trick Shot tapped a finger on Clint’s chin to make him look up. ”Open your mouth,” he said and opened his pants and freed his cock. It was hard and veiny, and there was a drop of clear liquid on the swollen head.

It looked huge.

Clint’s Dragon let out a scared shout. ››Clint, no!››

Trick Shot squeezed Clint’s jaw with his fingers. ”I said, open your mouth,” he repeated, slow and menacing.

››I don’t have a choice, have I?›› Clint said to his Dragon.

Resigned, he opened his mouth.

”Good boy,” Trick Shot growled and pushed in.

The cock was big, and Clint gagged around it. It was hot and weird and, as Trick Shot pulled back, it left an odd aftertaste on Clint’s tongue. He barely had time to draw a breath before Trick Shot thrusted back in, holding Clint’s head steady with both hands. Soon, Clint felt light-headed because of the lack of air and choked at the cock pressing relentlessly down his throat before Trick Shot pulled back a bit and then shoved back in again.

It went on like that for a while. Clint couldn’t see from the tears leaking from his eyes, and his nose was filled with the wiry hair at the base of Trick Shot’s cock, and his jaw ached for forcing his mouth open for so long. He could feel his Dragon snarling in the back of his mind, but he willed it be silent, concentrating on getting air whenever he could, wishing it was already over.

After what seemed like an eternity, Trick Shot’s moves became erratic, and after a couple of shallower thrusts, he pushed as far in as he could, grinding against Clint’s face, ignoring his gagging. Clint’s eyes went wide with panic when he felt the cock harden even more and then start pulsing. He tried to get away, tried to pull back, but Trick Shot held him still, forcing him to take the load of liquid spilling down Clint’s throat.

When it was finally over, Trick Shot pulled back and released Clint. He slumped forward, coughing and fighting to get his lungs working again, trying to clear the ringing in his head. He was still heaving, when Trick Shot cupped his jaw and made him look up. Absently, Clint noticed that Trick Shot had tucked himself back into his pants and his eyes were no longer glowing.

”This is how you pay for your training, Clint,” the man said. ”Next time, don’t backtalk.”

Without a further word, Trick Shot jerked his head to make Clint leave before he turned to rinse the whiskey glasses in the sink. Clint scrambled up and blindly made his way out of the trailer. He barely managed to get behind the zebra cage before his legs gave out. He fell on his hands and knees and threw up until there was nothing but bitterness left.

Later, when Clint stumbled back to the corner of the elephant cage to sleep, the only thing that kept circling in his mind was, This must be what Dragons do, right? Why else would this happen to me?

As time slowly trickled by, Clint’s act gained more name and his show title ”The Hawkeye” eventually turned into ”The Amazing Hawkeye — The World’s Greatest Marksman.” It made him oddly proud, because as ridiculous his spandex-and-rhinestones costume was, his show was amazing. He knew he was good. Trick Shot had trained him well. Clint never, ever missed.

Shooting his bow wasn’t the only thing Trick had trained Clint to do.

What had started as an occasional blowjob in Trick’s trailer, slowly morphed into more. Trick trained Clint to suck his cock until he never gagged, until was able to take him as deep as he could get, relax his mouth, and swallow every drop that spilled down his throat. He learned how to make Trick grunt with pleasure so that he called Clint a good boy. He learned how to lay down on all fours, rest his head down and hold his ass up, relax to take whatever Trick wanted him to take, and clench around him when he told him to.

He learned to be silent and obedient, to be a good boy.

Sometimes, when he was alone, Clint looked down at himself and wondered why his own cock never got hard. Barney boasted how his cock throbbed at the sight of the Romanian acrobat twins bending their bodies this way and that way, or how he had almost come in his pants at the sight of the new sword-swallower showing off with her training routine.

Clint rolled his eyes at Barney’s expletives and went back shoveling dung.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t help wondering.

Was there something wrong with him? Was he broken when his cock never even twitched when he watched girls or boys? Was that why Mike and Trick did what they did?

Did he deserve it all?

His Dragon tried to assure him that he was okay, that there was nothing wrong with him, but how would Clint know? It wasn’t like he had a lot of experience.

But if Clint was honest, it wasn’t all bad. Trick was never drunk and he never hit Clint, which was a giant step up from his previous dealings with older men. And when he fucked Clint, it didn’t hurt like when it had been Mike, albeit it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. At least Trick always made Clint prep himself (unlike Mike) and never fucked without a warning (again, unlike Mike).

And, true to his word, Trick actually trained Clint to hide his Dragon side. He taught Clint how to curl into himself, how to build a wall around his Dragon so that they could still talk, but no-one would be able to detect that Clint was anything else but a regular human. He instructed Clint how to use his abilities to hone his already remarkable skills, making his show (and, as a result, Clint himself) even more amazing. He even helped Clint to purchase his very first hearing aids, a hideous pair of purple monstrosities that Clint decorated with rhinestones. They were awesome.

Clint was aware that it was all fucked up, but as months and then years went by, he slowly adjusted into his new life. He had a purpose, something to do, something he was good at. Perhaps it didn’t matter that much that the only praise he got was either when he was performing in his costume or taking Trick’s cock.

Perhaps it was okay that he was never good as just Clint.

And if he repeated it often enough, perhaps he would eventually start believing it.

Deep down, Clint sort of guessed that, eventually, it would all go to hell. That’s why he wasn’t surprised when he found out that Barney had helped the Swordsman to cheat money from Carson. The only thing he was a bit amazed about, was that they hadn’t been caught sooner, what with all Barney’s unabashed bragging.

When he tried to confront his brother about it, Barney rolled his eyes and told him to get in or get lost or he would make him. Clint tried appealing Barney’s good sense, then his morals, and, when he realized Barney didn’t exactly have either, to the fact that the whole circus would suffer if they went through their plans of robbing Carson for good. Barney didn’t care. Over the years, he had grown bitter and spent his time drinking, reminding Clint more and more of their Dad. He felt that the circus — and, therefore, Carson — owed him big bucks for the years he had given them. Clint didn’t bother reminding Barney that he had never actually contributed the circus, to the contrary.

Unsure of what to do, Clint asked Trick for advice. Trusting his mentor when Trick beckoned him to follow, Clint went with him and never stopped to wonder why Trick led him away from the circus and into a dingy alleyway. He didn’t realize his mistake until after the first blow had knocked him from his feet.

”Did you really think I’d let you ruin everything? That I wouldn’t have a back-up plan for you?” Barney mocked when Clint was lying on the ground, bloody and broken, his hearing aids shattered around him. ”You stupid fuck.”

Swordsman was standing beside Barney, a small smile playing on his lips, and Trick was standing a short distance away with his bow in his hand. He was keeping an eye on things and anyone overly curious from peeking into the alley.

››What is he doing, Clint? Why did he beat us down?›› His Dragon asked, bewildered.

”You just couldn’t leave it be, could you? You fucking idiot, always trying to be better than me,” Barney spat, emphasizing his words with contemptuous signs.

”Barney, why are you doing this?” Clint asked, the pain in his ribs forcing his breath into hoarse sobs.

”What do you think?” Barney asked with a sneer. ”I’m meant for something greater than shoveling shit in a circus. I’m not you.”

”Barney, please!” Clint pleaded.

As Clint tried to crawl to his brother, Barney flinched away. It hurt more than the blows and kicks. From the corner of his eye, he saw Trick swirl around, a faint glow in his eyes.

››Clint, look out!›› His Dragon cried out. ››He’s going to shoot you!››

››He won’t. I’m a Dragon like him,›› Clint insisted, desperately wanting to believe this all was just a cruel dream.

When pain shot through his stomach, Clint didn’t first realize what had caused it. Then, he tried to grouch and look, and saw the arrow shaft protruding from his belly.

Trick had shot him.

The heavy, steel-headed arrow had gone straight through him and buried itself on the ground, anchoring Clint in place, unable to get up or even turn away.

Confused, Clint looked up and saw Trick’s calm eyes looking back.

”I told you not to backtalk, remember?” His mentor said, with a small shake of his head.

Almost curiously, Trick took a hold of the arrow and started slowly pulling it out. When Clint felt the arrowhead catch and tear something on its way out, he started to scream.

”You should’ve learned your lesson,” Trick said, and, with a final twist, yanked the arrow free.

Clint’s voice broke at the blinding pain, and he slumped on the ground.

The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was Barney’s chuckle over the receding crunch of footsteps.

During the following days, Phil and his Dragon had long, detailed conversations about Phil’s life, the human race, SHIELD, the Kree, and what sharing body and mind meant for them. With a speed and easiness that somewhat surprised Phil, they learned to communicate, and even started tentatively experimenting with how the Dragon’s presence affected Phil’s physique and reactions. The results were, frankly, astonishing, and Phil dove into rediscovering his body with fervor and the eager assistance of both Banner and Stark and, of course, Natasha.

When he wasn’t poked by the scientists or being beaten into the tatami by Natasha, Phil immersed himself in the articles Stark had downloaded for him. For a scientific mastermind, Stark proved to be surprisingly unprejudiced, because the articles varied from hard-core medical research studies to medieval folklore and Eastern mythology.

Just like Phil had already guessed, information about full Dragons was pitifully sparse, what with the condition often misdiagnosed as paranoid schizophrenia. However, Stark had JARVIS making a cross-reference chart with different medical research sites regarding said mental illness, drawing up an impressive amount of articles Phil probably wouldn’t have even known to look for.

It was common knowledge that singular Dragon genes enhanced certain physical or mental traits. The more genes person carried, the more prominent the traits became. Throughout the centuries, scientists had searched for a way to modify and multiply the traits to create a superhuman, either to be the ultimate warrior for mankind (read: various religions) or a shining example of human perfection. Erskine’s serum that had created Captain America had come closest, but his research had been lost with his death. Needless to say that the HYDRA experiments, not to mention the Russian research, didn’t share Erskine’s more noble (yet still questionable) aspiration, but concentrated more on brute efficiency instead.

Interestingly enough, the full Dragon genome didn’t make a person superhuman, but ignited a secondary consciousness to develop somewhere in early childhood. There were several theories about the purpose of said consciousness, ranging from split personality disorder, to an unborn twin, to alien mind probe. C.G. Jung’s Theory of Individuation and Persona had gained a lot of recognition up until it had been pushed aside as too occult.

Unfortunately, the damage had been done: after decades of being treated like freaks and lab rats, full Dragons had grown extremely wary, unwilling to come forth and subject themselves to be poked and interrogated. And, having gone through several rounds as a Guinea pig himself, Phil didn’t really blame them.

As an only child and somewhat a loner, Phil had never known what it was like to grow up with someone, to have someone to talk to, to share his childhood memories with someone who knew exactly what he had been through. The idea of having a constant companion, felt — well — alien to him.

With a pang of sadness, he thought about Clint.

What a difference it must’ve made to him, to have someone to talk to, to hear someone amidst all the silence. To have someone he could trust. Without his Dragon, Clint would’ve been truly alone.

Phil sighed and shook his head. Oh, Clint.

Finding out about Clint’s past had changed something. Now, Phil’s Dragon poked and prodded him relentlessly, ignoring Phil’s feeble protests about calling Clint their mate. It wanted to know where Clint had grown up, where he had learned archery, why he had turned to mercenary work, how he had been after coming into SHIELD. Phil tried to answer the best he could, teetering along the precarious line of telling enough and protecting Clint’s privacy.

However, the Dragon seemed slightly gentler in its interrogation. It was like the full-blown berserk fit had scared it — as if it was slightly bewildered about its own knee-jerk violent reaction. Even though the Dragon didn’t push for information, they still brushed Clint’s past every now and then, and Phil could feel its fury simmer on a low fire somewhere in the back of his mind. He knew that if they ever came across Clint’s violators, the Dragon’s rage would boil over in an instant.

If that happened, Phil had no intention to rein it in.

Gradually, they developed a routine for before going to bed. The Dragon would ask Phil something seemingly insignificant about Clint, like what was his favorite food or why had Natasha taken to the habit of calling him ’Malen’kaya Printsessa,’ little princess. Phil would think about it, calling up a related memory, and the Dragon would then look through it gently, carefully, absorbing it with intensity that was slightly uncomfortable.

It wasn’t until a week later that Phil realized what his Dragon was actually doing: glimpse after glimpse, memory after memory, it reminded Phil of the Clint he knew while it slowly learned everything it could. And with the image of every grin, every drawn bowstring, every cup of bad coffee, and every report of insubordination Phil could remember, the Dragon slowly and meticulously forced Phil to face the inevitable truth.

He was head over heels in love with Clint.

Well, shit.

››Tell me about this team you were thinking about.››

Phil was at the Tower’s private gym, running on the treadmill and going over his plans with his Dragon. The gym was almost never silent, and with at least one of the team providing distraction, it was a good exercise for both body and mind, and training had gradually become one of their daily routines. After a couple of weeks, Phil was fully able to have an elaborate conversation with his Dragon while running or lifting weights.

››It’s something I’ve thought about for a long time. The Avengers was more Fury’s pet project from the start, but I’ve always had a dream about a small, mobile unit, something able to work globally. With the situation as it is, it might also prove to be useful when trying to track down Clint.››

In all honesty, he would like to start with a confirmation that Clint was alive. It was three weeks after Clint’s flight, and they still had nothing. After his transformation, Clint had apparently literally flown under the radar, avoiding SHIELD detection completely. So far, there had been no sighting of him in either human or Dragon form in the North-American continent. Of course, there was no data of transmorphed Dragons’ abilities, no info about their flight range, stamina, intelligence, or whether or not the human stayed in control or even aware when in Dragon form. But if Clint’s Dragon was even halfway as cunning, stubborn, and strong as the human himself, Phil would have a very hard time catching them.

The Dragon hummed. ››Who do you have in mind?››

››Some old friends and some new ones. I need both raw power and high intelligence. I want us to be independent, outside SHIELD.››

››You do not trust SHIELD. Not anymore.›› It wasn’t a question.

Shaking his head a little, Phil slowly powered the treadmill down. ››No, I don’t,›› he admitted.

There was an odd hesitancy from the Dragon. ››Would it have anything to do with the blanks in your memory?›› It asked carefully.

Phil’s step faltered minutely. It was such a small stumble that it might have gone undetected, but it was just his luck that Natasha happened to be at the gym. From the corner of his eye, Phil saw her head jerk slightly and her eyes narrowed.

He ignored her and made his way to the shower.

Once safely under the pouring hot water, he asked, ››What blanks?››

››I am not sure,›› the Dragon said. ››When I went through your memories, they seemed to be intact. However, as I looked more closely, I noticed the gray.››

Phil raised his brows. ››The gray?››

The Dragon huffed. ››I cannot explain it. The events were there, but it was like they had been purposefully muddled, the moments all blurred together.›› It growled in annoyance. ››Someone tampered with your mind. I do not like it.››

Phil felt oddly touched. ››I don’t like it either. And…›› he hesitated for a short moment. ››There’s something Nick’s not telling me.››

››Do you think he knows something about your memory loss?››

››Unfortunately, I believe he’s the reason behind it.››

The Dragon’s response was instantaneous. ››He is supposed to be your friend!›› It snarled angrily.

››Stop it!›› Phil snapped. He turned the water off and toweled himself dry while he kept a stern grip on the Dragon. ››He’s still my friend. I don’t know why I’m having blanks in my memory or what Nick’s hiding from me exactly, but I have every damn intention to find out. But I can’t do it here.››

The Dragon let out a garbled sound, somewhere between spitting and growling. ››Fine!›› It finally hissed.

Phil nodded at himself and let the Dragon fume in peace while he got dressed and made his way to the communal kitchen.

Apparently, Steve (Steve! Phil was on first name basis with Captain America!) had been making breakfast, and Phil was greeted with the delicious smell of hash browns, bacon, and blueberry muffins. The rest of the team was present, sans Stark (Phil still refused to call the man Tony), who was most likely passed out at his workshop again after 37 hours of tinkering on something. Phil didn’t exactly keep tabs on him, leaving that to Banner and Pepper.

Steve handed him a full plate of food along with a glass of orange juice and shooed him to sit at the table. Steve had a thing for family dinners, which meant he would gather the team to eat together at least once a day, if possible. Usually it was the breakfast, because it was also the most convenient and practical time to keep up with whatever was going on with the Avengers, SHIELD, and the world.

Phil’s plate was nearly empty and he was on his second cup of Stark’s excellent Jamaican coffee when Natasha’s phone beeped once. He probably wouldn’t paid it much heed, had she not twitched slightly. Instinctively, he braced himself.

”What is it?” He asked calmly.

She sighed once, a content, deliberate breath that told Phil all he needed to know.

”It’s Clint, isn’t it?” It came out as almost broken. His relief was nearly palpable, and without his extensive experience of keeping his calm, he probably would’ve slumped on his chair. Instead, Phil let his eyes close for a moment, feeling a brief flutter of comfort from his Dragon.

”What? Legolas sent Widow a message?” Stark demanded as he stumbled in, all sleep-rumpled and disoriented, and snatched the phone from her hand. Phil raised his brow at the move, but surprisingly enough, Natasha didn’t break Stark’s hand. It spoke volumes about how relieved she actually was.

”This says ’eleven,’” Stark squinted at the screen. ”Why’s our favorite salamander sending us numbers?”

The choice of word ’us’ felt warm in Phil’s chest.

His Dragon let out an annoyed growl. ››Why does he insist on degrading our mate with those flippant names?››

››It’s his way of showing he cares. The moment Stark stops making up nicknames you know you’ve fallen out of his favor,›› Phil explained absently. He didn’t even bother correcting about the mate thing anymore.

››He does not have names for Natasha,›› the Dragon sniffed petulantly.

››Oh, he does, believe me. He’s just smart enough not to say them to her face due to his wish to actually stay alive.››

Natasha gave Stark a cool look. ”’Eleven’ is Hungarian for ’alive.’”

Hungarian? Phil frowned slightly, before he understood. ”Ah, Budapest. Of course,” he said and smiled at Natasha’s small nod.

”Do you want me to try and trace it?” Stark asked. He threw the phone in the air and caught it a couple of times, before he realized whose phone he was playing with. He blinked, cleared his throat, and handed the phone back to Natasha who accepted it with a small quirk of her lips.

”Don’t bother. It was one message from a burner phone that’s already been destroyed, and he most likely sent it from an airport or some central railway station.”

”I assume this is a code between you two,” Steve said. ”Do you have a way to contact him?”

”Yes,” she said.

Steve blinked and narrowed his eyes. ”Will you contact him?”

Phil already knew the answer.

”Absolutely not,” Natasha said calmly.

Steve’s frown was echoed by a genuinely confused, ››Why?›› from Phil’s Dragon.

Phil didn’t bother paying attention to Natasha’s answer, because he already knew. ››Almost from the moment they met, her loyalty has been first and foremost to Clint. She could track him down, but she would burn through her contacts and most likely endanger him in the process, all without knowing if he’s ready to be contacted or not. She won’t betray his trust only because we want to contact him, but she will let him know if he’s in danger.››

The Dragon was silent for a moment, thinking. ››Do you think she will warn him off about us?››

Phil sighed internally, resisting the urge to pinch the base of his nose. ››Honestly? I have no idea.››

The confirmation of Clint being alive spurred Phil into putting his plans of the independent mobile unit in action. For some time now, he had been doing background research about people he considered taking in, and, so far, he had several candidates for the scientists, but only a vague idea of the sniper he wanted. After ten years of working with Clint, Phil was at a loss when trying to figure out a sufficient substitute.

The only person he absolutely wanted was Melinda May, but, unfortunately, she was also the one Phil was most unsure of. Melinda’s mental trauma was so grave there was a real chance she wouldn’t be able to function, not even as a pilot.

Phil also had an idea about a person completely unrelated to SHIELD, someone who could not only to think outside the box, but with the courage to toss the box entirely. SHIELD had been keeping tabs on The Rising Tide hacker group for a while, and Phil had already started planting leads to draw the voice of the movement in, while being extremely careful to wipe all traces of himself to avoid detection. He didn’t exactly want to advertise his unconventional crew choice. He had his reasons.

He talked over his plans with the Avengers, listened carefully for their opinions and input, grateful for Stark’s offer to run extensive background checks on Phil’s candidates. He was slightly concerned about Natasha’s reaction, but it turned out he had worried in vain: Natasha had her own plans, and she merely raised her brow at Phil’s somewhat halting assurances that he wasn’t trying to shove her aside and form a new Strike Team Delta.

”I’m a big girl, Coulson,” she said with an amused quirk on her lips as she poured herself a cup of coffee. ”I think I can manage without you.”

But Phil knew her well enough to see the minute relaxing in her shoulders as she leaned against the kitchen counter. He also knew her well enough to know that she had let him see it.

”I know,” Phil said with a small smile. ”That’s why we trust you.”

A peculiar look ghosted over her eyes at Phil’s choice of pronoun. ”We appreciate that,” she answered softly.

Phil nodded and cleared his throat. ”What are you going to do from now on?”

Natasha took a careful sip from her coffee and glanced at Steve from the corner of her eye. ”I have some… unfinished business. There’s someone I need to track down. A legend.”

Phil’s eyes widened as the implications sunk in. ”Be careful,” he said, even though he knew she was perhaps the only one who could go through with the plan and stay alive.

She snorted. ”Of course.” However, her eyes showed that she appreciated his concern.

As Natasha turned to walk to join the rest of the team, Phil poured himself another cup of coffee.

››What is it?›› His Dragon asked. ››Who is this legend?››

Phil took a gulp. ››Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he exists. The ones that do, call him the Winter Soldier. He’s a ghost.›› He paused and turned to look at Natasha and Steve, sitting comfortably shoulder to shoulder.

››But she knows better.››

››Yes. She’s met him once.››

The Dragon hummed. ››Then it is a good thing she is not going after him alone, is it not?››

Phil let his lips turn into a lopsided smile. He should’ve known his Dragon could pick up Natasha’s tells already. He made his appreciation known and received a self-satisfied purr as an answer.

Now that he had made sure that the team was alright with his decision to move on, he downed the rest of his coffee and nodded his goodbyes as he went out. He had an appointment he had no intention to miss.

After the near catastrophe his last visit to Helicarrier had been, Phil had requested Fury to came to the Avengers Tower. It had taken some cajoling to get Stark grudgingly provide a private meeting room in the more restricted area of the public floors. Phil had easily agreed with him about not letting Fury to the private floors, and had actually encouraged Stark to go overboard with the security. The glee in his eyes had made Phil only vaguely uneasy.

As it was, Fury turned up to the meeting escorted by six security goons. The thunderous look on his face was priceless, and Phil knew that, somewhere in the Tower, Stark was cackling at the surveillance cameras.

The set-up of the meeting room was deliberate: there were only two chairs at the large conference table, and Phil was already sitting down. Phil had to give it to Stark: when he was pissed at someone, he went all the way for payback.

Fury’s eye narrowed, but he sat down on the opposite side of the table.

”Phil,” he greeted.

In the back of Phil’s mind, the Dragon growled. Phil saw how Fury blinked at what most likely was the Dragon’s anger flashing through Phil’s eyes.

››Stay out of this and let me handle him,›› Phil chided his Dragon and waited for the affirmative snort.

He sat in silence for a moment, Then he let out a breath and said, ”Director Fury,” in his most formal voice, the one he reserved for the likes of Justin Hammer and WSC.

Fury blinked. ”I guess I deserve that.”

”Yes, you do,” Phil said mildly.

Fury sighed. ”You wanted to see me.”

”Yes.” Phil didn’t elaborate, but watched Fury, and took juvenile delight at the way the man twitched slightly under his stare.

”Well? Spit it out, Cheese,” Fury grumbled.

”I want the Bus,” Phil said.

Fury snorted. ”You’re not getting the Bus.”

”My apologies, let me rephrase that: I’ll take the Bus,” Phil said with a bland smile.

Fury pursed his lips. ”For what? Don’t tell me you want a team as well?”

”As a matter of fact, I do. It will be of my choosing. We’ll be an independent SHIELD unit. You can give us missions, but I’ll decide where we go and how we handle the operations.”

He handed Fury the folder he had put together, complete with the preliminary team member files and the renovations he wanted on the Bus before they took off.

Fury stared at the files for a good while. Then he shook his head and huffed, ”Motherfucker, Cheese!”

Phil didn’t react, but the Dragon hissed in indignation.

››Don’t bother,›› Phil said. ››That’s pure Nick.››

››The language you humans use…››

››I know. Terrible, isn’t it?›› Phil deadpanned.

”FitzSimmons? Ward?” Fury paused. ”May? Are you fucking crazy?”

Phil shrugged and ignored his Dragons grumble of unease at Ward’s name. ”We’re all a bit mad here.”

That startled a bark of laughter out of Fury. Then he frowned and went through the list one more time.

”Fine,” he finally said with a shake of his head. ”I’ll give you your rabbit hole. But you’re not getting a fish tank.”

When Clint regained consciousness, he found himself in a hospital room with no idea how he had ended there. Carefully, wary about his surroundings, he made a mental inventory of his injuries, trying to pinpoint the exact reason why he was hospitalized. It didn’t take long to realize he was in a deep, deep shit: His eyes were swollen shut, a flash of pain shot up his hands when he tried moving them, and, when he made to turn to his side, he felt like someone had gutted him. Breathing hurt like hell, and everything else was almost as bad.

The familiar hum over silence in his ears meant his hearing aids were gone.

››What happened?›› He asked his Dragon, confused.

The Dragon hesitated. ››You don’t remember?››

››If I did, I wouldn’t ask you, would I?››

There was a moment of silence as the Dragon mulled over his question and how to answer. It felt odd. So far, it hadn’t tried to hide things from Clint.

››What’s the last thing you remember?›› It finally asked.

Clint thought for a second. ››I went after Barney with Trick.››

››And?››

››He led me into an alley where Barney was waiting…›› Clint said slowly and his thoughts trailed away.

Flashes. The alley — Barney — Swordsman — pain — Barney’s sneer as he looked down at Clint.

››He betrayed you,›› the Dragon said.

Clint made an aborted move to shake his head. ››No!››

The Dragon was relentless. ››He betrayed you and stood aside as Trick Shot shot you.›› Its voice took a hard edge. ››He betrayed you and left you to die.››

››No, not Barney. There’s got to be a reason, right?›› Clint almost pleaded. ››He wouldn’t do that, I’m his brother.››

The Dragon hummed. ››He wouldn’t betray and leave you — just like Trick Shot wouldn’t shoot you? And how did that go?››

Clint cringed. ››I’m sorry. You warned me and I didn’t listen.››

There was an odd sense of the Dragon shrugging. ››Well, you got shot. Perhaps you’ll listen to me in the future.››

The words were harsh, but Clint could feel his Dragon’s heartbreak underneath. He was about to answer when he felt the Dragon go tense.

››Someone’s coming.››

››Another Dragon?››

A slight pause. ››No, a regular human.››

Clint hesitated. Since when had his Dragon been able to detect regular humans through its senses?

He didn’t have a chance to ask, when someone took a hold of his arm. Startled, he acted on instinct and jerked his arm away, hissing with pain when the move jostled his stomach. A short moment later, he felt a hesitant hand on his shoulder. With some effort, he forced his eyes open to see a nurse looking at him questioningly.

She asked something, but Clint was too tired to lip read. ”Can’t hear you. ’m deaf,” he mumbled instead and let his eyes slip closed. He hoped it would be clear enough a sign for her to leave him alone.

He sensed movement to his side, then the nurse tapped him on the shoulder again. When Clint pried his eyes open to glance at her, she was holding up a paper.

”STOMACH INJURY. SHOT? LOT OF BLOOD.”

Clint wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that, so he croaked a hoarse ”Yeah.” The nurse nodded and wrote something on the other side of the paper.

”PAIN? HUNGRY?”

”Not hungry, thirsty yes. Painkillers would be nice,” Clint managed.

The nurse nodded again and gave him a small smile. She put the paper and the pen on the bedside table and helped him to drink some gulps of water. Then she made a placating move with her hand, exited the room for a short moment to return with a syringe to inject something into Clint’s IV line.

”Thanks,” Clint croaked as he felt the painkillers kick in.

The nurse smiled again and scribbled something on the paper.

”SLEEP NOW.”

Clint let his eyes slide shut. ”Yeah,” he mumbled before he was dragged under.

As the days creeped past, Clint found out that someone had dumped him just outside the ER doors, unconscious and bleeding to death. The circus had left the day after he had been admitted; no-one had asked after him and no-one had visited him. Despite how Carson had waxed poetic about his show, he had been left behind like a piece of garbage: useless, unwanted, unimportant.

Apparently, his worth as the amazing Hawkeye only went so far as Trick could throw him.

For the first time in his life, he was truly, completely alone. He was seventeen, he had no money, no papers, and nowhere to go. Apart from his marksmanship, he had no skills nor education. If Clint didn’t have his Dragon, he probably would’ve ended everything right there and then. Instead, the Dragon gave him a stinging, snarling lecture about the value of his life, promising to crawl out of his head and tear him to shreds if he ever thought about killing himself again. Clint wanted to point out the lack of its logic, but something made him stop. Perhaps he had a sliver of self-preservation left, after all.

After some contemplation, Clint decided to play the role of a dumb deaf. He knew he wasn’t that bright to begin with, so he guessed it wouldn’t be hard. But he was smart enough to realize that if he waited until he was fully recovered, he would be facing a pretty damn impressive hospital bill without any means to cover it. And no matter how down he felt, Clint wasn’t ready to go to jail. He’d rather die first.

To fool the staff, he exaggerated his pains, walked shuffling and bent in half, holding his side like moving was difficult. He made sure to be always polite and give shy smiles to the nurses, which earned him some extra jellos and sad smiles. As a result, they were more open around him, talked about both their personal lives and the patients, unaware how proficient Clint was in lip reading even from afar. It helped him to learn a lot about his situation and the hospital in general.

He learned that the nurses felt sad for him, pitied him, and were angry that someone would mug such a nice, disabled kid. Clint swallowed his bitterness and pretended he had no clue about their opinions. He was many things, but disabled wasn’t a label he liked to put on himself.

He wasn’t blind to the looks he got, either. Even though he exaggerated his pains, he really needed help to shower and dress up, which meant he soon got used to being at least somewhat naked in front of the nurses. As a performer, his body was his instrument and as such, required to be in the best condition he could get it. Clint didn’t think more about it: it was skin over bones and muscle, meant to pull and draw, tense and release, jump and bend as he commanded. However, the reactions from the staff made him confused. One nurse called him Babyface, the other A Pumpkin, and several of them, both male and female, said he was Gorgeous.

Clint wasn’t sure what to think about that.

››It means they think you look good,›› his Dragon explained one day, after a young male nurse had checked in on him and left with a long look.

Clint scrunched his brow. ››You mean they want to fuck me?››

››Complimenting someone’s looks doesn’t mean they want to have sex, Clint. You should know that.›› The Dragon sighed. ››I know you haven’t had much luck with any kind of relationship, but you really shouldn’t use Mike Dutroux or Trick Shot as a reference for anything.››

Clint gave it a mental shrug. ››What should I use as a reference then? Dad? Barney?››

››Oh for the love of— How about Sister Julienne? Sister Bernadette? Or, you know, your Mother?›› The Dragon snapped.

››You shut the fuck up, snail,›› Clint snarled.

The Dragon growled, but didn’t comment.

They shared an uneasy silence until Clint fell into fitful sleep.

When Clint found out the doctors were about done with him, and planning on transferring him, he decided it was time to go.

On his daily shuffling walks around the ward, he had carefully tracked all escape routes, and taking off was quick and easy. He left a note on his bed, saying ”Thanks and sorry,” and stole a set of scrubs on his way out. He walked unhurriedly, like a tired nurse going home after a long shift, ignoring his bare feet and lack of coat. There was no trace of the shuffling and trembling John Doe that had been the mystery patient for the last couple of weeks. Instead, there was a lean young man, walking with the practiced ease of someone who had honed his body into perfection and knew how to use it.

Several blocks from the hospital, Clint Barton slipped into a dark alley and vanished.

Months and several cities later, when Clint let himself think about the beginning of his new life, he wondered if there was more to thank Trick for than his skill with the bow and his rapidly strengthening connection with his Dragon. Because Clint was pretty sure that without his excellence of sucking cock, he probably wouldn’t have made it. As it turned out, there was a disturbingly big number of perfectly straight men (ha, as if) who would pay handsome money for a pretty boy like Clint sucking their brains out through their dicks.

His skills and especially his ability to effortlessly deep throat pretty much anything soon earned him some name. After some time, Clint didn’t have to do more than appear on the certain street corner and he would have Johns lining up to get a blowjob of their lives.

However, no matter how much he was offered, he never took it up in the ass. He wasn’t going to go down that road ever again.

With the money earned from sucking cock six ways from Sunday, Clint bought passable hearing aids, a sport bow, and a bunch of standard shafts and started practicing. He didn’t think about it much in the beginning. He just wanted to shoot, to disappear into the calm and focused headspace he always found when he had his bow drawn taut. It grounded him in ways nothing else did.

When he felt confident enough, he added several different kunai knives in his training routine and let himself learn everything about target shooting. It unwound something inside him, being free of the restrictions and limitations of his jealous brother. With Barney gone, Clint finally had the chance to push himself to be as good as he could be.

After familiarizing himself with his new equipment, it soon became clear he needed more challenge. Little by little, he took his current city as a moving target, running on the rooftops, jumping ladders, and shooting things at impossible angles, aiming higher and higher each time, raising the stakes in his own head, reveling in his need to better himself.

Of course, it was only a matter of time before his skills were noticed.

One day, when Clint returned from his practice rounds into his hidey-hole of the week, a man was waiting for him.

››Human, no Dragons nearby,›› the Dragon informed immediately, audibly annoyed at itself for not picking up the stranger before entering the nest.

››Thanks for the warning,›› Clint said dryly.

››It won’t happen again,›› the Dragon muttered darkly.

Clint didn’t react to the man sitting on his dingy armchair, but went to the little kitchenette to make himself a cup of instant coffee. He knew it was risky, to turn his back on the stranger, but he also knew it would throw the guy off. Besides, with the help from his Dragon, Clint was aware of his every move.

”You know, I could shoot you for trespassing,” Clint said conversationally from behind his coffee and turned to face the man.

The man snorted. ”With what? Your gear’s here and you carry no gun.”

He started to reach out for Clint’s bow, but his hand had barely twitched when Clint had it pinned by the sleeve on the armrest with his kunai. He didn’t let his face show any of his smugness about the man’s startled jerk.

››Showoff,›› his Dragon huffed.

”Don’t touch my gear,” Clint said calmly, ignoring his Dragon for the time being.

The man bared his teeth in a silent snarl, yanked the kunai off, and tossed it to the side. ”I’m here to offer you a job,” he spat.

Clint raised a brow. ”Really?”

”Yes. We could use a man with your skills.”

Briefly, Clint wondered if the man was talking about his cocksucking, but that assumption was blown the moment the man tossed a slim brown envelope at him. Clint caught it one-handed and peeked inside, only to see a picture.

The man stood up. ”My… employer has an interest of seeing the person in the picture taken care of. So far, our attempts have failed. The person is continuously under guard, and it’s proven impossible to dispose of him.”

The corner of Clint’s mouth twitched. ”Impossible?”

”Yes.”

Clint pursed his lips and dropped his chin to his chest, as if deep in thought. ››What do you say?›› He asked his Dragon.

››Who is he?›› The Dragon asked, meaning the person in the picture.

››Does it matter?››

The Dragon sighed. ››I don’t know. It might. Do you want to do this? And don’t say you don’t have a choice, because you do.››

››I know I do,›› Clint said. He raised his head to give the man a narrow-eyed look. ”What’s your budget?”

The man gave him a sideways look. ”Five thousand now, five thousand after. I assume you have a bank account?”

Only a lifetime of practicing how to keep his reactions to minimum prevented Clint from dropping his jaw on the floor. With that kind of money, he could buy a better bow and arrows, not to mention smaller, unnoticeable hearing aids.

”Yeah, I’ll take the job,” he said after a moment, proud how his voice didn’t waver.

”Good,” the man said briskly, eager to be off. ”You’ll get the information and the first half of the payment in a couple of days. Pleasure doing business with you, Mr…?”

”Ronin,” Clint said. ”The name’s Ronin.”

During the coming years, Clint built up a frankly terrifying reputation as Ronin. After the first face-to-face deal, he constructed a way to make deals without meeting the clients. With time, he learned how to route his contact info so that it was untraceable, established several bank accounts, and prepared dozens of safe nests and weapon stashes around the world in case something went wrong. Because something always went wrong.

He never turned a gig down, never balked about his assignment, never complained about the target. He never missed. He went in alone, eliminated the target, and got out. No-one saw him coming or leaving. He was a shadow.

In all honesty, he knew he should stop. Problem was, he didn’t know how. Being Ronin was the freest Clint had ever been, and, if he quit, he wasn’t sure what he would do. He gradually slid from an elusive mercenary into the role of a ruthless killing machine who no longer remembered who Clint Barton was. And if his legendary reputation got him gigs no-one else could do, Clint wasn’t going to complain. It gave him hard-earned peace, because no sane person would come after Ronin if they wanted to stay alive.

››This isn’t healthy,›› his Dragon said one early morning. They had just returned from a mission for HYDRA or some other alphabet soup company, and Clint was covered in partially dried blood and brain matter. ››It’s eating you alive.››

››I know,›› Clint said and started mechanically cleaning himself up.

When Ronin was sent to eliminate yet another threat to a mob boss, Clint had a chance to make his choice. As it turned out, the threat was an insider who was actually an FBI informant, intent on bringing down the child porn circle the mobster was running. Ronin completed his mission without a hitch, but the next night, Clint came back, released the kids, and destroyed everything in his wake.

That morning, when he returned to his nest bloodied, battered, and smelling of smoke and fear, he was able to look himself in the mirror for the first in a long time.

From that on, he lived a double life: Ronin continued his work as usual, perhaps gradually cutting down the missions, and from his shadow rose Hawkeye. Where Ronin was completely clad in black, never talked or let himself be seen, Hawkeye was a cocky smart-ass who enjoyed taunting the goons before taking them down.

Somewhere in the middle of all this was Clint, waiting for the other shoe to drop and everyone notice what was going on. It never happened.

As time went by, Clint started feeling more and more ill at ease about Ronin and his eagerness to take on any mission regardless the circumstances or human suffering. To compensate, he slowly kept on shifting the focus from Ronin to Hawkeye, more interested in doing something good with his skills instead of just butchering people for money. He made sure to keep Ronin alive, though, because one never knew when one of the most terrifying assassins of all times was needed.

He enjoyed his time as Hawkeye. However, the problem with well-meaning vigilantes was that, sooner or later, they started attracting too much attention, either by messing with the wrong kind of goons and fucking up plans of some crime lord who would use any means possible to get back at him. Clint suspected that, in his case, it would most likely be sooner than later.

The tipping point came when he stumbled upon a human trafficking ring in Spain and decided to blow it all up, because he fucking hated human trafficking. Unfortunately, the compound belonged to Madam Masque, who was completely insane and a full Dragon on top of that. Clint had successfully managed avoid her so far, but this time, after an exhausting chase, she had Clint cornered on the compound roof, bleeding and with no weapons.

When Clint looked at the burning madness that was her Dragon staring through her eyes, he was certain he was going to die.

He had no idea what happened next.

First, he was barely suppressing a whimper of terror as Madam Masque stepped forward, then his Dragon did something, and then he was forced back, into a small corner of his own mind. He had a fleeting, panicky revelation that his Dragon was in control, and then his body exploded in pain as he changed.

There was nothing after that.

He returned to himself, ravenous and afraid, in what apparently was a cave in a jungle. He had no memory of how he had ended there, but as he thought back, he remembered the roof of the Spanish warehouse, the crazy, glowing eyes, and the pain of something in him changing.

He had never heard about a Dragon transmorphing — he had thought it was a fairytale told to little kids. Apparently, he had been wrong.

Wearily, he asked, ››Where are we?››

››In Borneo. I wanted to take us as far away as possible.›› His Dragon sounded shaky, half-dead from fatigue, and Clint was pretty sure he wasn’t much better off himself.

››I think this is it, lizerd,›› he said, bone-deep tired.

››Don’t give up yet.››

Clint sighed and rubbed his face. ››I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired. I’m not supposed to be alive anymore.››

The Dragon huffed. ››You’re twenty-five, hardly an old man.››

››I’ve been killing people for the last seven years,›› Clint said tonelessly. ››I think my past is catching up on me.››

››What about some agency? They’ve expressed interest in both Hawkeye and Ronin,›› the Dragon suggested plaintively.

Leaning his back against the wall of the cave they were hiding in, Clint shook his head. ››They’re all the same, alphabets or no alphabets. And I think that ship has sailed already, lizerd. Besides, with my history, who'd even want me?››

He felt the Dragon readying himself for an argument, but, too tired to deal with anything at the moment, Clint huffed, ››Leave it,›› and curled up in a heap on the cave floor.

Apart from sleeping for a week, he had no idea what to do.

Clint woke up surrounded by hot humidity and the stink of sulphur.

››Where are we?››

››Iceland.››

Clint blinked in confusion and frowned. ››The fuck are we doing in Iceland?››

››Hiding,›› the Dragon answered dryly.

Oh, Clint breathed.

He pushed himself gingerly to sit up and took in the shallow cave he was in. It wasn’t big, more like a dent in the rock than an actual cave, but it was enough to shelter him. Outside, all he could see was seeping valleys, cracks in the earth with steam rising from them, and sickly green ponds.

The air smelled like fart and the place looked like Hell, only with less fire and brimstone.

Perfect.

››But really, Iceland?››

››Yes, Iceland,›› his Dragon repeated, a bit tersely. ››Is there something wrong with your understanding?››

››Don’t know,›› Clint snarked. ››Is there?››

The Dragon snorted. ››Do you really want me to answer that?››

Clint shrugged. ››Might as well. Or not. Whatever.››

He fell silent, staring across the sci-fi landscape stretching in front of him.

››I’m sorry if this doesn’t appeal to you,›› the Dragon apologized, suddenly serious. ››I wasn’t sure I could get us to Borneo or even to Gambia, and I knew Peru wasn’t an option. I desperately wanted to get us away from the American soil. I remembered this place from our previous visits, and you have a stash in Reykjavik.›› It paused and hesitated, before continuing, ››And the water’s green, not blue.››

The water’s green, not blue. Clint’s breath hitched and he shivered.

Trust his Dragon to remember. He gave a small smile and shook his head. ››Don’t worry about it. We’re alive.››

There was a moment of hesitation. ››Do you know if they’ll follow us here?››

››No fucking clue, but I guess we’re running out of time anyway. If staying ahead of them was hard last time, it’s gonna be even harder now.››

After he had been taken in, SHIELD had tagged him like a dog, claiming it to be for his own good. Clint had dug the tracker out from his hip with his butterfly knife as soon as he had been promoted to level three. Nevertheless, with their resources, SHIELD was just too fucking efficient at times, and Clint knew he would need to do everything he could to stay off their radar.

Fortunately, he had received extensive SHIELD training, which meant he could at least give them a merry chase.

››I’m sorry.››

››Not your fault, lizerd.››

Clint stood up, stretched, and winced when he heard his spine pop. He was getting way too old to pass out on the ground. He glanced once more at the odd, green ponds, and something tugged at his memory.

››Did you… bathe in that pond?››

››I — why do you ask?››

Clint narrowed his eyes. ››You did, didn’t you?›› He smelled at himself. ››And that’s why I smell like condensed fart. Nice, thanks.››

››First of all, you smell, period. Second — how can you remember?››

Clint frowned. A damn good question.

››I… there are bits and pieces. Odd. This didn’t happen last time. I remember a huge-ass amount of water, which was probably the Atlantic, and then a… volcano?››

››That would be Bárðarbunga,›› the Dragon said.

››The Bardy-bung-what now?››

The Dragon huffed. ››Bárðarbunga, the volcano. Didn’t you pay attention when we were here on an op?››

Clint shrugged. ››I don’t have to pay attention, I have you. So, a volcano, yay. Where does that put us exactly?››

››On the edge of Friðland að Fjallabaki. It’s a national park.›› It paused. ››Tell me, why do I do this for you, again?››

Clint grinned. ››Because I’m irresistible?››

The Dragon let out an undignified snort.

Clint turned to take a look behind and blinked at a carcass a bit to his side.

Yes, it was a charred sheep.

››Please tell me you stopped at the sheep and didn’t kidnap a princess,›› he groaned.

››I didn’t kidnap a princess,›› the Dragon huffed. ››I know you prefer men. Or, more accurately, a man.››

Blindly, Clint reached out his hand to steady himself against the cave wall. Even though he knew his Dragon didn’t mean to hurt him, the quip still felt like a punch in the gut.

The Dragon let out a muffled sound that let on it realized just a bit too late it had made a huge mistake.

The silence hung heavy between them and then his Dragon sighed. ››I’m sorry, Clint. That was inappropriate and cruel.››

Clint sat heavily down and swallowed. ”Yeah,” he said hoarsely out loud. ”It was.” He took long, steadying breaths, drew his knees against his chest, and hugged his legs.

Even before the meeting at the Helicarrier, Clint had been nowhere near okay. He hadn’t even remotely been coming to terms with the fact that he had indirectly caused the death of someone important to him, someone he trusted his life with. After several intense knock-you-in-the-head sessions with Tasha, he had grudgingly admitted that, in a way, he understood that he wasn’t to blame, it was all on Loki. However, it had been a bitterly hard lesson to learn when Coulson’s absence was — had been — a gaping, aching hole in his chest.

And still, after six months, the thought of Coulson being dead felt like an exposed nerve, flayed open and raw. The fact that he had somehow been resurrected did nothing to diminish the pain, because Coulson as Clint knew him was dead.

Agent Coulson 2.0 just wasn’t the same.

Clint banged his forehead softly against his knees and groaned.

How was this his life? How was it possible that, after all these years, the one stable thing, the only constant in his life had turned into poison?

If only Coulson was a regular human. If only Loki hadn’t happened. If only Clint was normal. If only —

If only wishes were like birds, then the whole wide world would be a fucking pigeon house.

Sighing, he raised his head and looked at the landscape stretching in front of him.

Iceland was a weird place. It was lush and foreboding, seemingly calm with terrible fury brimming just under the surface. It was at the same time beautiful and terrifying, familiar and alien, inviting and appalling.

Gorgeous and horrible.

Uninvited, the non-Coulson’s golden eyes swam into Clint’s mind and he shuddered.

When Clint had turned to look at him in the Helicarrier, there had been terrible power in that short eye-contact, something that had almost forced Clint on his knees. It had ignited something inside him, made him hesitate and stumble. It had been almost… easy to be sucked into the haze. Without his Dragon’s interference, Clint was pretty sure he would now be either dead or warming the non-Coulson’s cock.

Neither option really appealed to him, no matter what pitiful daydreams he had occasionally entertained.

Everything had changed when Coulson’s eyes had shone with gold.

Clint rubbed his hand over his face and let out a long breath. What was he supposed to do now, knowing that the non-Coulson was out there, biding his time to get Clint?

Clint shook his head and stood wearily up. No point in wallowing in things he could do nothing about.

His Dragon reached out tentatively, brushing an apology into his mind. ››Are you angry at me?›› His Dragon sounded timid.

››No. Why would I be? It’s not your fault that he came back as my worst nightmares come true.››

The Dragon didn’t answer, but Clint could feel the sadness it radiated.

Pushing back the morbid mood, Clint walked towards the small pond nearest to him. The November air in Iceland was freezing, but the steam rising from the ground and the hot spring he lowered himself in soon erased the chill. The pond around him smelled like rotten eggs, but the feeling was heavenly.

››Okay, I can totally understand why you went for a swim,›› Clint moaned.

He felt the Dragon rolling its eyes, as crazy as it sounded. ››I didn’t go for a swim. I soaked in the hot spring to avoid the full body cramp of your muscles after the flight. You’re welcome, by the way.››

Clint sighed and let his eyes slip close. He could get used to a hot pool like this, although preferably without the smell. He felt his muscles slowly relax in the near-uncomfortable heat, leaving behind a pleasant throb.

››You know that we can’t stay here forever,›› his Dragon reminded.

››Yeah, spoilsport. I know,›› Clint sighed. He thought for a while. ››National park, you said? Can you sense anyone nearby?››

››Not at the moment, no. What do you have in mind?››

Clint grinned. ››I think it’s time to play the dumb American tourist.››

It took a couple of days for a tourist group to wander close enough. Clint spent his time soaking in the hot spring and eating the sheep his Dragon had graciously left him. Unsalted lamb was no culinary treat, but it was cooked (or, charred, but anyway), and it sustained him for the time being. The water from the pond on the other hand was disgusting, but he managed to drink it anyway.

After two days of bathing, when the Dragon warned him that there was people in shouting distance, Clint started yelling. As the group wandered warily closer, Clint saw they were Japanese. Perfect. It wouldn’t be too hard to sell them the archetype of an idiot American who decided he didn’t need a tour guide.

”OH. MY. GOD!” Clint bellowed when the group came closer. ”I’ve been in this damn hot tub for two days. Would anyone have any spare clothes for me?”

Understandably, the tourist group was bewildered to meet a lone, naked man in the hot spring. They provided him with a yukata and a big, fluffy towel to wrap himself into. Of course, Clint knew exactly how to tie the yukata, but he made a show of wrapping it all wrong, complaining loudly about weird-ass Chinese bathrobes to emphasize his cover.

During the whole way back, he made sure to proclaim America the greatest nation in the world for at least six times, and kept on with his continuous blabbering about damn foreign countries and their weird terrain, how there wasn’t even proper porn on the hotel TV, and how there wasn’t enough of good food.

”Fish!” He exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air and gesturing wildly. ”Goddamn fish all the time! Who in their right mind would want to eat fish every day? A proper, bloody steak is what a man should eat. Fish is for faggots.”

It was possible he was slightly overdoing it, but better play safe. His Japanese was rudimentary at best, but it served him far enough to understand that his ruse had been bought. By the time they got into Reykjavik, the group was more than happy to get rid of him, hiding their distaste in polite smiles and handshakes.

Clint allowed himself a small sigh of relief.

After Clint left the group, he backtracked for about half a mile and made his way to his stash. To his pleasant surprise, it was a fully equipped one, the likes he kept when he needed to go off the grid completely. After everything that had happened, he hadn’t even remembered how extensive this particular stash was.

››Thanks, lizerd,›› he said. His Dragon had most likely remembered the contents of the stash and chosen Iceland for that exact reason.

Clint checked his gear, satisfied that the spare pair of hearing aids worked, the camera was still operational, and the memory card intact. He hid a selection of darts in the tripod legs and his spare gun in the specially lined pocket inside the camera bag.

Using gloves, he dyed his hair blue with the spray-on dye, and got dressed. Fully aware that he had SHIELD on his tail, he emptied the whole stash and made it extra sure he had the area swept clean. On his way back to the city, he dumped the gloves in separate dumpsters and the leftover spray-on dye into the garbage can outside a hair salon.

››Are we leaving today?›› The Dragon asked as Clint stomped his way forward, looking for a place to stay.

››Fuck no,›› Clint sighed/yawned. ››I want to sleep in a proper bed and have a real breakfast. We’ll head out tomorrow.››

It didn’t take him long to find a Bed & Breakfast hostel, and selling the persona of Jeff Davis, an independent travel blogger, to the B&B receptionist was ridiculously easy. Of course, he had no reason to doubt the words of an enthusiastic hipster with blue hair and worn clothes and a camera full of gorgeous pictures from around Iceland.

Clint booked a private room for one night, ordered a family-size pizza, and asked for the wi-fi password to book himself a flight to London.

In the small but cozy room, the bed was average and the pillow was lumpy, but after his days out in the wild, it was heaven. Clint was pretty sure that, despite being tired to the bone, he wouldn’t get much sleep, but he was out almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

However, his dreams were feverish, tinged with gold and blue, and stained with Loki’s leer and Barney’s chuckle.

He’s fleeing through narrow alleyways and dingy sewers, but no matter how hard he runs, he doesn’t seem to get anywhere. When he manages to turn from a corner that had evaded him, his way is blocked by a shower of arrows and gunfire, and he stumbles and falls. He’s sure he’s about to die.

Then everything stills.

Hunched on his knees, unable to turn around, Clint can only strain to listen to whoever or whatever is approaching from behind him. He tries to calm his breathing, but it comes in forced gasps that hurt his chest.

Something feels off.

The heavy, familiar hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and he calms.

”Sir, thank, fuck —”

”Don’t talk to me, Barton,” Coulson says.

Clint’s not sure what is going on, but he nods anyway.

Coulson has always known what to do, how to keep him safe. He can trust Coulson, even though his hand is caressing Clint’s neck in a slightly disturbing way.

Then, suddenly, Coulson is holding him by his throat and Clint’s pants are gone, and Coulson is thrusting inside him, and it hurts, hurts so fucking much —

”Scream all you want you little cunt,” Coulson growls, punctuating his words with violent pushes. ”You’re nothing but a wyrm whore, mine to use, mine, mine, MINE!”

Clint woke, rigid with terror, and desperately gasping for air. He tossed the tangled blanket aside and stumbled into the bathroom, reaching blindly out to support himself on the walls.

In the dim bathroom, he took one look at himself in the mirror, and threw up.

››Clint, I —›› his Dragon started, but Clint didn’t want to hear any of it.

››Don’t. Just — don’t.››

Slowly, with shaky breaths, he turned away from the toilet seat and slumped against the wall. Hugging his legs, he rested his forehead against his knees, gulped in mouthfuls of stale air, and tried to calm down.

In a way, this was nothing new. After all, his life had been ridden with nightmares for almost as long as he could remember. First, the nightmares had been about his dad, but after — after, dad had been replaced by a Dragon abuser chasing after him. Eventually, his nights had been futile attempts to hide from his past, trying to find someplace safe to catch a couple of hours of sleep.

After coming into SHIELD, Tasha had helped. Without asking a word, she had stood guard over him to give him desperately needed nights of restful sleep, and later, when it had been her time to tremble and mutter softly in Russian, he had paid his dues by standing vigil with her, keeping her safe from her demons.

And somehow, somewhere along the line, without even trying, Coulson had morphed from an unassuming handler into Clint’s special guardian angel.

It had been an accident, really. Once, when Clint had been crawling around the vents, he had stumbled above Coulson’s office and, after watching him for a couple of hours in a totally non-stalkerish way, he had fallen asleep in the soft clicking of his keyboard. Afterwards, he had freaked out and avoided Coulson for a couple of weeks, until the Agent had grown frustrated and hauled him from whatever hidey-hole he had been at the moment.

Coulson had never called Clint on sleeping over his office, even though Clint was sure he knew.

But now, Coulson had turned from an angel into a monster, and the barrier between Clint and his nightmares was gone. Nothing was left but the dark and the nightmares.

Swallowing down bile, Clint tried to block away the poisonous words crawling under his skin, painfully aware that they would be waiting the next time he closed his eyes.

He didn’t sleep more that night.

The morning found Clint in the bathroom, slowly rocking himself back and forth, waiting for the clock to hit 7am to get the hell moving.

When he entered the B&B’s breakfast room, he was glad to see that he was the only one in. It was difficult enough to pull up the cheery hipster face to greet the staff, and extending his good mood to other guests would’ve been too much. Despite his lingering nausea, Clint stuffed himself with the continental breakfast to the point of his Dragon tsk-ing at him. He ignored the reproach and poured himself more coffee. He would need all the caffeine in the world to stay awake through the day.

He had no fucking intention of falling asleep any time soon.

He asked for public transportation directions to the airport from the lobby, because his environmentally conscious cover wouldn’t use a cab, and, frankly, he was just too tired to walk. On his way, he used several ATMs to raise enough money to buy a ticket to Copenhagen in cash. He knew it would’ve been wiser to fly further, but he didn’t trust himself to not fall asleep in the plane.

Besides, he knew that the risk of meeting someone he didn’t want to was just too big on a longer flight with stops. It had happened before, after all.

After several futile attempts to talk, his Dragon stayed silent. Clint felt its sadness and concern, sensed that it wanted to reach out and soothe him, but wasn’t sure how to do that. They had had fights before, but this was the first time they were this estranged. Ever since his Dragon had manifested, Clint had been able to talk to it, to trust it, to rely on it. Now, he wasn’t sure what to do. It felt disconcerting and wrong, but Clint was too tired and tied in a bazillion emotional knots to deal with his inner lizard’s guilt on top of his own issues.

They would have time for that later. Hopefully.

In Copenhagen, Clint booked time at an internet café to check his emails, to make some deals, and plant more false leads. From there, he went through several ATMs around the city to empty his accounts in dollars and euros, and walked into a car rental to get himself a nice ride.

Before taking off, he bought a disposable phone, sent a one-word-message to the number he knew Tasha used as an emergency line, and immediately dissected the phone and ground the circuit under his heel. After wiping the pieces, he scattered them on several dumpsters on his way out of the city.

››Where are we going? What are we doing? Please, Clint, talk to me! You’re scaring me,›› his Dragon pleaded, but Clint ignored it. He was feeling disconnected and floaty, and didn’t want to be dragged back.

It was easier like this.

Keeping his mind carefully empty, he drove to Roskilde, handed the car over, and took a bus to the other side of the city to buy a used, nondescript sedan with a fresh ID. Minding the traffic rules, he drove to the nearest Lidl, filled a shopping cart with supplies, and gave the cashier a tired smile on his way out.

Just to be on the safe side, he ducked his head when he passed the surveillance camera.

He had no idea what to do or where to go. The only important thing was to stay on the move, to stay off the radar, to stay inconspicuous. He had enough money to get by, and he knew what to do if he needed more.

Ignoring the pleas from his Dragon, Clint steered the car towards the highway and disappeared into the late afternoon rush hour.

Recuperating took a long time.

For several days, Clint barely managed to move more than to take a piss, eat, and sleep. He felt achy and sore in places he didn’t even know could get sore, and, no matter how much he ate, he was constantly lightheaded from hunger. He didn’t question the pile of blankets he faceplanted on or the lump of unidentified meat his Dragon made him eat. He figured that, after the efforts of keeping him alive, it wouldn’t feed him anything poisonous. 

Hopefully.

When he started to stay awake long enough to think, he realized that his exhaustion made a lot of sense. If he remembered correctly, Borneo was, like, 7500 miles from Spain, on the other side of the globe. Clint knew this, because he had once looked up remote places to hide, just in case. It seemed like his Dragon had paid more attention to his research than he had guessed. 7.5K was a fuckton of miles and if the yearly migration of birds exhausted them pretty damn well, it was no wonder that Clint nearly fainted from hunger after flying for his life. Besides, he had no idea how much energy his transmorphing had taken.

And how did that even work?

Intrigued, he carefully stood up, waited for the inevitable dizziness to pass, and checked himself. His body looked the same: no limbs or scars were missing, although he wouldn’t have minded if he had lost some of his marks in the process. However, when he paid a bit more attention, it looked like his muscle mass was perhaps a bit diminished, but that might be just plain hunger talking. It wasn’t like Clint had been that well fed even before fleeing Spain.

It seemed like, apart from the missing memories, it was like nothing had changed.

It wasn’t true, of course. Finding out that you actually could change into a real, flying Dragon had the tendency to shake one’s world.

Because he was curious, he just couldn’t help asking, ››Do you remember it? The flight?››

››What about it?›› The Dragon sounded wary.

››So, you do, right?››

The Dragon sighed. ››Why do you ask?››

Clint blinked. ››Because I’d like to know. I don’t remember any of it.››

››Isn’t it enough that we almost died, but didn’t?›› The Dragon asked, tired.

Clint paused to frown. ››Are you okay there?››

The Dragon fell silent, giving out a sense of brooding.

Unsure of what to say, Clint kept quiet and went to explore the surroundings of the cave.

The area was lush, filled with bright colors and bustling life, a true textbook example of ’a jungle,’ just like Clint had seen in a book years ago at the circus. He found a pond a couple of hundred yards away and almost tripped on his feet in his hurry to strip and dive into it. It had been too long since he last had had the chance to swim, let alone go skinny dipping. In the middle of the jungle he was hardly in any need of a swimsuit, and he could handle the occasional orangutang laughing at his bare ass.

After he had swam his fill, he washed his tunic in the pond and didn’t bother putting it on as he walked back to the cave. Just like with the food and beddings, he had no idea where the Dragon had snatched the tunic. Not that he wasn’t grateful for it. He wasn’t body shy and nobody cared what you looked like in the jungle anyway, but when the time came, making his way back to the civilization would be easier if he had at least some clothes.

He was laying on his back on the soft moss and eating fruits he had collected when he felt the Dragon nudge him.

››I apologize,›› it said.

Clint frowned. ››What for?››

››My temper.››

Clint snorted. ››Have you met me? You have nothing to apologize, buddy.››

››Nevertheless,›› it said, a bit stiffly. A short moment later, it muttered, ››I was scared.››

Clint didn’t say anything, sensing the Dragon needed some time.

››I know we’ve been in mortal danger before. But this time it was different: when I was flying, I couldn’t sense or hear you, I was completely alone. I wasn’t sure whether you had survived the change or not. I —››

The Dragon paused and Clint felt it forcibly steer the thought to the other direction.

››Then I felt you, in a distant echo somewhere in the back of my mind. I was relieved that you were there, but then I realized I needed to get us somewhere safe, and I didn’t know where to go. I tried calling out for you, but you didn’t hear me.››

Clint swallowed. ››I’m sorry,›› he said awkwardly.

The Dragon ignored him. ››I didn’t know where we were until I recognized Thailand, and by then I didn’t care about anything else other than finding some place safe and try getting you back. So when you ask if I remembered anything, I can only tell you this: I remember fear, panic, and loneliness. I’d rather not to.››

The raw emotion in the Dragon’s voice churned Clint’s stomach.

He put his fruits down. Suddenly, he wasn’t that hungry anymore.

The jungle was an easy place to lose the sense of time, and his lack of hearing helped a lot. Despite the visual cacophony of plants and animals, Clint felt surprisingly at a peace, and gradually, the outside world faded away. It was almost too easy to occupy his mind with swimming, collecting fruits, and trying to spot as many different butterflies as he could.

However, he knew the world didn’t forget about him. Clint made sure to start exercising as soon as he felt he could do pushups without fainting, and, little by little, he developed a simple but effective training routine to build back his stamina and strength. He knew that he would need to leave eventually, and he wanted to be at least in a reasonably good shape when he returned to the land of the living.

As he practiced, Clint went through his mental map of his various stashes around the world, pondering which one to go to, and recalled he had an extensive stash of weapons, gear, and money in Singapore. It would be more than enough to start over. Unfortunately, he had no way to get to Singapore in his current state. He had no idea where in Borneo he was, but even if he was near the Northwest corner of the island, there was still almost 400 miles of South China Sea to cross. For obvious reasons, plane wasn’t an option, and he didn’t exactly want to try his luck with a hand-made ferry.

He might be a bit crazy, but he wasn’t insane.

After some wandering and with a shitton of luck, Clint found out that he was near the Northwest corner of Borneo. At the end, it took him just over a week to make his way to the port town of Pontianak. With Singapore so close, he momentarily considered sneaking into a car ferry, but dismissed the idea as he realized he would be in a metric fuck of trouble if he was caught. Borneo might be exotic, but not nearly exotic enough to make closer acquaintance with the Indonesian prison system.

However, he had seen the sly looks and leers directed at his way when he had wandered on the streets, and he knew he had way to make money to get him to Singapore almost legally.

Long ago, he had sworn he would never sell himself again, but now he decided to suck it up and swallow his pride — all possible puns intended. And just like he had guessed, Indonesian businessmen were way too eager to pass a chance to let a pretty American boy suck their cock.

Four days later, Clint had enough money for the ticket, a crudely faked passport, and a warm meal.

Idly, he thought that if he managed to find a hot tub, he might be able to scrub himself clean, but the shame seeping under his skin would take longer to dissipate.

Over the next 37 hours, Clint sat on the outdoor seating area of the ferry, stared at the sea, and wondered what he was going to do when he got to his stash. In Pontianak, he had learned that he had been gone for five weeks, which was enough for the dust to settle a little, but not nearly enough to be in the clear.

As it was, it might be that Clint would never be in the clear, not in this. He was targeted by an insane full Dragon, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he hit the end of his rope.

To kill time, he tried chatting with his Dragon, but it didn’t want to talk with him. Clint got the feeling that it was still upset about the whole turning-into-an-actual-dragon thing, and, on top of it, seething silently about what Clint had needed to do to get the money for the ferry ticket.

››Don’t sulk. It’s okay, really,›› Clint tried to placate it, but the Dragon ignored him.

Sighing, Clint returned to pondering his future.

It didn’t look any brighter on the second time round.

When the ferry reached Kijang port in Tanjung Pinang, Clint hitchhiked a ride across the island from a trucker who really wanted to fuck him. The guy settled for a rough deepthroating after Clint convinced him that he had a nasty diarrhea that would contaminate his cock if it got near Clint’s hole. In a way the blowjob was perhaps a bit too generous for a mere 30 minutes ride, but, at this point of his journey, Clint wasn’t going to be niggardly. He was so close : he only needed to catch a the ferry from Tanjung Pinang to the mainland, and then he could make his way to his stash.

Once he made it into Tanah Merah port, he hiked to retrieve his stash. He only took a weekend bag with spare hearing aids, a burner phone, clothes, passport, cash, and his back-up bow, leaving the gun behind. From the stash, he sneaked into the Changi Lodge’s worker dormitory to shower, change, and shave, and then called a cab to get to the airport.

He walked into Changi Airport with a swagger, the bow bag on proud display on his shoulder.

Jason Walsh, the professional archery coach, was ready to return to Europe.

If Clint was being honest, he would’ve liked a non-stop flight from Singapore to Frankfurt, but settled for a flight with a stop in New Delhi. The plane was only half full, and Clint jumped at the opportunity to stretch across three seats to get some sleep. The flight from Singapore to New Delhi took almost six hours, and Clint managed to get a good three hours of uninterrupted sleep. It was a bit uncomfortable, what with the edges of the seats biting into his side and back, but it was still better than the hard wooden bench of the ferry, not to mention a lumpy pile of blankets in a cave in the middle of a Borneo jungle.

At the New Delhi airport, he bought some web time to check in on his email accounts. In hindsight, it had been a wise move to cut back Ronin, because it meant that his disappearance for two months wouldn’t raise unwanted attention. He made some arrangements with his bank accounts, took care of some loose ends, and answered a couple of inquiries before boarding the next flight.

This time, he wasn’t fortunate enough to get a full seat row just for himself, but at least there was an empty seat between him and a slightly older businessman in a rumpled suit. The guy seemed harmless enough, and nothing pinged either Clint’s or his Dragon’s instincts.

The guy had a nervous tic in his left eye and he was sweating a bit. He fidgeted in his seat, which made Clint raise a brow.

”I’m sorry,” the guy smiled ruefully. ”I’m afraid of flying.”

Clint waved his apologies off. ”Don’t worry about it. You’re more likely to die in your kitchen than in this plane. You want to switch seats?”

The guy blinked several times, leaned a bit towards Clint to peer out of the window, then sat back, and shook his head. ”No, but thanks. I think I’ll be okay if I just look out of the window during the takeoff and landing.”

Clint shrugged. ”Go ahead, as long as you don’t crawl on my lap.”

The guy’s eyes widened. ”I — that’s not —,” he stammered and then snapped his mouth shut, red with embarrassment.

Clint shot him a filthy grin and closed his eyes. Always a pleasure to mess with closeted middle-aged men.

Even though he knew he should be on his guard, he let himself doze off. He was still exhausted from transmorphing and the flight from Spain, and he had always fallen easily asleep on moving vehicles. He tried to fight sleep, but it was a lost case. Before he closed his eyes, Clint vaguely noticed the businessman glancing at him, and entertained the idea of flirting with him later just for the fun of it.

He woke up about eight hours later when the captain informed they were approaching Frankfurt. As Clint yawned and stretched, the guy leaned slightly towards him.

”You are a very difficult man to reach, Mr. Barton,” the guy said mildly.

Clint’s eyes snapped fully open and he jerked his head up. His Dragon was instantly on high alert.

››Is he—›› Clint started.

››He’s human, unless he’s exceptionally good at hiding himself,›› the Dragon interrupted sharply. ››No other Dragons on the plane. I can’t reach the ground so I can’t guarantee our safety once we land.››

”In case you wondered: if I wanted you dead, I could’ve killed you a long time ago,” the guy said with a bland smile.

Every trace of the nervous business man was gone. The man sitting beside Clint was something else entirely, something immensely dangerous. The fact that he had managed to completely skirt around the combined senses of Clint and his Dragon, only added to Clint’s rapidly building panic. His eyes darted around: mapped the emergency exits, calculated the trajectories, considered the different ways to get out of the plane alive. In his head, Clint felt a peculiar thrumming and he realized that his Dragon was bracing itself, ready to face the terror of flying again to keep them safe.

The man was watching him calmly. He leaned back, relaxed, his hands visible with the palms resting on his knees. Clint suspected it was calculated, meant to make him feel less threatened, which meant the man was probably able to kill him with his tie — without actually taking it off.

The man cleared his throat. ”If you are interested, Mr. Barton, my agency would like to talk with you. No strings attached, of course.”

”Yeah, sure,” Clint muttered, turning to look out of the window. ”What are you, NSA? CIA?”

The side of the man’s mouth twitched slightly. ”SHIELD.”

His Dragon gasped. ››Clint —!››

››I know,›› Clint snarled. Whoever goes in, never comes out. Fuck this.››

Clint glanced to his side where the man was still watching him with the same calm manner. He would need to run as soon as they landed. With both Madam Masque and SHIELD after him, he would have a hard time staying alive.

››I’m sorry,›› the Dragon said quietly.

Clint gave an internal sigh. He was so fucking tired. ››Not your fault. Be ready as soon as we stop moving.››

When the plane stopped rolling, Clint tensed, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. But the man stood calmly up, buttoned up his jacket, and nodded at him.

”Good day, Mr. Barton.” Then he turned and left the plane.

Clint stared after him for a moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop, the flight attendants to start screaming murder or a squad of MIBs swarming in. There was bound to be a catch. There was always a catch.

There was nothing.

Clint waited patiently until the majority of passengers had left, then stood up and unhurriedly exited the plane. Fiddling with his phone, he walked along the aerobridge, looking for the maintenance exit. When he found it, he took off, strapping his bag to his back as he went. He managed to sneak into the roof and over to the other side before he was noticed. Carnie past came handy at times.

Once out of the airport, he took a cab to the railway station and bought a train ticket to Leipzig, then rented a car and drove to Nürnberg, emptied his stash, bought a flight to Prague, ditched Jason Walsh’s passport, and flew from Nürnberg via Venice to Zagreb as Franz Dachmer, only to turn back and head to Scandinavia instead.

He kept on going like that, never used one identity longer than a week, never stayed longer than one night in a hotel, and never let his guard down. To play safe, he even took a couple of missions for Ronin, just to keep him alive and operational in case of an emergency.

Methodically, Clint ran and ran, sure that he was going to be dead in six months.

After an unfortunate run-in with Madam Masque in Columbia and pissing off a bunch of black market gun dealers in Marrakech, Clint retreated to Odessa to lick his wounds in peace. He knew his time was almost up, and it was only a matter of time when someone got a whiff of him.

During the last four and half months, he had crisscrossed around the world, backtracking his steps and thrown false leads into every direction except the fucking moon. He was mentally and physically exhausted to the point of collapsing, and he was ready to give up. He was almost certain he had been tailed for a couple of days already, but he didn’t bother running. Why bother? To get away, to run for his life until he was caught again? Then what?

He was almost twenty-six. It was time to stop or be stopped for good.

He was returning from the small corner shop near his nest when he felt the telltale pricking on his neck that meant someone had a lock on him. Slowly, unhurriedly, he walked on and made his way to the corner he knew the homeless lived in. Once there, he dropped his groceries on the ground, and gave a sad smile to the woman staring at him with wide eyes. Then he turned back and made his way towards the deserted alley he had passed previously.

With his Dragon’s help, he threw his senses wide, and gave his boots a grim smile as he counted how many goons there were just for him. At least he wasn’t underestimated this time. Walking calmly to the alley, he mused that this probably wasn’t the coolest way to go, but perhaps time to pay had come.

He didn’t hear the first shot that went through his right thigh, but the second and third rang loud and clear, hitting him on the stomach and left knee, bringing him to his knees.

Clint didn’t cry out, he was too well trained for that, but he started to pant. His heart hammered in his ears as he waited for the final shots to end it all, but the shots didn’t come. Instead, there was loud silence, then footsteps from somewhere behind him. Clint fully expected to be put down like a dog, but the steps circled around him, stopping in front of him.

Warily, Clint raised his head to look at pristine slacks and a torso clad in white dress shirt and a Kevlar vest. He couldn’t see the man’s face from the shadows, but when he recognized the calm voice, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

”I think it’s time to come in, Mr. Barton.”

”Fuck you,” Clint managed, before he slowly tipped into darkness.

Phil was jolted from his sleep when the Bus hit an air pocket. He didn’t mourn the loss of sleep, because his dreams had once again been a strange combination of Clint’s eyes, odd patterns, leis, and flashes of a tropical beach with the automatic ”It’s a magical place!” springing into his mind when he tried to dig around it. He knew where the first two came from, but he wasn’t sure what was the thing with the beach. In all honesty, it seemed like a fabricated memory. In the light of the recent events it wasn’t exactly a surprise, but he didn’t understand why someone would’ve gone through such bother.

››I am sorry you did not get more sleep,›› his Dragon apologized.

››Yeah. Me too.››

Idly, Phil wondered when the Dragon would let go of it’s formal speech. Then he thought about Thor, and, well. As long as the drake didn’t start with thees and thous, Phil would manage.

He made a face at his aching muscles as he got up from his bed, and slowly made his way to the common area. It was quiet, the team probably (hopefully) sleeping after the fright of Chitauri virus expose. Apparently FitzSimmons were sharing a cubicle again, which didn’t surprise Phil at all. Leo and Jemma were extremely close, and, after nearly losing Jemma, it was no wonder Leo didn’t want to let her out of his sights. Ward was a sniper and able to sleep whenever, and May…

Well, May didn’t sleep. Not after Bahrain.

Phil had no idea where Skye was. The girl was a mystery, even though Phil had a quite good idea what and who she was. She had played into Phil’s plans easily enough, all the way up to her ”betrayal” of feeding information to The Rising Tide’s Miles Lydon. Phil had been aware of the leak the whole time, slightly anxious whether Skye would be able to pull it off or if she would balk. Afterwards, he felt a genuine twinge of regret about the cold shoulder he was forced to give her. However, the treatment was necessary if he was ever going to ask for her help.

He needed to know if he could trust her.

”Troubles sleeping, AC?”

Phil turned his head a bit and saw Skye burrowed on the couch. She was fiddling with some e-reader that worked with her surveillance bracelet, probably because it had no internet connection.

”Air pocket woke me up and I decided to get something to eat. Why are you up at…” Phil glanced at the clock and raised a brow. ”…4:15 am?”

Skye shrugged. ”Couldn’t sleep. Too much stuff going on in here,” she said, tapping the side of her head.

Phil took a bottle of high-quality microbrew from the bar and sat onto the lounge chair opposite her. ”Oh. Anything I can do to help?”

Skye shrugged again. ”No, I guess.”

Phil nodded. ”I’ll just sit here for a moment, then.” He took a long pull of his beer and leaned his head back with a sigh.

Thinking about Leo and Jemma made him think about how close Clint and Natasha had been — probably still were — which led his mind straight to Clint.

The message had been months ago, and Phil hadn’t heard anything from Natasha since. Every day, he had the urge to call and ask her if Clint had sent another message, but he resisted, fully knowing that she was busy. Besides, she had promised she would inform Phil as soon as she heard anything. But knowing that didn’t diminish the ache he felt daily.

”Care to share, bossman?” Skye asked quietly.

Phil didn’t bother looking at her. ”Share what?”

”Your thoughts about the person you’re pining after.”

That got Phil to give her a flat look. ”I’m not pining.”

Skye raised a brow. ”Really?” She asked at the same time as Phil’s Dragon snorted, ››Yes, you are.››

”Shut up, both of you,” Phil grumbled.

”Both…?” Skye bounced to sit up. ”Oh, oh, your Dragon agrees with me? Cool!”

The glee in Skye’s eyes was, frankly, slightly disturbing. For a civilian, she had taken the information about Phil’s stowaway surprisingly easy, lathering Phil with attention and questions.

››I like her,›› the Dragon purred.

››Of course you do,›› Phil said with an inner eye-roll.

››I am quite certain that Clint would like her too,›› the Dragon mused, a bit more serious.

That gave Phil a pause. ››Yeah. He would.››

He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, fiddling with the label of his beer bottle. ”My dying and coming back to life… different from what I had been before was a surprise to everybody. However, some people took it harder than others. He…” Phil’s voice trailed away. He wasn’t sure how to continue.

”He?” Skye asked.

Phil raised his head and narrowed his eyes. ”Yes. He. Is that a problem?”

Skye shrugged. ”No. Why would it be?” She was silent for a moment, cocking her head at Phil. ”Were you together?”

Phil shook his head. ”I was his SO. It was against regulations.” And back then, there was someone else to occupy my mind with, he thought.

His Dragon radiated its displeasure strongly, but Phil ignored it. It was an old argument: his relationship with Audrey had ended before the Battle of New York, long before the Dragon had appeared. That didn’t stop it accusing Phil about disloyalty, though, and no amount of pointing out the lack of logic made it change its mind.

”And now you miss him,” Skye said softly.

Phil closed his eyes. ”Every single day.”

They sat in silence for some time. Then Skye asked, tentatively, ”Does he have a name?”

Phil looked at her, searching her eyes for the reason behind the question.

”I could help, look for him,” she offered awkwardly.

Phil shook his head a little and offered her a gentle, apologetic smile. ”I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Skye’s face shut down. She looked away from him and nodded once. ”Yeah. Okay. I get it,” she mumbled as she got up and started towards her cubicle.

Phil moved to intercept her and grabbed her arm gently. ”I don’t think you do,” he said. ”I — I may have endangered him with my own actions, and I don’t want to get him in any more trouble than he already is.”

Skye looked at him with narrowed eyes before she yanked her arm from his grasp and stomped into her cubicle. Phil heard her mutter ”Yeah, whatever,” as she pulled the sliding door shut.

With a sigh, Phil picked up his beer bottle and took it to the thrash. That could’ve gone better.

››For all your efficiency, Phillip James Coulson, you are sometimes hopeless in the matters of the heart,›› the Dragon said.

››Not helping,›› he grumbled, but he knew the Dragon was right.

It was almost 5:30 am. Phil decided to give sleep one more try.

What surprised Phil the most about his new occupation was how busy they actually were.

When he had requested the Bus, he had thought they would do an odd job every now and then, leaving him time to concentrate on finding Clint. Instead, he found himself with hands full of souls trapped between dimensions, Asgardian magic staffs (with a stray Asgardian on the house), and missions supervised by Victoria Hand, who hated Phil’s guts and tried to get his people killed by forgetting to mention they had no extraction plan from Ossetia. Add in Centipede with their threats and their super soldiers, and Phil was growing increasingly cranky.

On top of that, Phil had to deal with his Dragon growing grumpier every day and the strange flashbacks that had increased in frequency.

As it ended up, being taken by Centipede was only a matter of time. Being beaten into what they believed was submission by their thugs was no surprise either. What shocked him and his Dragon, however, was the woman in the flower dress.

Phil was shaken to the core by the news of how Audrey had mourned him, how she still loved him, even though they had broken up amiably.

The Dragon, on the other hand, was deeply disturbed by her person.

››She is not human,›› it growled, agitated. ››She is… something familiar. She is extremely dangerous.››

››I know,›› Phil agreed.

And then she sent the thugs out and introduced Phil to the machine.

››NO!›› The Dragon snapped.

”It induces theta brain-wave frequencies to help uncover the secrets buried in the subconscious,” she explained with a sweet smile. ”If you cooperate, you can surf those waves.”

Phil gave her a flat stare. ”I’ve gone surfing. That is definitely not like surfing.”

She cocked her head and gave him a fond smile.

”I know you don't want to believe it, but you can't tell me nothing makes you doubt, makes you wonder what happened in Tahiti.”

”It's a magical place,” Phil responded on automaton, and frowned. ”I keep saying that!”

She looked at him from the corner of her eye. ”Don't you want to know why?”

››You cannot seriously consider that!›› The Dragon’s voice was shocked and slightly afraid.

››Are you scared for me?›› Phil asked, closing his eyes to hide the possible golden flash.

››Of course I am!›› The Dragon yelled. ››Despite our disagreements, I do not wish you to suffer, or worse: DIE!››

Phil didn’t want to die either, but, ››This might be our only chance.››

After a moment, the Dragon sighed, resigned. ››I know.››

Without saying a word, Phil opened his eyes and climbed into the machine.

In no time, he was engulfed in searing pain, distorted images flashing through his mind, and his Dragon screaming in agony and anger. He started struggling, hearing only distantly the woman trying to soothe him.

It was torture.

”Don’t fight it,” the woman in the flower dress chided, as she turned the power down for a moment.

”I’m — not —”

The woman turned the machine back on and the catastrophic pain started again. This time, Phil didn’t know which one was screaming, he or his Dragon.

”Let me die, please! Please, just let me die… Let me die!”

The pain didn’t subside. From amidst it, emerged glimpses of something new. Instead of the beach, Phil saw an odd SHIELD operation theater, with unfamiliar eyes, and a reflection of something straight from a nightmare, poking around his exposed brain. He screamed and begged, but the pain didn’t stop, even though the doctors around him asked permission to end everything.

He followed the line of their eyes to the observation room to the side, trying to see who was behind it all.

He should’ve known.

Eons later, Phil emerged from the searing pain to the trembling arms of a hysterically crying Skye. After he had regained his bearings, it took a long while to calm Skye down, and even longer to reach out and draw back the nearly insensate Dragon from the pain coursing through their shared mind. When Phil finally managed to wrap his Dragon in what he could best describe as a mental hug, it was muttering in a foreign language, at times disturbed with small hiccups. As Phil tried his best to soothe it, he slowly realized how much the odd entity had actually come to mean to him.

He also realized his life would turn much, much worse if said entity went insane.

As soon as they were back at the Bus, Phil removed Skye’s surveillance bracelet. Her actions while Coulson has been taken had been daring and inventive, and Phil especially liked the way she had practically given a finger to Agent Hand.

Also, there was the thing with her nearly breaking down when she had found Phil. He thought it was time to trust her.

When the bracelet snapped off, Skye looked at him with a hopeful eyes, but Phil merely shook his head and said, ”Later.”

He wouldn’t talk about Clint, not yet. He needed to ground himself and sort things out with his Dragon, and, more importantly, he wanted to tell Skye about her parents. The file had been burning a metaphorical hole on the bottom drawer of his desk for some time already. Skye wasn’t supposed to know about it, let alone see it, but after the traumatic encounter with the woman in the flower dress, Phil was done keeping secrets from his team.

His needs could wait. Skye was more important now.

Besides, Phil wanted to check in on Natasha before trying to track Clint down, just in case she was willing to share. And even if she wasn’t, Phil would like to hear from her, because no matter how competent she was, after the years spent together Phil still felt responsible for her. If nothing else, him worrying would make her smile.

He wondered what Natasha would say about Skye. Most likely she would raise her brow and mention something about Phil’s deeply ingrained need to protect and shield people he cared about.

She had once called Phil the ultimate nanny. Phil had been offended — he was definitely at least a pre-school teacher.

Despite Melinda’s protests, Phil gave Skye the file about her parents, accompanied with the warning that she wouldn’t like what she was about to learn. She nodded mutely and holed up in her cubicle for hours. When she emerged later, her eyes red and puffy, Phil didn’t even think twice before hugging her close. Her whole world had been shattered, and his heart was aching for her.

”Don’t you dare,” Skye said, voice muffled but strong against the lapels of his suit.

”Dare what?” Phil asked.

”To blame yourself.” She raised her head and gave him a challenging look. ”For my whole life, I thought I was unwanted, that nobody cared. And now you tell me that SHIELD’s been there for me for the whole time, looking after me, making sure I was safe. So don’t you dare blame yourself for making me cry about the family I never had, when I’m crying about the family I’ve always had!”

For a moment, Phil stared at her, at a loss for words.

››She’s remarkable,›› his Dragon said slowly, pride shining through the words.

››I know.››

Skye’s eyes widened slightly. ”You just talked to your Dragon, didn’t you? You get this weird vacant stare in your eyes when that happens. What did it say?”

Phil kissed the top of her head. ”It said you’re remarkable. And I fully agree.”

His slowly developing feelings should have alerted him earlier, but Phil had always been a bit slow to catch up. In his defense, he had always been highly protective of all agents under his command, and his new team was no exception. If possible, he was even more protective than usual, because two of his team were scientists not qualified for combat, and one was technically still a civilian, regardless of the fact that she was treated much like a probationary agent by now.

He refused to look closer the reasons why Skye had wormed her way under his skin. She was brash and cocky, a smartass to the bone, and had very low self-preservation skills. However, it wasn’t until his Dragon hummed and asked would Phil have taken her as a lover if she was fifteen years older that Phil realized why he adored Skye so much: she was basically Clint.

With a groan, Phil rested his forehead on his hands, the Dragon’s soft laughter echoing through his mind.

After that, Phil spent a long while soul-searching. His feelings about Skye were definitely not professional, but was he really attracted to her? He couldn’t deny that she was very much everything he had always admired about women, but she wasn’t a woman, she was a girl. Phil wasn’t pervy enough to lust after a girl almost thirty years his junior. He was old enough to be her father, for God’s sake.

The Dragon let out a non-committal sound. ››But is that not what you are? A Father?›› The capital letter was very much audible.

››I’m not— ››

››Yes, yes, I know. You did not sire her, but that is beside the point. She sees you as her Father, and you act like one.››

Phil didn’t know what to say to that.

The Dragon sighed. ››Sometimes you are very slow, Phillip James Coulson.››

Weirdly enough, when the Dragon used his full name like that, it sounded very much like Phil’s mother.

To distract himself from his newfound paternal identity, Phil tried to contact Natasha on her secure burner phone, but his call bounced back. It got him slightly worried, but he pushed back his concern and reminded himself that Black Widow could take care of herself.

He didn’t deny being relieved, though, when he received a cheery voicemail a couple of days later.

”Hi Dad, it’s Talia! Sorry I missed your call, but I’m in Europe, and figuring out their systems was a real pain. We went to visit the haunted house I told you about, but saw no ghosts. Guess they’ve moved on by now, heh. Anyway, we’re heading home as soon as we can buy tickets, luckily I have the grants. Oh, oh, and I saw this gorgeous red-tailed hawk the other day! I didn’t get too close, but Dad, it looked amazing! Sorry, I gotta go. See you later. Love you!”

When the message ended, Phil just sat still for a while, clutching his phone in his hand.

››Correct me if I am wrong, but… that was Natasha?›› The Dragon asked hesitantly. ››She was in Russia, looking for the Winter Soldier, but he was already gone? And the hawk was Clint?››

Phil rubbed his face with his hand and let out a shuddering breath. ››Pretty much, yes. She didn’t let Clint see her, though. She’s with Steve, which is good. I hope she gets out safely.››

››I do not understand. How do you know she is with Steve?››

››Steve Rogers’ middle name is Grant.›› Phil swallowed. ››And Natasha only ends her message with ’I love you’ if she believes she’s not going to make it.››

The mission tracking down Iain Quinn was a complete clusterfuck. Not only was the team split up and had their minds fucked up by alien technology, but Skye decided to go all heroic, ending up being shot and nearly dying in Phil’s arms while Phil’s Dragon was screaming murder inside his head. It took all his years of diligent training to leave Ward to take Quinn in custody and watch, calm and collected, as Skye was placed into the cryogenic bed and moved back to the Bus.

Phil didn’t need Melinda’s cold fury, Quinn’s leering face, Ward’s angry remarks, or FitzSimmons’s silent, sad eyes to drive through the truth: the reason Skye was nearly dead was staring back at him from his bathroom mirror every day.

To distract himself from his searing guilt, he dove into researching the medical center where he had been treated, positive that Skye could be saved there.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to learn that he had never been treated in Bethesda, and he was even less surprised Fury had a secret base called the Guest House.

It did throw him off, however, that agents Garret and Triplett were coming with them. Phil’s Dragon was strangely on edge, suspicious about Garret, but it wasn’t that uncalled for. Garret was a highly experienced agent, but his methods were often brutal, bordering on cruel, and, despite their shared history, Phil didn’t enjoy his company that much. However, both agents proved themselves useful when storming the compound, looking for the drug to save Skye’s life.

It was the Dragon that stopped Phil in his tracks and almost burst from his mind to drag him towards yet another empty surgery. Almost absently, Phil rummaged through the medical cabinets to find the vial FitzSimmons had given the code for, handed it over, and walked towards the door back on the room.

The Dragon was growling in another language as Phil traced his finger over the taped T.A.H.I.T.I on the door before slowly pushing it open. Unhurriedly, he made his way inside, like he had all the time in the world and the self-destruct alarm wasn’t blaring away in the distance.

There were tubes running by the wall, and Phil followed them to the tanks, to the hatch on the back wall. When he pulled the lever to open the hatch and revealed the massive cryogenic container, his mind went first white with shock and then completely blank. Then a searing pain filled his mind, the Dragon trying to claw its way out, screaming, screaming, screaming —

Then he was stumbling, running out, Garret shouting beside him, hurrying him along, and then the compound exploded —

Then he was screaming ”No! Don’t give it to her!” beside Skye’s bed, but he was already too late —

The sound of Skye’s heartbeat on the monitor cut through the silence. The team around Phil let out a relieved breath, but Phil held his, apprehension filling his mind.

A moment later, when he felt a strange flare of recognition from the still body in front of him, his Dragon recoiled.

››What is it?››

››We are in trouble, Phillip James Coulson.››

Clint came to in a hospital bed, somewhat dizzy from the painkillers, and with the underlying sense of being totally, utterly fucked. And, if he was being honest, waking up in a hospital bed after being beaten up was getting a bit old.

But first things first.

››Still there?›› He asked his Dragon.

››Where else would I be?›› The Dragon asked dryly. ››Also, just to inform you, we are being watched.››

Considering that they’d been taken into custody, Clint had already guessed as much. He appreciated the warning anyway.

››I thought that perhaps you’d grown tired of my sorry ass,›› he quipped while taking a careful inventory of his injuries without alerting his watchers. To his surprise, he wasn’t restrained and his hearing aids were in place.

The Dragon hummed. ››At times, I do.›› It paused. When it continued, its voice was serious. ››Clint, this man was different. How did he know where to find us?››

Clint sighed, masking it as a deeper intake of breath. ››I have no fucking clue. You sure he’s not a Dragon?››

The Dragon hesitated. ››I couldn’t sense a full Dragon, but he might just be exceptionally good at hiding.››

Clint gave a mental frown. ››As good as us?››

››Better. But you should know that he wasn’t the one shooting at us.››

Clint was about to scoff, when the Dragon hissed, ››Someone’s coming!››

When the door opened to admit the bland-smiling guy they had been talking about, Clint didn’t bother pretending to be asleep.

”Good morning, Mr. Barton,” the man said in a mild tone, stopping by his bed. ”I’m agent Phillip Coulson of SHIELD. You are currently in our Swiss medical center. Your injuries consist of a splintered left knee, a bullet through your right thigh — which missed your femoral artery by a hair, by the way — a shot through your stomach, medium dehydration and malnourishment, and PTSD of unspecified level.”

”Well, damn. I must’ve left my insurance information in Singapore,” Clint deadpanned.

Coulson’s bland expression didn’t change. ”How are you feeling?”

”Peachy.”

”Good,” Coulson said, pulling a chair to sit beside Clint’s bed, before retrieving a thick folder from his briefcase.

Clint snorted. ”Really?”

Coulson glanced up with a raised brow. ”Something on your mind?”

When Clint didn’t comment, he nodded. ”I thought so. Mr. Barton, I presume you remember our meeting in the plane from New Delhi to Frankfurt. Back then, I told you that my agency would like to talk to you, and it is still true. I have to say you surprised us all when you ran. Impressive.” The praise was served with a small smile.

”Thanks,” Clint answered flatly.

”You have been quite busy. Not so much lately, but that’s understandable,” Coulson said, calmly flipping the papers. ”It’s hard to be The Amazing Hawkeye when you’re running for your life, isn’t it?”

››Clint, all those papers are about Hawkeye,›› his Dragon suddenly said.

››Yeah, I noticed.››

››So they don’t know about Ronin,›› the Dragon mused.

››Possibly. Let’s keep it that way,›› Clint said, then cocked his head at Coulson. ”So let me get this straight: first you shoot me in the back, then you want to discuss job descriptions?”

Coulson closed the file with a snap and leaned forward, an intent look in his eyes. Clint absolutely didn’t try to scoot back.

”If I wanted you dead, Mr. Barton, you would’ve died in Borneo, and your body would’ve never been found,” Coulson said sharply. ”I didn’t shoot you in Odessa. In fact, you can thank my team for taking out the assassins targeting you. I do not shoot people in the back, literally or figuratively. Have I made myself clear?”

Clint nodded mutely.

Coulson leaned back in his chair. ”Good.” He opened the file again. ”SHIELD has been following you for some time now. We could use a man with your skill set.”

Turning his head to the side, Clint let his eyes fall closed. ”So you want an assassin.”

”No. We want Hawkeye.” There was a slightly amused hitch on Coulson’s tone. For some reason, it irritated Clint.

Clint glanced at him from the corner of his eye. ”Do I have a choice?”

Coulson frowned. ”You always have a choice. I’m not forcing you to join. If you decline, you are free to go when the doctors release you.”

Clint snorted. ”Right. And then you’d broadcast my location so that I’d have a merry bunch of friends waiting for me by the doors.”

”Not really, no. But we wouldn’t protect you anymore.”

That gave Clint a pause.

”Did you really think this was the first attempt against your life? We’ve been able to veer them off, but my boss was getting impatient. Or, like he says, he doesn’t have time for this shit.” Coulson sighed. ”If you decline, we won’t come after you — at least not to recruit you. But you should know that, if you decided to join, you wouldn’t be alone anymore.”

”Oooh,” Clint cooed. ”You’d hold my hand, Sir?”

Coulson gave him a flat look. ”I don’t do hand holding, Barton. But I take care of my people. With me, you’ll always have backup and you’ll never be left behind.” He paused. ”Aren’t you tired of being alone?”

Yeah, Clint was dead tired, but fuck him sideways if he was to show it to Coulson. He turned his face away from the man again, closed his eyes, and ignored all further attempts of conversation. A short while later, he heard Coulson get up and leave the room.

››What are we going to do?››

››Do we have a choice?›› Clint asked back, fully knowing that no, he really didn’t have one.

When the doctors decided that Clint was well enough to travel, Coulson herded him into a plane unlike Clint had ever seen. When they took off, he kept glancing around, unable to hide his curiosity, but when he saw the amused glint in Coulson’s eyes, he huffed and settled on his seat to scowl at his boots.

”Do you like flying, Barton?” Coulson asked mildly while tapping away on his laptop.

For a split second Clint felt completely cold, sure that he’d been made. When he realized Coulson’s question was fairly innocent and not a reference to anything of Dragon origin, he forced himself to shrug. ”Don’t have a permit.”

Coulson cocked a brow. ”Permit is a piece of paper. It doesn’t get you in the air.”

Clint rolled his eyes. ”I’ve never flown a plane, Sir.”

”Would you like to learn?”

Clint stared. Really?

”Make sure you pass probation, and you’ll learn more than just how to fly a quinjet, Barton.”

››Do you think he’s serious?›› His Dragon’s voice held the small sliver of hope Clint was feeling.

››I don’t know. Do you want to find out?››

To Clint, fitting into SHIELD was oddly easy and extremely difficult at the same time. After his years in the circus, falling into the strict schedule and rules of the base was effortless, and he was relieved that he didn’t have to figure things out all by himself anymore. He had to get up in the mornings to go to the gym, the shooting range, and his classes, and on top of it he had three hot meals in a day with the permission to eat as much as he could. And, for the first time since the Dutrouxes, he had his own small room.

The difference was, this time, the lock was a real one that worked.

If Clint had the choice, he would’ve spent all his time on the shooting range or in the library. The library was a well of wonders, and when Clint took his aids out, he could sink into the magical realms of the stories for hours. The range could be programmed to pose a challenge even for him, and, after being cleared to use it, he spent almost all his evenings honing his skills. Months later he learned that the guys in R&D had almost creamed their pants after learning what Clint could do with a bow, and he became the unofficial guinea pig for all the new and weird the department could come up with.

Unfortunately, people weren’t as easy as bows.

Clint had always been somewhat a loner. His unconventional childhood had only enhanced his reclusive nature, and it took time to slowly learn his way around SHIELD. He was able to bluff his way out of most situations, but it was a strain. He learned how to read people, who to work with and who to avoid, and how to deal with pompous fuckers who thought that their degree was the only thing that mattered. He couldn’t help with being deaf or growing up in a circus, albeit the knowledge didn’t help when he was being called a dumb hick behind his back. Besides, he knew it wasn’t exactly a lie.

He soon realized that being a cocky bastard got him through most situations, and that his unchallenged excellence as a sniper was what really let him stay in SHIELD.

To Clint’s surprise, Coulson took him in as a protégé and appointed himself as Clint’s primary handler. He told Clint that he could come and see him in his office anytime, if the lights were on, and that he would help Clint with whatever he needed help with.

Clint didn’t understand what Coulson was talking about. Where would he need help? With what? Why? Wasn’t he supposed to deal with this shit alone? He was a grown-ass man, for fuck’s sake, he didn’t need handholding. Besides, hadn’t Coulson said he didn’t do handholding?

So Clint nodded, said Yes, Sir, of course, and left the office without any indication of coming back in any non-op related business. Instead, he focused on his training, striving to get better every day, and waited for the other shoe to drop.

Months turned to years, and, before Clint fully realized, he had been a SHIELD agent for almost six years. Bit by bit, he had carved out his own little corner of a life there, even though he was still vaguely surprised to be actually alive and kicking. Of the agents that had started in the same probationary group as him, Clint was the only one left: the others had either quit, moved on, or died.

He had been encouraged to move on himself, or at least to move out of the base, but he never quite managed to seriously plan that. He was uncomfortable with the idea of getting his own place, and that was the reason he still lived there, in the same small room that had been appointed to him the day he had taken in as a probie. His quarters were sparsely furnished, and, apart from his personal bow and a stack of historical novels, contained nothing personal.

Sometimes he wondered if keeping everything almost clinical was a way to deal with the odd sense of detachment he still felt about this whole SHIELD gig.

He still hadn’t figured out Coulson.

At first glance, the man seemed unassuming and bland, like a harmless, if a bit awkward paper pusher, but after some close observing, he turned out to be so much more. He was perhaps the deadliest person in SHIELD right after Assistant Director Hill, but it was like Clint was one of the few who actually saw that.

They hardly talked outside missions, but it hadn’t taken Clint very long to realize that something about Coulson calmed him, made him feel safe, which was the reason Clint took on the habit of sleeping in the vent above his office. Slowly but surely, Coulson had wormed his way under Clint’s skin, and he had no idea what to do.

If his handler had been a Dragon, Clint would’ve probably either given Coulson permission to fuck him, or dropped on his knees and offered to suck the man off. But Coulson was just a human. He probably had a bunch of Dragon genes (majority of SHIELD agents did, after all), but after all this time, Clint was certain he wasn’t a full Dragon. It made things a lot more complicated.

››Can’t you just… ask him?›› His Dragon asked one night, frustrated at Clint’s restless twisting and turning in bed.

››And say what? ’Hi Coulson, wanna fuck me in the ass?’ Yeah, that would go well,›› Clint snorted.

››He might surprise you.››

››Really? Have you met me?››

The Dragon huffed in annoyance. ››What has that to do with anything?››

Clint flopped on his back on the bed. ››People like him don’t interact with people like me.››

››How would you know?››

››I just do. Besides, I don’t know anything about normal human relations!››

››And that’s exactly why you should use the three deranged Dragons as a reference material, right?››

››Oh, shut up, snake,›› Clint grunted. ››You know nothing.››

››As a presence that shares your mind and body, I beg to differ,›› the Dragon said flatly. ››You like him. He makes you feel safe. You should talk to him.››

››Yeah. Sure,›› Clint grumbled. ››Perhaps tomorrow.››

After getting tangled up in his sheets once more, Clint hissed with frustration and got up. He was jittery and sweaty, and might just go and take a shower. His sparse quarters didn’t have a personal shower, so he snatched his towel and clean sweats, and made his way to the communal showers. Turning the water as hot as he could, he tried to force his muscles to relax with the sheer power of the water pressure.

His thoughts drifted to Coulson again.

What was it about him that bothered Clint so much? His Dragon was right, of course, Coulson made Clint feel safe: he never felt as relaxed as he did when around Coulson. Was it his calm voice or his unflappable competence? The way the corners of his eyes wrinkled ever so slightly when he was amused?

When a warm feeling spread around his groin, Clint frowned and looked down. His eyes flew wide at the sight of his cock, half hard and throbbing slightly. It had never happened before.

››What the fuck?››

››Do you really want me to answer that?›› His Dragon asked.

When Clint just stared, the Dragon gave him a gentle mental nudge. ››Go on. Touch yourself. It’s okay, Clint.››

Clint blinked and reached out hesitantly, wrapped his hand around his cock, and gave it a tentative pull. It felt really nice. Then he repeated the move, and it felt even better. He pulled again and again, and soon felt a tightening in his groin, and he sped up until he seized and his cock pulsed in his hand, shooting white ribbons on the shower cubicle’s wall. The sensation nearly knocked him on his knees, and he braced himself against the wall, panting hard as water washed away the evidence of what had happened.

››Well, that was nice,›› his Dragon said smugly.

Clint didn’t have enough higher brain functions to answer. In a haze, he rinsed himself, toweled off, dressed mostly right, and stumbled back into his quarters. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

In the morning, Clint was awakened by insistent knocking on the door. When he clambered to open, he was met with an impeccably clad Coulson.

”Gear up,” the man said with a barely-there smile. ”We’re leaving in 30 minutes.”

Clint blinked. ”To where?”

”Belarus,” Coulson said over his shoulder as he hurried off.

Clint nodded mutely and made himself ready.

It wasn’t until in the quinjet that he remembered what he had done the previous night. He spent the flight in silence, avoiding Coulson’s eyes.

If Clint had ever wondered what an enraged Coulson looked like, he now had plenty of reference material.

”Sir— ” Clint tried, but Coulson’s left hand shot up, finger raised, effectively shutting him up. Coulson didn’t look at Clint, but stared a hole on the quinjet’s wall, his whole pose cold and furious. There was a definite set on his jaw.

Clint swallowed.

He glanced at their prisoner, sitting seemingly relaxed on the back of the quinjet, eyes closed, hands resting lightly on her thighs, as if she chose to keep them that way instead of wearing a set of SHIELD-issue rigid solid bar cuffs. She looked like she was completely at ease and oblivious of the roiling tension between the two men. Clint knew it was a blatant lie.

His Dragon was restless. ››This isn’t right. SHE isn’t right. There’s something…››

››Yeah. I know.››

The woman sharing the confined space with them was perhaps the most dangerous person Clint had ever met. They had been sent to kill her, but after seeing the flash in her eyes, Clint had not only refused, but he had actually left his perch and gone after her with the full knowledge that, doing so, he had signed his own termination. But he just couldn’t do it. He wasn’t sure what he had seen, but he knew that killing her wasn’t right.

As if sensing his scrutiny, the woman opened her eyes and looked straight at Clint. Clint blinked and was about to avert his eyes, when he saw her eyes flash red. The moment was over almost instantly, but Clint knew what he had seen. Only a lifetime of hiding his reactions and the rigorous training to hide his Dragon prevented him from bolting.

››Red! They were red!››

››I know, I saw it too,›› his Dragon hissed back.

››What Dragon has red eyes?››

››None. She’s not a Dragon. She’s something else entirely.››

The sound of Clint’s heart hammering in his ears drowned everything else around him. ››Do you think she recognized us?››

The Dragon hesitated. ››I have no idea.››

They sat in uncomfortable silence for the rest of the journey.

When they reached SHIELD headquarters, Coulson stood up and turned stiffly towards the woman, motioning her to get up, and she inclined her head, standing up in one graceful motion. The door opened and they were greeted by six high-level agents pointing weapons at them.

”Miss Romanova, you will be escorted into a holding cell. Please avoid all sudden moves. The agents will shoot to kill, regardless of collateral damage.”

She nodded once and walked out.

She didn’t look at Clint before she left.

For a moment, Coulson stared after her and Clint could see his jaw working.

A bit wistfully, Clint thought about his time in SHIELD and realized he had been… not happy, but content, in a way. After years of drifting, he had finally found a place he could hesitantly call home.

And now, it was gone, but Clint guessed he was past his time anyway.

Coulson let out a frustrated breath. ”Barton. Out,” he said and walked into the hangar, not bothering to wait up.

Clint scrambled up and hurried after him, wondering how it would happen. He thought that, with Coulson, he had a chance for quick and merciful, at least.

He almost collided with Coulson as the man abruptly stopped in the middle of the hangar. Startled, Clint took a step back when Coulson swirled around to stare at him with narrowed eyes.

Coulson opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and held out his hand instead. ”Your bow, weapons, and ID, Barton.”

Clint’s heart sank. So, it was going to be like that.

With numb and shaking hands, Clint stripped off his weapons, daring a quick peek at Coulson. He hadn’t pegged Coulson for public displays, but he figured there was a lot he didn’t know about his handler.

When he handed his ID over, he drew breath and braced himself. ”Sir, if I may— ”

”No, you may not,” Coulson snapped.

” —It’s been an honor,” Clint continued stubbornly, ignoring his handler’s glare. ”I’m sorry for letting you down. Thank you for taking the chance.”

Then he sunk on his knees in front of Coulson, clasped his hands behind his back, bowed his head, and closed his eyes.

››Goodbye, lizerd. It’s been a blast.››

The Dragon’s voice was full of sorrow. ››Goodbye, Clint. I wish this turned out differently.››

Clint let a ghost of a sad smile on his lips. ››Yeah, well, me too.››

Around them, the hangar was deathly silent.

Clint knew there were at least a dozen people nearby, and, for a moment, he thought his hearing aids had stopped working. Then he heard a rustle as Coulson moved, and figured they worked just fine.

He braced himself for the shot, but nothing happened.

Carefully, Clint glanced at the agent standing in front of him, confused about why he was still alive.

Coulson had Clint’s stuff under one arm and his right hand was pressed so tightly into a fist that his knuckles were white. His eyes were closed and he was gritting his jaw with enough force that Clint was afraid he would splinter his teeth.

Clint opened his mouth, but didn’t know what to say.

”Barton, what the fuck?”

Clint had no clue what was going on.

Coulson let out a long, deliberate breath. ”Get the hell out of my sight,” he gritted through his teeth.

Bewildered, Clint scrambled up. Not really sure where he was allowed to go, he made his way back to his room and sat on the edge of the bed. As he waited, there was only on thought coursing through his mind.

Why was he alive?

A couple of hours later, he heard a sharp knock on the door. Clint swallowed and went to open, only to take a shocked step back when he saw Coulson. He had dark shadows under his eyes and more five-o-clock stubble than Clint had ever seen. His shoulders were slumped, his suit wrinkled, and even his tie was slightly crooked.

In short: his handler looked like shit.

Coulson cleared his throat. ”May I come in?”

Clint nodded mutely and stepped away from the door. Coulson walked hesitantly in, as if he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. Clint noticed he kept his hands open and visible at all times and, once inside, left the way to the door clear.

”I want to apologize,” Coulson said.

Clint blinked. ”What?” It came out as a thready squeal.

Coulson sighed. ”Barton, what did you expect, exactly, when you went on you knees in the hangar?”

Clint frowned. Was this some sort of a game? ”I disobeyed a direct order, endangered the mission, and let you down,” he said carefully. ”I expected to be executed. Sir.”

Coulson closed his eyes and he shook his head slowly. ”If you really thought that would happen, I’ve truly failed as a handler,” he said quietly and leaned tiredly against the wall.

For a moment, they shared an uncomfortable silence, Coulson trying to collect himself and Clint trying to come to terms that he apparently still had his life.

Then Coulson sighed. ”Your range rights have been revoked, your status has been returned to a probationary agent, and you are under house arrest until further notice.”

He paused and looked Clint levelly in the eyes.

”Barton, I wasn’t going to shoot you. SHIELD doesn’t execute its agents. I was furious because when you went after Black Widow, you risked yourself — us both — without consulting me. You gave me no warning and left me blind. I had no idea what was happening; whether you had a plan or you had just gone rogue. Never do that again.”

Giving a little nod, Coulson stood up and walked to the door. As he took hold of the doorknob, he turned slightly towards Clint and said, ”I hope that someday, you will trust me, Barton. I told you that I take care of my people, remember?”

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, leaving Clint and his Dragon in a world that made no sense.

Phil wasn’t nowhere near surprised about Skye’s rapid healing. After all, he had first-hand experience of it. However, it seemed to freak his team out, especially FitzSimmons, who, after the first couple of days, stopped being subtle about their somewhat morbid fascination with draining blood sample after a blood sample. 

Skye was taking it all quite calmly, but it might also be just the shock speaking. It didn’t matter what she had been a part of, or what she had witnessed after becoming a member of their little team, she still was a civilian and had no combat training. Nevertheless, Phil made sure to let her know that he was there if she wanted to talk. If the sly glances she shot at him from time to time were anything to go by, Phil was quite sure she too had felt the odd connection flashing between them after she had been revived.

Phil tried to question his Dragon about the whole episode, about the blue alien in the container, and the Dragon’s knee-jerk reaction to Skye, but it refused to say anything. It was almost as if it was slightly afraid, which Phil didn’t understand at all. So far, the Dragon hadn’t exactly shied away from conflict.

Of course, there was a lot Phil didn’t understand at the moment. 

First of all, why did Fury have a secret research lab under a mountain, and, more importantly, how the hell had he decided to store a blue alien in there the first place? Was the half-rotten corpse the previous host of Phil’s Dragon? And boy, if the concept of an alien consciousness being transmitted via a vial of a spinal fluid of a blue alien didn’t just make Phil reel…

Second, why was the Dragon so reluctant to be around Skye? Why did it refuse to answer to Phil’s questions? If the blue alien was the reason for both Phil and Skye being alive, wouldn’t that make Skye more… familiar… to the Dragon? There was a part of it in Phil, and a part of it in Skye, right?

The idea of a Dragon with split personalities between himself and Skye made Phil’s head hurt.

Could it even be split between two hosts?

››No.›› After the self-appointed time of silence, the Dragon’s quiet hiss surprised Phil for a moment.

››If it cannot be split, does that mean you are completely inside my mind?›› Phil asked curiously.

››Yes.››

Phil frowned. ››Then why—››

››She is something different,›› the Dragon snapped, refused to say more, and retreated back into what Phil could only describe as sulking.

Phil blinked several times, shook his head, and went back to writing a deflective report about why it had taken so long to move Iain Quinn to a secure SHIELD facility. 

Things calmed down a little after that, if facing two enraged Asgardian demigods could be described as calm. Although, after everything that had happened, it felt almost domestic. Nevertheless, it was good, honest work that grounded Phil and took his mind away from Skye and the low undercurrent of unease that was gathering under his skin. He didn’t know what it was, but as his guts had never let him down before, he had no intention of ignoring his instincts. However, he had nothing tangible to ground his nagging suspicion to, which was more than a little frustrating. 

Understandably, Skye was out of the team for the duration of her recovery, no matter how much she grumbled about being left out of meeting an actual Asgardian (”The Berserker doesn’t count, AC, he was a middle-aged nerd!”). Phil listened to her with his bland smile, nodded, kissed the top of her head, and told her to behave while they were away, in full knowledge of just how condescending his behavior was.

In hindsight, things might have gone better with Lorelei had she been with them.

After the epic cat fight between Lady Sif and Lorelei, Phil was sitting at his desk, diligently writing a report about the events, trying (and failing) to distract himself from Skye, when his email went crazy with dozens of notifications. Frowning, he opened his inbox and blinked at the multiple spam messages filling it. SHIELD usually had better firewalls, but after the Asgardian ladies had wreaked havoc on his Bus, more than a couple of wires had been fried. Who knew what it had caused to their more complicated electronics.

Huffing with annoyance, he skimmed over the titles offering him a bigger penis, more money, a better insurance plan, the best Hungarian pastries in Manhattan, and even bigger — 

Wait, what? 

Almost instinctively, Phil leaned towards the screen as he scrolled back to the message advertising Hungarian pastries. Heart hammering and his Dragon on alert, he clicked the message open. At first glance, it looked like regular spam, with a tacky picture of a plump middle-aged woman with a wide smile, holding a tray full of traditional Hungarian baked treats. Underneath the picture, read with a colorful text on Comic Sans font: 

”Madám Alianovna’s Hungarian Café — true Budapest soul in the middle of Manhattan!”

”Oh no,” Phil mouthed silently, before he caught himself. 

Briskly, he scanned the rest of his spam, and when he found nothing, he emptied his spam folder and his browser history, and went through the swiping routine usually meant for public computers. Then he leaned back on his chair and let out a long breath.

››What is it?›› The Dragon asked, worried.

Phil swallowed, the reason for his unease confirmed. ››That was Natasha. SHIELD’s been compromised.››

››What do you mean?››

››Alianovna is her real family name,›› Phil said as he rubbed his face with his hand. ››After a mission gone spectacularly wrong, Budapest has come to mean a red flag, a warning that something has gone ’FUBAR’ as Clint likes to say. And Manhattan —››

››Is where SHIELD’s primary headquarters is situated,›› the Dragon completed. ››I see.››

The thought of SHIELD being somehow under attack felt like a physical blow to Phil. The agency had been his home for so long that he couldn’t even define himself without including SHIELD. In short: he didn’t know what he was if he wasn’t an agent. It was terrifying. And there were all the other agents to consider, both in the US and overseas. 

If things were truly as bad as Natasha’s message let on, they would have a hell of a clean-up ahead of them.

However, if SHIELD being compromised was a shock, it hurt immensely more when Leo came to him, white and shaking, telling him that Melinda had a private, secret phone line hidden behind the cockpit. Phil and Melinda went way back, and her betrayal almost drove Phil on his knees. If it wasn’t for his Dragon snarling to keep it together, Phil was sure he would’ve stumbled and fell. 

When Phil confronted her, Melinda tried to prove herself, begging Phil to trust her. She refused to reveal who she had been reporting to, and Phil had no choice but to assume she was disloyal. Of course, in the aftermath, they all started to doubt each other, glaring at each other from under the brows. It was an unpleasant and highly efficient cycle of doubt and mistrust, and when it slowly started tearing the team apart, Phil was powerless to stop it. 

When they received a hint about the Clairvoyant, they decided to employ an elaborate plan to snatch Deathlock and, through him, the Clairvoyant. Suddenly the Bus was swarming with high-ups, including Garret, Triplett, Hand, and Blake, all more or less suspicious about the double-blind plan Skye presented them. Nevertheless, they went through the plan, and when Deathlock appeared in a nursing home, Phil knew they had a hit.

After that, it all went to hell. 

Before Phil knew it, Blake was down, Deathlock in the wind, the Clairvoyant shot by a surprisingly trigger happy Ward, and Phil found himself under arrest after Agent Hand had taken over the command of the Bus. Without even asking, Phil knew she was taking him and his team back to the Hub for execution. The only thing that kept him from fully despairing was the knowledge that Jemma and Trip weren’t on the plane. That, and the sick feeling that something wasn’t right. Something about the speed with which Agent Hand had jumped on the opportunity to snatch the Bus back from Phil rubbed him wrong. 

The fact that she also ordered the Bus being shot to pieces didn’t exactly give her points in Phil’s mind.

Phil had been on his way convincing himself that Victoria Hand was the Clairvoyant, so much that when Garret started waxing poetic about the glory of HYDRA and declared himself the Clairvoyant in one of the Hub’s storage rooms, Phil had to take a literal double-take. In hindsight, it made a terrible kind of sense, from the how they had always been a bit at odds, to the revulsion Phil’s Dragon had felt around the man from the start.

God, but was he glad he managed to punch the smirk off from Garret’s face!

As it turned out, HYRDA had thoroughly infiltrated SHIELD and wreaked absolute havoc when surfacing. Fury was dead, Pierce was HYDRA, and nothing made any sense anymore. Intent on revealing the corruption, Steve and Natasha had uploaded SHIELD’s files online, which meant that all SHIELD’s secrets, all their safe houses, all their aliases, cover operations — everything was public. In the aftermath, Steve and Natasha had been declared traitors, with every news channel looping the dramatic videos of Captain America fighting his way through armed SHIELD forces and the three brand-new Helicarriers dropping from the sky into the Potomac river and crushing Triskelion underneath them.

As he watched the news feed, all Phil could think about was Clint. Where was he? Was he safe? Did he know about what had happened in the HQ? Intellectually, he knew Clint had lived on his own ever since the circus had left him behind, but it didn’t stop him worrying. 

The possibility of Clint being HYDRA never even crossed his mind. It simply wasn’t possible.

However, his need to take care of his team and to survive was more pressing than the matters of Phil’s heart. With SHIELD gone, they were outlaws, adrift without purpose, and it took all his and Melinda’s combined experience to get them through the day. In a way, Phil was glad he was too busy surviving to have much energy to pine after Clint. 

Unfortunately, when he tried to sleep, he couldn’t escape the ache in his heart.

››He will be fine. He is a fighter, a warrior,›› the Dragon tried to assure him.

››I know,›› Phil sighed. ››But I can’t help but worrying about him.››

››Of course you can’t,›› the Dragon said, voice warm and understanding.

When Phil’s badge lighted up with coordinates, it was just more of the exact variation of crazy Phil needed in his life. However, even after everything, he still trusted Nick enough to take his team into a fool’s chase. However, wandering around knee deep in snow in the middle of the Canadian forest was almost enough to make him lose his confidence in himself, Fury, and Fate. As it turned out, he probably should’ve had more faith, even though Agent Koenig of the Providence base was more like a hairless hobbit than a respectable agent of SHIELD. 

Except that if there was no SHIELD, was there any point in keeping up appearances?

Too tired to think, Phil took advantage of the hot shower with an excellent water pressure, and drank a giant mug of quality tea before indulging in a better bed than the Bus had, especially with the extra air vents provided by Agent Hand. They could just as well take up the opportunity handed them (all puns intended) and recover, to have a small slice of normalcy in their lives again. Phil was sure that HYDRA would keep them on their toes anyway. 

Which was why Phil wasn’t even a bit surprised when he heard that Garret had stormed the Fridge, stealing everything he could carry, freeing all the prisoners Shield had stored over the years in the supposedly maximum security facility. However, it took him too long to understand the full implications of what had happened.

”Was Marcus Daniels among the freed prisoners?” He asked Skye as they were sorting through the aftermath of the Fridge breach. 

››Who is Marcus Daniels?›› The Dragon asked.

››Marcus Daniels was an assistant at a physics lab where they were trying to harness the electrical power of something called ”Darkforce,”›› Phil explained. ››And nothing bad ever happens when you work with something called ”Darkforce,” right?›› He paused for a moment. ››He was how I met Audrey. Daniels developed an obsession about her, and, after he had been taken care of, Audrey and I—››

”Yep, AC, Daniels is in the wind,” Skye interrupted.

Phil sighed. ”I know where he’s heading: to Portland to meet a woman named Audrey Nathan.”

››I see,›› the Dragon grumbled. There was a distinctive undercurrent of disdain.

››I highly doubt that,›› Phil disagreed. ››Audrey and I, we were good together. But we were already over when she decided to move back to Portland to be near her aging parents. I will always care about her, but that’s all.››

››I certainly hope so,›› the Dragon sniffed haughtily. It reminded Phil eerily from a disapproving old aunt.

It refused to talk to Phil throughout the operation, like it was taking offense on Clint’s behalf, even though there was nothing to be offended about. 

Calm and collected, Phil listened to Audrey pouring her heart out for his whole team to hear, about the kind and wonderful agent who had been the love of her life for a couple of years, and who had given his life during the Battle of New York. The rest of her explanation was drowned under Phil’s Dragon’s furious hissing, something about her trying to steal Phil from Clint, and Phil being unfaithful to his mate. At that, Phil snagged the comm. out of his ear, gritted his jaw, and proceeded to tell his Dragon in no uncertain terms just how much out of line it was.

The icy silence emanating from the back of his mind didn’t exactly make Phil happy, but he was grimly satisfied to shut the drake up for once.

However, Phil couldn’t deny he didn’t ache for Audrey when she literally played the bait on the stage, but it was the need to reach out for an old friend, not for a lover. Perhaps that was the reason why he couldn’t hold back and stay hidden when the the backslash of Daniels exploding knocked Audrey down. If nothing else, he wanted to assure himself that, no matter what Audrey had said, there really was nothing for him anymore.

Later back in the Bus, he wasn’t surprised when Jemma asked him why he didn’t go back and tell her the truth. For a moment, Phil contemplated what to say, but settled for a mild smile and a lame ”It wouldn’t be fair to any of us,” and leaving it at that.

He didn’t miss the understanding look in Skye’s eyes.

Surprisingly enough, it all went downhill from there. That it did wasn’t the surprise, but the fact that there was even room for things to go even worse. Apparently, the downhill was longer than Phil had imagined.

At the wake of Melinda, Ward, and Skye missing, the Bus gone, and Koenig nowhere to be found, Hill leading general Talbot to Providence still managed to feel like a slap in the face, the ultimate betrayal. That was, until Leo found Skye’s message in the bathroom.

Ward is HYDRA.

At that, Phil stumbled and nearly collapsed. He wanted to lean against the wall and slide down, to curl up in a heap, and put his head in his hands, to block out the world around him and forget everything. How the hell did he think he could find Clint when his own team had landed in this mess? How hadn’t he seen what Ward was? His Dragon had expressed its slight distaste towards Ward from the beginning, but Phil had dismissed it as misplaced jealousy on Clint’s behalf.

He should’ve listened better. 

However, they had no time for Phil’s guilt. Skye was in the Bus with Ward, and Phil was determined to get her back. It demanded some very fast talking to Hill, who grudgingly agreed to help so that Phil and his team could get away. In a stunt that was perhaps one of the most foolish and brave (also, most awesome) things Phil had ever done, he managed to rescue Skye from the Bus right under Deathlock’s nose, even though he hadn’t exactly thought about using Lola as a supplement for a parachute. To Phil’s delight, they even managed to land in front of the hotel where Melinda and the rest of the team were waiting.

Meeting Melinda after their fallout was awkward, to say at least. But after lying to Audrey and Clint about his own coming back from the dead, Phil realized he was a hypocrite of the worst kind to be angry at Melinda for her actions. Fortunately for Phil, Melinda was more than well versed with dealing with one’s inner demons, and even though it required some groveling from Phil’s part, they managed to discuss their disagreements like adults.

As it turned out, Melinda had been reporting straight to Fury about Phil’s mental state, something related to the T.A.H.I.T.I project. As background material, she presented Phil the project notes with a grim face, advising him to see them for himself. 

To say it was a shock to stare at his own distraught face recommending the T.A.H.I.T.I project to be shut down and buried, was a gross understatement. With growing horror, Phil listened to the statistics about the previous subjects going raving mad within a couple of months after their resurrection. The way Melinda’s eyes shied away from his spoke volumes about her worries about Phil.

››But I am only inside of you,›› the Dragon reminded him.

››Do you think that’s the reason I’m still okay?››

››I should think so,›› the Dragon mused. ››All that power and knowledge without the guide is likely to drive even the strongest of minds insane.››

››Is that what you are? My guide?›› Phil asked, genuinely interested.

››I can be that. I can also be your moral compass and your friend, although I very much suspect you are in need of the previous. You have very high morals yourself.››

Phil let a small smile tug the corner of his mouth. ››Thank you,›› he said, ››Although I’m not sure I deserve the compliment.››

››You claiming that only proves my point,›› the Dragon said.

Melinda looked at him with a raised brow, but Phil only shook his head, deleted the file, and closed the laptop. 

They had more pressing matters to think about. 

After months of running around the world, chasing after Centipede and the Clairvoyant, they had come to realize that Cybertek was the missing link, binding the majority of their missions together. 

They decided to infiltrate the company’s HQ to find more information about Deathlock, but they hadn’t counted on the company being even more paranoid than Fury and keeping all their files on paper instead of a server. After a job interview gone completely wrong, Phil and Melinda ended up tossing the whole Deathlock filing cabinet out of the window to where their van was waiting.

They might have made it without a hitch if their car hadn’t broken down. They ended up sitting ducks in the middle of the street right beside the Cybertek building as more and more security goons swarmed to surround them. With Trip shielding Leo, Jemma, and Skye in the car, Phil and Melinda fought the best they could, but  even with Melinda’s legendary skills and Phil’s Dragon aiding him, they were slowly but surely losing ground.

Phil was about to give up, when he heard a whirring sound and a smack, and saw small metal blades bury themselves in the necks of the men closest to them. 

”Kunai blades?” Melinda gasped and looked sharply around herself.

Apart from the sleek black blades, Phil still didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but then his Dragon went suddenly on high alert, casting its senses wide. Through it, Phil felt a twinge of something.

››Phil!›› The Dragon breathed in wonder.

Phil had no time to ask for an explanation, when a black-clad shape whirring two katanas landed in the midst of the goons and started slaughtering them with beautiful, deadly grace. Phil almost got himself shot as he stared, admiring the terrible accuracy and efficiency the man moved, and only Melinda’s reflexes saved him for ending up dead like a rookie, first time on the field. 

The Dragon was almost vibrating in Phil’s mind with something akin to elation. As Phil ducked behind a fence and took a closer look at the man, he started to recognize some of the moves. Something about the way he carried himself was achingly familiar, and every time he turned partially towards Phil, an electric current flashed through him.

Then it hit Phil. I know that man!

››It can’t be!››

The Dragon huffed. ››Of course he can. And he is.››

Phil and Melinda were left to catch their breaths in the cover while the black-clad  embodiment of death took down the goons. When he was done, he stood completely still for a while, his katanas held on his side, before he took a breath, wiped them clean, and tucked them back into their sheaths strapped on his back. Only then he turned to look unerringly straight at Phil.  

When his eyes flashed bronze, the recognition rang through Phil like a lightning.

”Phil, that’s Ronin,” Melinda said under her breath, tense and ready to spring into action.

”No,” Phil said. ”It’s not. It’s Clint.”

Being given a second chance left Clint reeling. 

So far, if he had ever fucked up a job, whether cleaning up Dad’s drunken mess, missing the target Trick Shot had shown him, or fucking up a hired hit, he had been in a metric fuckton of trouble, either ending up beaten or running for his life. This time, he had pretty much given a finger to his SO, gone against orders in a way that could be interpreted as going rogue, and what had been the price? A slap on the wrist.

For most people, being dumped back to the position where even the janitor had a higher security clearance than him would’ve been traumatizing, but Clint was just amazed and grateful that he was alive. And as if that hadn’t been enough, Coulson had apologized to him for not being good enough a handler, which was just ridiculous. 

Yeah, Clint still didn’t understand Coulson. 

No-one had ever treated him like Coulson had, and Clint didn’t know what to think. He vowed that, if Coulson ever wanted to work with him again, he would strive to be the best agent Coulson had ever had. He would never let the man down again. 

However, that was easier said than done. Clint had to work even harder than on his first round, suffer the long looks from the new baby agents and the mocking of the agents that suddenly found themselves on higher level than the infamous Hawkeye. News of him going on his knees in front of Coulson had spread like a wildfire, and when he had previously been a dumb hick, he was now Coulson’s bitch. Clint gritted his teeth and stubbornly ignored the whispers behind his back. Coulson knew the truth, and that was enough for Clint.

Problem was that Coulson seemed to avoid him. His office was often dark (not that Clint hovered nearby, either in the corridor or the vents above, nope), and if they ever passed each other, Coulson offered him a nod and a curt ”Barton,” and nothing more. 

Clint told himself he was happy with what he got.

One day, after Black Widow had been granted the probationary agent status, Clint returned from the gym to see the red-haired woman sitting calmly on his bed. He had no idea how she had gotten in, since the door had a fingerprint lock and the vents had been bolted shut (SHIELD was a quick learner), but he guessed he would never find out. He blinked and carefully closed the door behind him, and stayed standing by the wall.

Black Widow looked at him coolly for a good while, and Clint had to summon all his willpower to keep from flinching and his Dragon hidden. Widow’s eyes didn’t flash red, but there was something, some terrifying power behind her intense stare that made Clint highly uncomfortable. By now, he had heard enough rumors to know that she wasn’t a full Dragon, but the Russians had done something to her, irrevocably changing her into something not completely human.

Slowly, like a cat, she stood up and started undressing. Clint watched her with widening eyes, and, when she started towards him, he tried to back away, ending up just flattening himself against the wall.

She stopped right in front of him, naked, beautiful, and lethal beyond comprehension.

”Do you want to fuck me?” She asked softly.

Clint shook his head. ”No, ma’am.”

She raised a brow and pressed her palm against his crotch, rubbing a little. Clint couldn’t help but flinching at the touch.

”Do you want me to fuck you instead?”

Turning his head to the side, Clint closed his eyes. ”Not really, thank you,” he said weakly.

She let go of Clint’s soft cock and took a step back. He could feel her stare but didn’t dare to move.

”What about Coulson? Would you want him to fuck you?”

Clint kept his eyes shut and swallowed. ”If he wanted to, I’d let him,” he said quietly.

His Dragon gasped at his admission. It was the first time after the shower incident that Clint had approached his feelings about Coulson. Before he had the chance to comment anything to the Dragon, Black Widow gripped his jaw, and turned his head to force him to look her in the eye. 

Clint had no idea what she saw, but her brow smoothed out and she nodded as she stepped back to grab her clothes.

”You can call me Natasha,” she said as she slipped her pants on. ”Meet me at the gym tomorrow at 6am.”

Then she was gone.

Slowly and tentatively, Clint and Natasha started to form a friendship. It was built on hours of sparring, dozens of missions, shared nightmares, and several situations when they bled profoundly on each other and refused to die by sheer stubbornness. Neither of them really knew how to be a friend as neither had never had one, but they made it up as they went, ignoring everyone else.

Clint knew that some of the higher-ups still thought that Tasha was a planted Russian spy just waiting for the opportunity to slaughter them all in their sleep, but he didn’t give a flying fuck. Truth was, Tasha could’ve taken them all out a long time ago if she had so wanted, and there was no other Clint would rather have on his six than his favorite Russian spy.

Except for Coulson, of course.

After some expert cajoling and extensive negotiations, Coulson had agreed to take both Clint and Tasha as his own, and together they formed Strike Team Delta, the deadliest group SHIELD had ever seen. They worked seamlessly together: Tasha’s ruthless force backed up Clint’s sniper skills, and Coulson’s quiet competency let them shine. They were practically unstoppable. 

Until Budapest. 

It happened too fast for either of them to react in time. Somehow, someone somewhere had royally fucked up the intel, leading Clint and Tasha to a completely wrong place, at the worst possible time. By the time they managed to fight their way out, Coulson had been shot and Clint’s world stopped. It took Tasha kicking him in the ribs to get him on the move again, and after that, it was all a blur. 

While Tasha stole a car and drove them to the secondary extraction site, Clint concentrated on keeping Coulson’s blood inside him while screaming at his Dragon.

››He can’t die!››

››He won’t. Stay calm. Keep the pressure on.›› His Dragon tried to be calm, but Clint could hear the strain in its voice.

When they finally reached the quinjet, Tasha had to bodily wrench Clint away from Coulson to give the medics room to work. Even then, he refused to leave Coulson’s side, hovering nearby, anguished. It wasn’t until they were back in SHIELD and Clint had seen Coulson to the medical that he let himself sag.

Tasha watched him from the corner of her eye. ”Why won’t you tell him?”

Clint shook his head tiredly. ”There’s nothing to tell.”

”Liar,” she said mildly.

Clint shrugged. He didn’t really care what she thought. 

Tasha sighed, cupped his face, and kissed him on the forehead. ”Go clean up and sleep, yastreb. I’ll watch over him.”

Clint wanted to protest, but when his Dragon pointed out that he was sweaty, bloody, and nearly toppling over from exhaustion, he agreed. 

Once in his room, he showered quickly, and fell on his face on his bed, asleep almost instantly, only to wake up a couple of hours later with the image of Coulson’s blood seeping from between his fingers in his head. 

When he snuck back into the medical, he stopped outside Coulson’s room. At first, he thought the senior agent had a visitor, but then he realized Coulson was on the phone.

”I’m fine, it’s nothing serious — An appendectomy — Yes — I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, but next time, I’ll be there — I love you too.”

Clint’s breath hitched and he swayed on his feet. 

’I love you too.’  

Of course. Coulson had someone he loved and who loved him back. 

››I’m sorry, Clint,›› his Dragon said softly.

Clint ignored the sharp jab somewhere in his chest. ››Nah, it’s okay. He wouldn’t have been into me anyway. Just leave it,›› he said, when he sensed the Dragon wanted to continue. 

He closed his eyes, swallowed, then took a couple of deep breaths, and pulled on his cocky grin. Without knocking, he strode into Coulson’s room.

”Still in bed, sir? The world must be ending!” He exclaimed in mock horror.

Coulson answered him with a roll of his eyes and an exasperated huff. 

Clint told himself that it was enough.

Years later, when Clint looked back, he swore he could see the way the world started gradually spinning out of control. 

First, Anthony Stark vanished somewhere in Afghanistan while on weapon marketing presentation, and the US Government threw a fit. With Stark being one of the main SHIELD contractors, Coulson got called in on coordinating a rescue mission from behind the curtains. After Stark was securely back and started expressing weird behavior, Tasha was put on a mission to keep an eye on him. The most notable outcome was the blossoming friendship between Tasha and Ms. Potts, which seemed to unnerve everyone — including Coulson. The appearance of the red-and-gold flying armor had everyone on edge, but shit really hit the fan when Stark outed himself as Iron Man. However, it didn’t seem to surprise Coulson at all.

Then Coulson got called in to Puente-bumfuck, New Mexico, which was okay only because he wanted Clint with him. Tasha was still on a self-appointed holiday after dealing with Stark, but Clint had a feeling this particular op would benefit more from a sniper than a spy anyway. Nevertheless, Clint wasn’t sure what to think of the huge blond guy storming the compound to get to the strange magical hammer (”An 0-8-4, Barton”) that had fallen from the sky. At least, it was entertaining, even though the freak thunderstorm wasn’t Clint’s favorite weather to be perched up on a crane.

”You want me to slow him down, Sir? Or are you sending in more guys for him to beat up?” Clint asked, blinking rapidly to clear the water from his eyes. 

Coulson’s dry huff was audible through the rain. ”I’ll let you know.”

Clint gave a noncommittal hum and kept on watching the man kicking one of SHIELD’s best muscle around like a rag doll. 

”You better call it, Coulson, ’cause I’m starting to root for this guy,” he quipped, and grinned when he could practically see Coulson rolling his eyes.

››He’s a damn good fighter,›› his Dragon said approvingly as the man made his way to the hammer.

”Last chance, sir,” Clint called when the man grabbed the hammer.

”Wait!” Coulson said sharply. ”I want to see this.”

In truth, there wasn’t much to see: the hammer didn’t budge, and the guy let out such an anguished cry that Clint felt it in his bones. He lowered his bow and wondered what exactly the hammer was to make the guy feel that deep sorrow.

At the end, when they found out that the man was, in fact, a god, the hammer was capable of creating lightnings and fly through air, Clint merely shook his head. And when Captain America was found alive, and Coulson nearly creamed his pants in his geek-attack, Clint thought he had seen it all.

In fact, it had all been just a countdown. 

When Clint was ordered into the Pegasus project to nerd-watch Dr. Selvig puttering around a shiny blue cube, he thought he was going to die of boredom. Everything changed when the Tesseract started to act up and opened a portal to let through an intimidating man with a horned helmet and haunted eyes. There was a dreadful sense of doom around him, but Clint set his jaw and remembered the promise he had given Coulson. He wouldn’t let Coulson down. This time, he wouldn’t fail.

Determined to save the day, Clint ignored his Dragon’s frantic screams to get the hell away, and went against Loki. 

He felt searing pain in his heart, like ice spreading through his veins, and then everything was lost in blue.

Intellectually, Clint understood why Tasha hadn’t told him about Coulson until after the battle was over. She had watched and sighed about his silent pining for years, and probably knew Clint wouldn’t have been able to do anything had he known Loki had killed Coulson. Clint was off-kilter to start with, trying to cope not only with the experience of being thoroughly mind-raped by a god having a temper tantrum, but also leading the attack against his own people on the Helicarrier. 

When Loki’s staff had pressed against his heart, Clint had fought tooth and nail to keep his Dragon hidden, but with all his mental energy being directed there, he had been otherwise completely vulnerable to Loki’s control.

And he had given up everything.

So, when they were in the partially collapsed shawarma place and Stark proposed a toast to the honor of Agent Agent, Clint’s head jerked up. 

”What?” 

”The Son of Coul was lost in the battle by the hand of my brother,” Thor said, voice thick with sorrow and regret.

”Tasha?” Clint whispered hoarsely.

”I’m sorry, Clint,” she said softly, understanding in her eyes. 

Something snapped in Clint’s head, a piercing wail he tried to cut off by clawing his hearing aids out and pressing his hands on his ears to block out the sudden pain. It took him some time to understand that the pain was inside his head; it was him mentally screaming, drowning out the frantic shouts of his Dragon. He was vaguely aware of the others scrambling around him, and Tasha climbing on his lap, guiding his head on the crook of her neck and holding him tight.

››CLINT! Breathe!›› His Dragon shouted, cutting through Clint’s scream.

››No! It can’t be true, not him, not dead, no no no —››

Tasha rubbed the nape of his neck almost painfully hard, and her legs wrapped around him, holding him in vice grip. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Clint knew it was because she wanted to ground him, to cage him, to give him a sense of his body during his panic. Clint could feel her lips moving and her chest resonating, but without his aids, he couldn’t hear anything. 

It didn’t matter, though. Nothing mattered. Coulson was dead.

All because of Clint had failed.

››CLINT!›› The Dragon lashed out, and Clint’s head jerked at the force of the mental punch.

››You’re endangering us,›› it snapped. ››Let Tasha get us out of here.››

Clint swallowed and forcibly reined in his panic. He could have his mental breakdown later when he was alone. 

Slowly, he raised his head from Tasha’s shoulder and looked her in the eye. She looked back at him with sad eyes, cupped his face in her both hands, and, for a short moment, rested their foreheads together. Then she stood up, all fluidity and grace, bent to retrieve Clint’s hearing aids, and presented them to him. 

Numbly, without saying a word, Clint took the devices and put them back, and the world rushed back to him.

”— didn’t know he was deaf —”

”— causing such pain to him —”

”— the cellist —”

”— for over ten years —”

››They are worried about you,›› the Dragon said.

Clint didn’t have the energy to answer. 

With Tasha’s help, he stood up and let her start leading him away. She walked him into a car after Stark, but Clint had no idea where they were heading until the car stopped in an underground garage. Blinking, he looked up.

Stark was looking at him from the corner of his eye, while he pretended to fiddle with his phone.

”Figured you wouldn’t want to go back to SHIELD,” he said gruffly. ”Come on, I have a room for you.”

Too tired to protest, Clint let Tasha help him out of the car, into the elevator, and eventually to the room Stark had mentioned. In truth, it was more an apartment, complete with a bedroom, a bathroom, a living room area, and a small kitchen, but Clint noticed it all in an absent, passing notion. Silently, Tasha guided him into the bedroom, stripped him from his gear, pushed him onto the bed, and tucked in.

”JARVIS, privacy mode. Let no-one in unless Barton allows it, including myself.” 

Clint didn’t know who Stark was talking to, but if Tasha’s nod was something to go by, she knew. It was enough for Clint.

”Yes, Sir,”  a voice answered from somewhere from the ceiling.

Stark walked closer to the bed and frowned at him. ”Please don’t kill yourself. I’d hate to redecorate again.” His flippant words clashed with the intense look in his eyes.

Clint closed his eyes, felt Tasha’s kiss on his temple, and waited for them to leave. 

He  waited until he heard the door close and the lock click on, and then he let himself cry.

After the Battle of New York, the team scattered. 

Thor took the Tesseract and his bastard of a brother back to Asgard, allegedly to face Asgardian justice. Clint would’ve gladly put an arrow in the smirking fucker’s eye, but unfortunately he wasn’t allowed. If only he had known about Coulson when Loki had woken up in the Stark tower after his stint with the Hulk… Nevertheless, before he had left, Thor had expressed his regrets over and over again, until Clint had stormed out to avoid punching him in the face. He understood Thor’s genuine regret and sorrow, but it still felt like rubbing glass into an open wound.

Captain America tucked his uniform away and turned into Steve Rogers, a man curious of this new world he had been thrown into. He took off on a Stark-tinkered motorcycle, to search for himself, purpose of life, or America, who knew. There was an odd sense of sadness hovering around him, the weight of too many wars and too many lost friends. Clint didn’t envy him even a bit.

Tasha vanished. Clint had no idea where and how, but one moment she was there, then she was gone. In a way, Clint thought that she and Cap were very much alike: both lost in this strange land that spoke of freedom and choice, and proved to be something else. Clint suspected Tasha had her own searching to do, and as long as she let him know she was alive and okay every once in a while, Clint could manage.

Stark stayed put and annoyed everyone around him in every way imaginable, except for Dr. Banner, to whom he had provided an entire floor with laboratories and a Hulk-proofed panic room. Somewhere in the middle, Stark had a rundown with some citrus crime lord and a guy who tried to seduce Pepper. Great drama ensued, but Clint didn’t exactly keep tabs on the man, even though he could see the aching emptiness in him. Perhaps in some other time, in another situation, Clint might have actually talked to Stark, but he couldn’t.

Not now. Not like this.

Clint became a shadow, a ghost in the vents. He spent his days having nightmares in a nest somewhere in the tower and his nights on the roof, wondering how long it would take to fall down. He only ate when his Dragon lashed out at him, and even then it usually took several mental knocks until he relented. 

Unless it was an elaborate form of torture, he didn’t understand why he was allowed to stay alive.

Years ago, after Clint had betrayed everything that was important to him, he had gone on his knees in front of his handler, fully expecting to die. This time, he had stayed standing and watched the people he cared about getting hurt and die, all because of him. 

››It wasn’t your fault,›› the Dragon reminded for a hundredth time. ››It was Loki.››

››I told him everything,›› Clint said bitterly. ››Tell me again how that wasn’t my fault?››

››He brainwashed you. He mind-raped you!››

››I didn’t fight hard enough,›› Clint said tonelessly.

The Dragon sighed. ››It wasn’t your fault.››

Clint didn’t answer. There was no point anyway.

He thought he should go, to leave the tower either by the door or by the roof. He should go and let the others live their lives without him staining the edges of their existence and causing unneeded ripples. He knew he should. 

If only he could.

Then, six months after the Battle of New York, they got called into the Helicarrier to appear in front of Fury, and nothing in Clint’s world made sense anymore.

If Clint was being honest, going back to the merc life at the ripe age of 35 was a pain. First of all, SHIELD had made him soft with luxuries like regular meals, decent beds, and central heating. After he had started running, none of those had been exactly commonplace. He ate in dingy diners, McDonald’s, and food stalls, and slept where he could, thanking whatever cousin of Thor that might be listening if his bed didn’t have bugs. Sometimes, the food stalls offered better food than Tony used to offer and other times… Well, food was energy, and it kept him going, no matter what form it came in.

Sometimes, Clint dreamed. He dreamed this all was some hideous misunderstanding, that he was welcomed home to SHIELD, that Coulson didn’t want him dead, and that he actually had a life, not just an existence hanging on the edges. 

Then he woke up, took in his surroundings in a split second, and remembered.

Usually, Clint slept fitfully, wrapped in grey exhaustion, running from glowing eyes and a rasping voice in his ear. He was glad if he got even four hours of sleep a night — just enough to sustain him, but not nearly enough to give him some respite. He guessed he could rest in his grave, whenever he ended there.

His Dragon tried to cheer him up, tried to remind him how good and smart he was, but Clint had stopped listening ages ago. The lizerd was biased and, therefore, not to be trusted.

Not that Clint trusted anyone anymore. Not even himself.

After his short respite in Iceland, he had slipped Ronin on with surprisingly little effort, despite the years that had gone by. In all honesty, it bothered him. It shouldn’t have been that easy. He should’ve been more uncomfortable, more jittery about the weight of the souls on his shoulders. As he surfed around the globe, from Oslo to Madrid, from Mumbai to Tibet, from Vladivostok to Sydney and Lima, he wondered if this was to be his life from now on. 

He wasn’t sure how long he could take it. 

But perhaps he didn’t care anymore.

There were enough jobs to keep him on the move and relatively busy, moving around the globe in erratic, unpredictable patterns. Every now and then, he checked in on the Avengers, just to make sure they were alright. However, things were slow and silent: Tony kept to his tinkering and annoying the hell out of Fury and Pepper while half-heartedly bugging Hammer; Bruce continued with his research; Thor divided his time between Asgard and Jane, drawing attention to himself wherever he went; and Steve made himself scarce, appearing on the PR gigs like a good boy. Nobody seemed to know where Tasha was, which was no surprise.

It was the calm before the storm. Clint could feel it in his bones, and it scared the shit out of him.

When he returned from a job in Novosibirsk, he felt someone’s eyes on him. For a change, he had taken the Trans-Siberian railway instead of a plane. He had just arrived in Tyumen when the hairs in his neck stood up.

››Someone’s watching us,›› his Dragon warned.

››Thanks, Captain Obvious. I kinda noticed,›› Clint answered. 

He kept his stance relaxed, befitting to a bit sleep-rumpled Jeff Davis, while he scanned the crowd, throwing his senses wide. When he strained himself to the extreme, he detected the slightest ripple of a presence to his back on the left. It was so faint that he almost missed it, but apparently his second transmorphing had attuned him to his Dragon’s senses even more, and he was able to pick things a lot more easily than before.

Then his Dragon gasped. ››It’s Tasha!›› 

Careful not to give anything away, Clint yawned and stretched, glancing subtly at the window to his right in a vain hope to catch a glimpse of his former partner. It was futile, of course: Tasha was far too skilled to give herself away like that. But for a second, Clint imagined he saw a flash of red eyes reflected on the window. Then the presence was gone, and the prickling in his neck dissipated.

››What the hell was she doing here?›› Clint wondered as he shouldered his way through the crowd to pick some fresh bread and vegetables for the rest of the journey. 

››I don’t know,›› his Dragon said. ››She didn’t try to make contact and I sensed no danger.››

››Weird.››

››Yeah,›› the Dragon agreed. ››Do you want to continue on the train?››

Clint sighed and raked his hand through his hair. ››I’d like to, yeah. Besides, if she wanted to take us in or kill us, she would’ve done it already. Perhaps she just wanted to check in on us?››

The Dragon let out a non-committal sound. ››It’s possible.››

Satisfied with that, Clint went to gather a respectable load of food from several vendors, before he wandered back towards the train. With a satisfied sigh, he sat down and bit on the mushroom pirozhki — and sputtered when he had his mouth full of… paper? Carefully, he coughed in his fist, extracting the piece of paper and tucking it expertly under his cuff, calmly continuing to eat his bun afterwards. 

A good while later, he went to the toilet and dug out the paper, recognizing Tasha’s neat handwriting.

He’s safe. He’s looking for you. 

Clint blinked several times. For the life of him he couldn’t understand how in the name of Thor had Tasha managed to slip the note inside the very pirozhki that Clint had fucking seen the vendor dig from under the steaming pile of buns. That was some Black Widow spider skills for you. He huffed and shook his head, fondly smoothing his finger over the words once. Then he ripped the note in small pieces, flushed it down the toilet, and went back to his seat.

The fields rolled past him as the train picked speed, but Clint barely paid it any attention. He leaned his temple on the window and stared into the horizon, thinking hard.

Fact: Tasha had looked him up, let him know she was there, and left him a note.

Fact: Tasha knew his past. She wouldn’t write things like that unless she was absolutely certain they were true.

Fact: The thing that looked like Coulson didn’t want to kill him.

Fact: The non-Coulson wanted to find him.

Question: Did Clint want to be found?

He was considering a job in San Salvador, when his burner phone chimed once. Clint frowned. Nobody was supposed to know the number. When he dug the phone from his pocket, he saw had one new message, which only had a number. Narrowing his eyes, Clint dialed it, gingerly lifting the phone to his ear.

It went straight to a voice mail.

”SHIELD’s been compromised,” Natasha’s clipped voice snapped. ”The previous info still stands.”

There was nothing more. 

Dumbfounded, Clint lifted the phone from his ear and stared at it for a moment. 

SHIELD compromised? Tasha, what the hell?

But Clint knew his former partner well enough to recognize the steel in her voice, the no-nonsense mission vibe humming under the blunt words. She meant business.

And if the second half of her message was to be believed, non-Coulson was still okay. At least that was something.

››Clint, what are we going to do?›› Worry thrummed in the Dragon’s voice.

››Lay low. Wait for more intel. Continue as we have so far.››

There was a pause, then the Dragon said, disapprovingly, ››Are you seriously considering taking the San Salvador job?››

››Why not?›› Clint shrugged. ››Ronin has nothing to do with SHIELD. Besides, it’ll take us closer.››

››I don’t like this,›› the Dragon grumbled.

››Noted and dismissed,›› Clint said. ››But for the record? I don’t like this either.››

The San Salvador gig was relatively easy, an assassination of a minor drug lord over a quarrel between two competing drug cartels, and Clint was in and out of the country in less than a week. Slightly indecisive of what to do next, he decided to go with his gut feeling and booked a flight to the US, first time since his panicked flight from the Helicarrier.

››Are you out of your damn mind?›› His Dragon yelled. ››You’re going to get us both killed!››

››Or not,›› Clint said. He didn’t know how to explain, other than he just had to head home. 

However, things took a turn to the left even before they even made it to the airport. 

Clint was in a small diner getting a late breakfast when the commotion behind him caught his attention. The matron clicked the TV off from mute, and the urgent voice of the anchorman filled the diner. Clint’s Spanish wasn’t fluent enough to understand everything, but he caught enough to understand Tasha’s warning.

Captain America and Black Widow had leaked SHIELD’s files online and hence been declared traitors. In the aftermath, they had  apparently attacked Triskelion, bringing down three brand new Helicarriers, laying waste on the HQ at their wake.

Tasha, what the actual fuck? And Steve? What next?

His mind on turmoil, Clint calmly finished his breakfast, left a tip to the wide-eyed matron who didn’t even notice him leaving, and made his way to the airport. Thinking about the massive amount of blown covers, Clint was pitifully glad he had never revealed Ronin to SHIELD, otherwise he might have been in serious trouble. 

Or, even more serious trouble than he already was.

The flight to Florida was uneventful, even though Captain America’s new status as public enemy No.1 was the hot topic amongst both the cabin crew and the passengers. Clint participated as much as he was expected to, showing appropriate shock and scandalized grief about the corruption of the national icon. In the security of his mind however, he was frantically going through plan after a plan with his Dragon, eager to get the hell away as soon as he was cleared from the customs. 

Apparently the events had made the US customs even more paranoid than usual, and it took Clint several hours to get cleared from the airport. He waited patiently, if a bit bored and haughty like a proper indie travel blogger, and rolled his eyes at the security searching his camera, sputtering about greasy fingerprints on the lens. He was sure one officer pressed his thumb in the middle of the lens just to spite him.

What a dick.

Later, when events were unveiled, it turned out that Steve and Tasha hadn’t been the real enemies, but SHIELD had been infiltrated — by fucking HYDRA of all things. The new info didn’t make them exactly loved either, because no matter how sound their reasoning was to expose HYDRA, they had also put all SHIELD personnel at serious risk. That attracted enemies on both sides. 

In the aftermath, Steve and Tasha had to deal with questionable publicity and stand up for their decisions. As the national icon, Steve was only mildly chastised, but Tasha was called a Russian whore and spy to her face, and a lot more worse behind her back. At times, Clint was actually afraid for her, but she was like a cat, always landing on her feet.

Clint just hoped she had enough lives left.

And, of course, there was the question about Coulson: where he was, what he was doing, and if he was even safe? 

Clint had the override codes to SHIELD’s database that Tony had given him ages ago, but in this situation they meant nothing. No need to hack files that were all in the open anyway, right? 

Quickly and efficiently, Clint jumped the opportunity to use a computer at an internet cafe to check in on Coulson’s last known location. Then he did a quick search of all things fucked up (there were plenty) to get a better picture of what he was sticking his neck into, and lastly, just before he left, he went to poke JARVIS to let Tony know he was alive.

After that, Clint jogged to to get a cab and returned to the airport. He was heading home.

››He’s not very observant, is he?›› The Dragon asked dryly. 

Clint was perched in a tree, reasonably far from the cheap motel in where Coulson and his team were residing at the moment. He took another peek through the binoculars, narrowing his eyes as he counted the team members and scrutinized their behavior. He felt ridiculous using them, but it was for the best. At least like this, he would get a head start if Coulson decided to come after him. 

››It’s been less than a year,›› he snorted. ››Cut the guy some slack.››

If he stretched his senses, Clint could faintly brush the edges of Coulson’s presence. Even that was almost enough to make him throw up. He knew it wasn’t the man, it was the beast, but no matter how much Tasha waxed poetic about this new, improved Coulson or how attentively he acted towards his team, Clint still felt repulsed when he looked at Coulson through his binoculars. 

The Dragon huffed. ››Why are we here, away?››

››We just are, okay?›› Clint snapped. He offered no other explanation as he settled in for the night.

The next morning, when the team departed in their van, Clint followed from a safe distance on his bike, wondering what the hell they were doing. Coulson must know SHIELD was down. It was the only explanation for why they were crammed in a shitty motel instead of a proper safehouse.

Where they on a vigilante mission? Or was Coulson wrapping up some unfinished SHIELD business, shutting the lights out as he went? 

When they arrived to some fancy-ass office building in Palo Alto, the events didn’t go exactly how Clint had thought. 

Clint didn’t expect Coulson and May going in dressed like a couple of dorks, while the rest of the team — two baby agents, one full agent, and apparently a civilian — waited in the van. He didn’t expect the filing cabinet being thrown out of the window either, but Coulson and May sliding from the window in a makeshift cableway didn’t exactly surprise him. The thugs charging from the compound surprised him even less. 

What did surprise Clint, however, was his own reaction: When Coulson’s team’s van broke down and shit really hit the fan, Clint didn’t even think before he reacted, letting his kunai fly before he silently landed in the middle of the goons and let Ronin loose. His mind soared free and he lost himself in the familiar dance with the katanas, spiraling, swirling, and lunging until there was no-one left to dance with. Then he stopped, centered himself, cleaned his blades, and sheathed them.

Only then, he turned his head just enough to look straight at Coulson who was staring back at him, slack-jawed, open admiration on his face.

As by pulled by a magnet, Clint’s Dragon surged to the surface, and Clint saw the answering flash in Coulson’s eyes as the recognition sparkled between them. It was exhilarating and terrifying, and Clint wanted to both flee from it and sink into it. 

Beside Coulson, May narrowed her eyes and tensed up, and, from the corner of his eye, Clint saw the unfamiliar agent inch slowly forward. The man had guts, Clint had to give him. Not everyone was brave (or insane) enough to approach Ronin after the show Clint had just served them. 

Coulson stood slowly up from his cover, pointedly dropped his weapon on the ground, and raised his hands on his sides, palms open towards Clint.

”I’m not here to hurt you,” he called over the distance.

Despite himself, Clint snorted. ”As if you could,” he sneered.

Something flickered over Coulson’s face. ”You’re right. I couldn’t,” he admitted easily.

That made Clint pause.

››What the hell is going on?›› His Dragon grumbled.

››The fuck if I know,›› Clint snarled back. This was getting uncomfortable. He knew that, if pressed, he could still get away, but the longer he stood there with his thumb in his ass, the more unlikely escape would be.

The agent to his side twitched slightly, as if ready to pull the trigger. Before Clint had the chance to react, Coulson swirled towards the guy, eyes blazing with gold.

”If you pull that trigger, agent, I will rip you open and hang you to the nearest tree from your entrails,” Coulson snarled — except apparently it wasn’t Coulson, but his Dragon. ”Do not point a gun at my mate ever again,” it warned, voice seething venom.

Clint’s jaw dropped. My mate — what?

The agent’s eyes went wide and he slowly lowered the gun, taking measured steps back at the same time. That left Clint alone in the middle of dead Cybertek goons, staring at the Dragon that lived in Coulson’s body. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t, nailed in place by the golden stare. 

He had absolutely no fucking clue of what to do.

Then Coulson blinked and the glow vanished, and Clint realized he could move again. 

However, Coulson didn’t move. He stood still, looking at Clint with an oddly hopeful, small smile.

”Clint,” he said softly. ”May I take a step closer?”

Clint swallowed. ”I —”

He didn’t get any further, because the alarms went off in the office building behind him. It shook him out of his stupor, and without a further word, he turned to run. Something made him glance back though, and it almost made him stumble. 

Coulson was standing at the same spot, a desperate look in his eyes. 

Confused, Clint shook his head a little and kept running.

During the coming days, the look in Coulson’s eyes bothered the hell out of Clint. Efficiently, he cleared himself out of California, and stayed off the team’s tracks. The encounter had shaken him a lot more than he wanted to admit. The way Coulson had stood still, how he had asked permission to approach, and, most of all, the feral way he had reacted when the agent had pointed a gun at Clint.

Coulson had always been protective about his assets, but this went way beyond that.

This was personal.

Also, Coulson’s Dragon had called Clint his mate. What the fuck did that mean?

››Don’t ask me. I already said I have no idea,›› his Dragon said flatly when Clint bugged it about it for umpteenth time. 

››But it has to mean something,›› Clint insisted. ››I mean, it went almost crazy there!››

››Well, perhaps you should ask it then,›› the Dragon snapped.

››Yeah, fuck you too,›› Clint grumbled.

Clint knew he was being irritable, but he couldn’t help it. He had an itch under his skin, something he couldn’t wash or shoot away. It made him confused. To make things worse, Coulson seemed to be at the center of it, and Clint had no idea how to handle it all. 

He decided that he might as well take a new job to get his mind off the gutter, but no matter how he tried, Ronin didn’t fit as well on him anymore. Something had changed when he had met Coulson. It was annoying.

He gritted his teeth, shouldered on, and tried to avoid thinking about Coulson. 

Then, one day when he opened his TORnet account, he had a message from an unknown sender that held coordinates and only one word: 

”Coffee?”

When Clint saved Phil and his whole team at the Cybertek headquarters, it ignited in Phil an intense and desperate need to find him again. When their eyes had met, Phil had yearned so strongly to hold Clint close, to keep him safe, but the blasting alarm scared the archer and he had run. 

Again.

When Clint bolted, Phil’s Dragon let out a low howl of utter desolation, and its pure loneliness brought tears in Phil’s eyes. He wasn’t much better off himself; the crushing despair Phil felt was almost too much. Only Melinda’s vice grip on his arm pushed through the haze and forced Phil to move the hell out before he got them all killed.

The ride back to the motel was silent. Phil was lost in his thoughts, but he didn’t miss the way his team kept glancing at him. They were obviously brimming with questions, but, after his nearly feral outburst at Trip, none of them was too eager to step into the line of fire.

At the end, it was Skye, sitting in the back, who looked at him appraisingly via the rearview mirror before she leaned in to ask him softly, ”That was him, wasn’t it?”

Phil didn’t meet her eyes. ”Yes,” he said quietly.

”He’s pretty awesome,” Skye said. Phil heard her approving grin.

Phil let a small smile tug the corner of his lips. ”Yes, he is.”

Beside Phil, Agent Triplett listened to their words and glanced at Phil from the corner of his eye while he steered the van around yet another sharp corner. After a moment, he drew a breath.

”Sir, I apologize if I overstepped some boundaries back there. I didn’t know.”

Phil merely shook his head. ”It’s okay, Agent Triplett. Nobody knew. For my part, I apologize for the actions of my other half. Sometimes, it gets… passionate.”

His Dragon snorted at his choice of word.

Triplett pressed his lips together in a tight line. ”Good to know.” Then, he nodded and concentrated on driving.

Phil nodded as well and turned to look out of the window. He felt Melinda’s hard stare on the base of his neck, and knew that there was an unpleasant talk looming in a near future. For the time being, however, he chose to push it out of his mind, trusting that Melinda would come looking for him when she felt the time was right.

When they reached the motel, the team scattered to deal with the leftover adrenalin as best they could. 

Phil made his way to his room, sat heavily on the edge of his bed, and dropped his head in his hands. 

At that brief flash of eye-contact, there had been something, some recognizing force that had pulled Phil to Clint, and, for some reason, Phil was sure Clint had felt the same. However, something had made Clint flee in panic again, and remembering what he knew of Clint’s past, Phil had a good guess what it was. He gritted his teeth, hoping he had the time and resources to go digging in Iowa.

His thoughts were bordering homicidal with the eager assistance of his Dragon, when there was a sharp knock on the door and Melinda walked in without waiting for a permission.

”So. Ronin?” She asked flatly.

Reining in his Dragon, Phil faced her with an equally bland stare. ”Not Ronin. Clint.”

”He didn’t come clean about Ronin,” Melinda reminded. ”I know. I was in HR, after all.”

”And that’s exactly why he’s still alive,” Phil countered. ”Nobody know’s Hawkeye is Ronin. It keeps him safe.”

Melinda narrowed her eyes. ”Is this going to be a problem?”

His Dragon drew a sharp breath. ››How dares she?›› 

››She dares because that’s what she does. And she’s right to be concerned about my priorities,›› Phil answered his Dragon calmly, before he cocked his head and gave her a small smile. ”I’m not going to lie to you, Melinda. I will concentrate all my free time and energy on finding him, but I won’t jeopardize the team,” he said mildly. 

Melinda let out a breath. ”As long as it stays that way,” she huffed, shaking her head as she walked out.

When Phil realized that Garret was not only the Clairvoyant but also the first Deathlock, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 

Suddenly Garret’s obsession about Deathlock and Phil’s resurrection made a lot more sense — the lunatic was on his way to self-appointed immortality and godhood. He obviously hadn’t talked to people who were actually immortal or gods.

Then again, Garret probably would’ve made great friends with Loki.

With Skye’s help, they were able to pinpoint Garret’s base to a barbershop in Havana and decided to corner him there. Unfortunately, by the time they got there, Garret was already gone and the team was greeted with Centipede soldiers and a Berserker instead. Someone else would’ve most likely thought it was the end. That someone hadn’t met Melinda May. After seeing her lay waste to the underground base, Phil was thanking all the gods he could for the fact that he was on Melinda’s good side. With or without the full power of the Berserker Staff, she was a force to be reckoned with. 

››Are you certain she is not a Dragon?›› Phil’s Dragon asked as they scrambled away from the collapsing building.

››Oh, I’m certain. That was 100% pure Melinda May. She has no need for a Dragon.››

The Dragon let out an admiring hum. ››She is remarkable.››

Phil didn’t disagree.

Using the tracker FitzSimmons had managed to plant on the Bus, they made their way to a Cybertek Manufacturing Facility in New Mexico that Garret was apparently using as his new base. And what was it about New Mexico anyway? Roswell, Thor’s hammer, and now Cybertek? Someone, somewhere, was taking ’The Land of Enchantment’ way too seriously to Phil’s liking. 

Determined to stop Garret, they forged a plan that lacked even basic finesse, but hopefully made it up in brute force. It would’ve ended badly, if Skye hadn’t been able to get under Deathlock’s skin to reach Mike Petersen and save his kid, but if Fury hadn’t shown up with the Destroyer Armor Gun to blast Garret into hell, they really would’ve been lost. Phil didn’t even bother pretending to be surprised about Fury being alive. He was just too tired.

Afterwards, when Ward and the rest of the Centipede soldiers had been taken into custody and Phil had blown Garret into atoms with the Peruvian 0-8-4, Fury revealed what had happened to Jemma and Leo. Phil had been worried about them, but even with everything he had learned about Ward’s betrayal, dropping FitzSimmons into the ocean wasn’t something he had thought Ward was even capable of doing. 

His Dragon let out an enraged roar and Fury took a hurried step away from them.

››He must be punished! I want him dead!›› The Dragon snarled, ready to lash out.

››There’s nothing I’d like to do more, but we’re not going to kill him.››

››Why not?››

››Because that would sink us to their level,›› Phil said calmly. ››SHIELD might have been an organization that dealt with assassinations without a hitch, but at this point — after everything that’s been laid out to all the world to see, we need good publicity. He’ll face justice.››

It took time, but his Dragon finally conceded, retreating into a seething, grumbling presence in the back of Phil’s mind. 

After Ward and the rest of Garret’s goons had been led away, Phil finally had the chance to concentrate on Fury. When the supposedly-dead former Director of SHIELD commented about the future of the organization and Phil’s role in it, and Phil might have lost it for a moment.

”It was a ’break glass in case of emergency’ situation,” Fury said reasonably.

Phil flailed his hands. ”Yes, but that emergency was supposed to be the fall of an Avenger!”

”Yes.”

Phil stared at Fury for a moment. ”You can’t be serious, Nick.”

”What’s done is done: moving on, Cheese,” Fury sighed. ”Before it was torn apart, SHIELD was a lot of moving parts. Guys like you were the heart. Now, you’ll be the head.” He handed Phil a small box.

Phil blinked. ”What’s this?”

”It’s a toolbox. To help you to build it back up.”

”You want me to start over,” Phil said flatly. ”To rebuild SHIELD.”

Fury nodded. ”From scratch. Take your time and do it right. There’s no-one else I trust with this.”

Phil took a deep breath. ”Thank you, sir. How should I proceed?”

Fury huffed. ”That’s up to you, Director.”

Phil gave him a flat look. ”And what about you? Are you going to disappear again, nowhere to be found?”

Fury grinned wolfishly. ”Nowhere? You know me better than that, Phil. I’ll be everywhere.” 

Without further ado, Fury stood up and left, and Phil knew he wouldn’t see his friend for a long, long time.

With a sigh, Phil flopped to sit on the chair and rubbed his face. Being named the Director of SHIELD was a shock even on a good day, but in a time like this, it was like being run over by a quinjet. The responsibility of rebuilding the agency after the shit storm named HYDRA was enormous, and it made Phil feel small in a not-good way.

Melinda stepped forward and placed her hand on Phil’s shoulder. ”I’ll be in the cockpit. I’ll have the wheels up as soon as you give the word.” She squeezed once and then turned to leave.

”Thank you,” Phil said quietly. 

Melinda didn’t answer but her lips twitched in a telling way.

When he was alone, Phil turned the Toolbox in his hand. How was he going to do this? 

››I would suggest you open it first,›› his Dragon said dryly.

Phil snorted but proceeded to open the device. What he found was file after file, a collected database of classified SHIELD files, and coordinates to a location in Massachusetts. Phil shook his head and huffed a tired laugh.

”Trust Nick to keep secrets upon secrets,” he muttered before giving the coordinates to Melinda. Her familiar ”Wheels up in five,” got a small smile on his lips.

The next couple of weeks were spent in relative peace, the team acquainting themselves with their new environment. The smug ”Welcome to the Playground, Director Coulson” greeting from yet another Agent Koenig had been a bit jarring, but Phil managed to brush it off easily enough, even though the title earned him a raised eyebrow from Melinda and open gawking from Skye.

They used the time well, researching the possibilities of the base, setting up quarters suitable for Leo, and trying to contact as many of the SHIELD Agents still in the wind as they could. As a rule, they put everyone through Koenig’s lie detector, a procedure Phil himself meticulously supervised.

As for Phil, he was still reeling about the whole thing, about Nick being alive (although he had to admit that he now understood a little better the calamity after his own resurrection had been revealed), about his own new title, and his mission to rebuild SHIELD. On top of that, Iain Quinn was missing alongside Gravitonium and the woman in the flower dress, not to mention everything else that was waiting for the clean-up after the HYDRA uprising. 

Underneath it all, was the constantly thrumming need to find Clint.

One morning, when Phil was having his second cup of coffee at 7:30 am, Skye came to see him looking a bit shifty. 

”Hey AC… I know you said you didn’t want my help, but…” She bit her lip and then blurted out, ”I know how to reach Ronin.”

Phil blinked. ”You what?”

Skye sat down opposite Phil and leaned forward, eyes shining with excitement. ”He’s probably making all his deals via burner phones, anonymous email accounts, and, I don’t know, newspaper ads, but he also has a TORnet account!” 

”Alright,” Phil said carefully.

”I can hack it and leave him a message,” Skye whispered conspiringly. She was almost bouncing on her seat. 

Phil’s Dragon perked with interest.

”Why are you whispering?” Phil asked Skye in a whisper.

Skye grinned. ”I don’t know! I guess I’m just excited.”

”About what?”

Skye gave him a look that said he was an idiot. ”About your and Hawkeye’s epic love story, of course!”

››I like her,›› the Dragon purred. 

››God help us all,›› Phil answered dryly, but he couldn’t hold back his hope.

Could it work? Was Clint still using that account? 

Would he even answer?

In the end, they decided to leave a simple message with coordinates to a nearby park with a question for coffee. Phil knew Clint would want a public, open space with loads of chances to escape, and Phil was determined to make things as easy for Clint as possible. They also decided to keep the arrangement between the two of them, because Melinda would only try to interfere, and the rest of the team was busy with their own things. 

Plus this was personal and need-to-know, and the others didn’t need to know.

Waiting for the answer was torture. To distract himself, Phil tried to concentrate on his other obligations. He contacted Stark (to find out that Stark, Pepper, and Bruce were safe and holed up at the Tower), and left a message on one of Natasha’s emergency voice mails to let her know how to contact him. Steve’s location was unknown, but he trusted Natasha to pass the message on. He didn’t even bother with Thor: the demigod was immune to HYDRA and practically indestructible, and could find his way to Phil if he so wished.

Days later, when Phil had all but lost hope, Skye practically jumped on him on the corridor.

”He said yes!” She hissed. ”Sunday, 1pm.”

When he realized what Skye was talking about, Phil’s knees gave out and, bracing his back against the wall, he slid to sit down on the floor.

”Don’t you swoon on me like some Victorian lady, AC,” Skye snapped, but her tone was amused. ”I don’t have my smelling salts with me.”

Phil stared at her for a moment, then he started to laugh, and soon he was gasping for breath and blinking his eyes to clear them. Skye knelt beside him, guided his forehead to rest against his knees, and wrapped her arm around his shoulders.

”Okay, AC. Breathe,” she murmured in his ear. ”It’s okay. He said yes.”

Phil nodded mutely, overwhelmed by his own relief and his Dragon’s joy surging around his mind.

”But I have to warn you: he deleted the account. If you screw this up, we have no way to contact him again.”

Phil nodded again. 

He would rather gnaw his arm off than screw this up. 

Phil cleared his throat and straightened his cuffs. His skin was buzzing and he had a clammy feeling somewhere in the pit of his stomach, making him sweaty and nauseous. He was nervous, and it was annoying beyond belief. However, he didn’t even try covering it. This time, he wasn’t there as Agent Coulson, he was there as Phil.

And Phil was scared.

The park was bustling with life, filled with the noise of families and teenagers spending their free time together. Sun was shining through the light clouds, the overcast weather nice but not too hot. However, Phil felt a trickle of sweat roll down his spine and he swallowed.

He was sure Clint was somewhere, watching him. 

He hoped Clint would have the courage to actually come and talk to him.

Phil was sweeping his gaze once more around the park, scanning the people, when a phone rang to his side, startling him. 

He was pretty sure it hadn’t been there a moment ago.

The phone rang several times in a distinctive pattern, and it only took Phil a moment to recognize Clint’s signature knock.

”Clint?” He asked hopefully.

”Are you alone?” Clint asked gruffly. The park sounds echoed through the phone, which meant Clint was somewhere around, in a watching distance.

”I hope so,” Phil answered. ”I didn’t tell my team about this, although it wouldn’t stop Melinda coming after me. The only one who knows where I am, and why, is Skye. She’s the one who found you and contacted you.” Phil paused. ”Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was around.”

There was a moment of silence, and, for a moment, Phil feared Clint had ended the call. Then he heard rustling and a squeak, and —

”Hi AC!” Skye’s perky voice greeted him. 

Phil sighed. ”Skye, what are you doing here? I told you to stay away.”

”But daa-aad, I wanted to come!” Skye whined.

There was a bit more rustling, then Clint’s hard voice demanded, ”Why’s she calling you dad?”

”To my knowledge, I do not have biological children, Clint,” Phil said, emphasizing the negative just to be sure. ”My Dragon likes to call her my daughter, and she… I guess she sees me as a father figure,” Phil shrugged.

››No guessing needed,›› Phil’s Dragon interjected.

››Yes, thank you,›› Phil snapped. This conversation had way too many participants.

After a moment of tense silence, he asked, ”Clint, is there a reason you are calling me instead of coming in person?”

Clint was silent for a moment, then he said slowly, ”I can’t be near you, Coulson.”

”Oh,” Phil managed. 

He had already guessed it was something like that, but the rejection still hurt like hell.

”It’s not…” Clint let out a frustrated growl. ”You do something to me. I can’t think when I’m near you.”

Phil blinked. ”Okay.” He stopped to think for a moment. ”Is it about the Dragons?” He asked hesitantly. ”Because it happens to me too.”

He heard Clint swallow. ”Yeah?”

”Yes,” Phil confirmed.

They shared a moment of silence, then Phil braced himself.

”There’s something I’d like to say, if it’s okay?”

”Okay,” Clint agreed, a bit suspiciously.

Phil took a deep a breath. ”First, I want to apologize about the Helicarrier. It was never my intention to scare you. I lost control of my Dragon because at the time, I didn’t even know what it was. We’ve reached an… understanding now.”

”Understanding… that’s what you’re calling it?” Clint’s muffled huff of amusement felt like sunshine, encouraging Phil to continue.

”My Dragon is old. It acts and thinks differently from the Dragons of this time. In many ways it reminds me of Thor.” That earned Phil some muttering from his Dragon, but he ignored it. ”It has a very strict honor code, and to it, the greatest violation of all is a Dragon inflicting pain on another Dragon.” 

He paused, considering his next words carefully. 

”I know about your past. When my Dragon learned about it, it tore one of Stark’s Hulk-proofed rooms into shreds.”

Phil fell silent for a moment to let the message sink in. He wished desperately he could see Clint, but he had no choice but to wait for the verbal answer.

When he didn’t hear anything, Phil feared Clint had ended the call in the middle of his confession. 

”Clint?”

”Yeah,” Clint answered hoarsely, and Phil swallowed at the emotion leaking through the quiet word.

”I miss you,” Phil said suddenly. Then he winced. He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. But he barged on: if this was the last chance he had to talk to Clint, he was going to use it, dammit!

”I miss your snark and your smile, the way we fit together. If it was up to me, I’d take you home and make sure you were never alone again. But this isn’t about me, this is about you. If you want to walk away, I’ll let you, even though it would hurt more than anything. I’m willing to do anything for you, Clint, if you let me,” he said with an intensity that was almost frightening.

The line went silent.

Phil stared at the phone for a moment, unwilling to believe Clint had just hung up on him. The combined ”No!” from Phil and his Dragon came out as a sob. Blindly, he reached out for the bench to his side and dropped to sit on it.

He didn’t know what he had done, but apparently he had fucked up, and now Clint was gone.

Lost in his despair, it took him some time to realize someone was calling his name. Confused, Phil raised his head to see Skye hurrying towards him, a bright smile on her face.

”I have no idea what you said to him, but whatever it was, it shook him to the core,” she said, looking Phil in the eye. ”In the end, he was clutching the phone so hard I thought it would break, and he had his other hand on his mouth. He looked like you had just handed him his greatest wish on a silver platter.”

She sunk to her knees in front of Phil and gripped his hands between her own.

”This isn’t over, Phil,” she said softly, eyes shining with conviction. ”He’s going to call you again, I’m sure of it!”

As Clint made his way back to his hidey-hole, Coulson’s words rang around his mind in a jumbled mess. He shook his head, trying to get it sorted out, but it didn’t help. They returned to him again again, until he couldn’t do anything but mull them over.

Clint started to pace back and forth in the small room, breaking his conversation with Coulson into smaller pieces, hoping it would make more sense like that.

”I miss you.”

The earnest way Coulson had blurted out his admission had been one of the most vulnerable things Clint had ever seen him do. The way the older man had winced at his words gave away the fact that he hadn’t exactly planned on laying it all out for Clint to see, but Clint was glad he had slipped. 

Truth was, he missed Coulson pretty hard. Their post-Tasha break-up had been nothing compared to the mental torture Clint had gone through after he had learned Coulson had died by Loki’s staff, but finding out he was actually alive had been a shock Clint was still trying to come to terms with. Coulson fit into his life seamlessly, filling up a hole Clint hadn’t even realized he had until Coulson had been gone — and back again.

”When my Dragon learned about it, it tore one of Stark’s Hulk-proofed rooms into shreds.”

Ever since the circus, Clint had been on his own, and even before that he had been alone because he didn’t have a common language with anyone. Back at the orphanage, very few kids had bothered learning ASL, and by the time he and Barney had ended up with the circus, Clint was already fluent in lip-reading. 

Besides, if he was being honest, talking wasn’t exactly why he had been kept around.

The idea of Coulson — or his Dragon, to be specific — wreaking havoc on a room of any kind because of what Clint had been through felt absurd. Getting angry on someone else’s behalf was for people that mattered. Clint had never mattered to anyone.

”If it was up to me, I’d take you home and make sure you were never alone again. But this isn’t about me, this is about you.” 

So far, nothing in Clint’s life had been about him. It had always been about someone else, about Clint bending his mind and body to the use of others, whether it was for Trick’s desires, dad’s rage, or a mark being eliminated. 

When he thought about it, he didn’t even understand what it meant, to be cared for and looked after just because he was Clint, not Hawkeye or a punchbag. He wanted to find out, but the prospect of being so close to anyone — even Coulson — was terrifying.

”If you want to walk away, I’ll let you, even though it would hurt more than anything.”

Clint stopped his pacing and sat by the wall with a frown. 

Tasha had said that Coulson could be trusted. Clint trusted Tasha with his life, which meant that, by proxy, he should trust his life with Coulson too. After all, after the Helicarrier incident, Coulson had been looking for him, but he had never chased after him. He had left Clint in peace, even though he had wanted to come and get him. 

And Clint was pretty sure Coulson would let him go if he really wanted out.

”I’m willing to do anything for you, Clint, if you let me.”

Tasha would probably roll her eyes at him and call him an idiot, but Clint just couldn’t believe it. How could Coulson feel something for Clint? Didn’t he already have someone? Why would someone like Coulson want someone like Clint? It didn’t make any sense.

However, the open display of emotion on Coulson’s face and the look in his eyes had made Clint’s breath hitch. He had stood a little distance away, transfixed, and stared wide-eyed at his former handler baring his heart to him. The words had poured from the phone, seeped under his skin, and wrapped around him in a soft cocoon, and he hadn’t even realized he had been crying until he had almost let out a sob and he had clamped his hand over his mouth to keep silent. He had forgotten all about the people around him, about the park, and the girl staring at him with a happy smile. 

He had only had eyes and ears for Coulson.

And then he had panicked and ran. Again.

Clint banged his head back against the wall. He was pissed at himself. He should’ve been able to deal with the whole thing like an adult, but he had ran like a coward instead.

His Dragon sighed. ››Don’t be so hard on yourself, Clint. You talked to him. That’s a start.››

Clint groaned. ››Now Coulson thinks I dumped him. Way to go, me, yay.››

››Stop with the pity-party, I’m not interested,›› the Dragon said dryly. ››First of all, he knows you, and he’s already proven he’s willing to wait. Secondly, you might have forgotten about that adopted daughter of his.››

››What?››

››I’m pretty sure Skye will relay your reactions to him with explicit detail.››

Clint was silent for a moment, then he groaned again. ››Fucking great… now Coulson knows I cried like a girl.››

››Yes. I’m positive he’ll be disgusted about the way his words touched you,›› the Dragon deadpanned.

››Oh, fuck you, lizerd.››

››No thank you. Now, go take a shower, you stink. After that, you’ll eat, and then we’ll call Phil.››

Clint sputtered, but when his Dragon was on full mother hen mode, it wasn’t to be denied. 

Clint took his time in the shower, ate slowly for once, but after that, his stalling was done, and he found himself sitting at the edge of his bunk, staring at the phone in his hand. It was such a small, innocent-looking device, but, somehow, it held his whole future. 

Clint swallowed and decided to bite the bullet.

Coulson answered after one ring.

”Clint?”

Clint let out a breath. ”Sorry about that. I freaked out.”

Coulson huffed a relieved breath. ”That’s okay. I did too.”

They were silent for a moment, comfortable with each other’s presence. Then Clint braced himself, cleared his throat, and asked, ”Did you really mean it? Those things you said?”

”Yes.”

”But I thought you had someone.”

Coulson didn’t ask how Clint knew. ”I did, but it was over between us a good while before New York. And I’ve always cared about you, so this isn’t just a Dragon thing.”

Okay then. Clint bit his lip. ”But why?” He then asked. ”Why me, Coulson?”

In the back of his mind, Clint’s Dragon let out an exasperated sound, but Clint ignored it. 

For a moment, Coulson was quiet, obviously pondering something. ”I can answer that, but there’s something I’d like to ask you first. Could you… could you call me Phil? Please?”

Clint blinked. ”I — if you want?”

”I’d like that very much,” Couls— Phil said almost shyly.

”Okay, Phil,” Clint said tentatively, and realized he was grinning.

”Thank you,” Phil said, and the smile in his voice wormed its way through the phone right into Clint’s chest.

Slowly, the phone calls became a thing. Because of the blocked burner phones, it was always Clint who called, and if the speed Phil answered was anything to go by, Clint was sure he kept the cheap thing with him at all times. Something about that made Clint’s heart flip funnily.

After their first, long, and serious conversation (that Clint still couldn’t believe to be true and not a dream), they talked about mundane things: about music, films, and cars, about doughnuts vs. churros, about Dog Cops and Star Wars. Phil let Clint steer the conversation. He didn’t push and always answered to Clint’s questions, whether they were about Phil’s favorite books or if he had always known he was bisexual. He seemed to be genuinely happy about their talks, and it left Clint reeling. 

After a couple of weeks, Phil one day paused for a moment and then cleared his throat in the familiar manner that predicted Serious Questions.

”I was wondering if you’d like to try meeting some day,” Phil asked hesitantly.

Clint bit his lip. ”I’m not sure how to do that.”

”Would it be easier if I was blindfolded?” The ease how Phil said it told he had thought about it.

Clint’s jaw dropped. ”You’d do that?”

”I told you I’m willing to do anything for you, if you let me, remember?” Phil reminded him gently.

Yeah, he remembered. He just hadn’t thought Phil had actually meant it.

”Can I think about it?”

”Of course. Take your time.”

Clint took his time. If he was being honest, he desperately wanted to see Phil again, but he was terrified about the intensity of the connection he felt pulling between them. But as far as Clint knew, the intense flash of connection had only happened during eye-contact, and if Phil was blindfolded, his Dragon was out of the game. So there was a chance that blindfolding might work. 

Apprehensive, Clint agreed to try. After he had ended the call, he had to sit by the wall for a good while, trying to get his racing pulse under control.

››You can do this. Phil won’t hurt you,›› his Dragon soothed, but it did little to settle his fears.

They met at the park again. It was a slower day, which was probably just good, considering one of them was going to be sitting around with a blindfold. Forcing his voice to stay even, Clint guided Phil to a quiet corner of the park and watched from afar as Phil spread a blanket on the grass, sat down, and calmly put the blindfold on.

The trust Phil put on Clint almost took his breath away.

Carefully, he stepped closer, purposefully making noise. Phil cocked his head at the sound of his footsteps, raised his head towards him, and smiled.

”Hi Clint,” he said softly.

Clint swallowed. ”Hi Phil,” he answered thickly and sat down opposite Phil.

They stayed like that for a long moment: Clint devouring every inch of Phil with his eyes, and Phil sitting with his hands calmly resting on his knees palms up, waiting for Clint to be ready. It felt oddly intimate, and Clint could feel his pulse picking up.

››I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you asked to touch him,›› his Dragon prompted gently.

Clint wasn’t sure how to ask, so he reached slowly out and touched lightly Phil’s wrist. It made Phil jolt, and Clint clambered back, apologizing.

”Clint, wait,” Phil interrupted with a smile. ”It’s okay. You just surprised me, that’s all. You don’t have to ask my permission to touch me.”

Clint blinked. ”Um, yeah, but no,” he snorted. ”That would be pervy, wouldn’t it?”

Phil barked a laugh. ”Okay, then I’ll give you a blanket permission to touch me whenever you want.”

”That’s a lot.”

Phil gave a soft smile into his general direction. ”I trust you.”

At that, Clint had to sit down and breathe for a while. 

When he had regained his composure again, he reached out, more boldly this time, and traced his finger lightly along Phil’s wrist. Phil let out a soft breath, but didn’t otherwise react. Encouraged, Clint let his hand trace Phil’s palm and fingers, drawing gentle circles on his skin. It felt sublime and perfect. He hadn’t even realized a simple touch like this would be so… much.

Then he made the mistake to glance at Phil’s lap and saw the bulge in his slacks.

In a split second, Clint scrambled back, staring at Phil with wild eyes. He held his breath, waiting for Phil to jump after him, but nothing happened. 

Phil kept his pose, although it didn’t take a genius to notice he was tense.

”I assume you noticed that I’m aroused?” Phil asked calmly. He took Clint’s silence as a yes and sighed. ”I know that you have little reason to trust a Dragon, but I swear I will never take advantage of you. Whatever happens, happens on your terms and at your pace, or it doesn’t happen at all. Consent is everything to me, Clint.”

His words washed over Clint who was still trying to get his raging pulse under control. It took all his willpower to stay still and not to bolt the hell away. He knew he was being unreasonable and difficult, but he couldn’t help himself.

››You’re not being unreasonable or difficult,›› his Dragon chided gently. ››You’re trying to work your way around years of conditioning.››

”I’m not going to blame you if you want to leave,” Phil said softly. ”You don’t have to make excuses or apologize. I’m going to sit here and stay silent for five minutes, and then I’m going to take the blindfold off and return to base and wait for your call.” 

Clint blinked and swallowed convulsively. His hands were clenching and unclenching on their own volition, but he barely noticed it. He stared at Phil, trying to get a read of him, trying to gauge if he was being serious or not. After a long moment, something about Phil deflated, and Clint realized Phil thought he was leaving.

”Wait,” Clint whispered hoarsely. 

Slowly, he crept back near Phil. Gritting his teeth, he reached out and clasped Phil’s hand. The outline of Phil’s hard-on was gone, and it made Clint feel a lot better than it probably should have.

”I’m sorry,” Clint said quietly. ”I’m trying.”

”I know,” Phil said. ”And I’m so proud of you.”

Even though Phil didn’t see it, Clint nodded. He kept a tight hold on Phil’s hand and let out a relieved breath when Phil gripped his hand back just as hard. It was nothing like the sensual touch from earlier, but in a way, it was almost better. 

Now, Phil was an anchor, steering Clint clear from the storm of his own mind. Clint closed his eyes and held on like his life depended on it.

The meetings in the park soon became a natural continuation for their phone calls. If Phil’s schedule allowed, they talked daily and attempted to meet at least once a week. It was extremely innocent: sitting side by side and mainly holding hands, but to Clint, it was a revelation. For the first time in his life, he was able to purely revel on another person’s presence, to hold and be held. The fact that he knew Phil had given him all control made him humble and gave him determination to better himself.

His Dragon gave an amused huff at the sentiment and asked what Clint had in mind exactly, but Clint ignored it. He didn’t have to share everything, did he?

It was another lazy Sunday when they were once again in the park. Phil was sitting with his blindfold on, content and smiling, and suddenly Clint just couldn’t take it anymore. He leaned forward and kissed Phil. It was clumsy, inexperienced, and had way too much teeth, but it shot a jolt of electricity through him anyway. Under his lips, Phil’s mouth was warm and pliant, and he relaxed into the kiss like it was something extraordinary. It was over almost as soon as it started, but Phil still gave him a radiant smile and a soft, ”Thank you.”

Clint wasn’t sure what Phil was thanking him about, so even though he knew Phil didn’t see him, he just shrugged and picked at a hole in his jeans.

”Well, that’s kinky,” said a rough male voice from behind them.

Clint whirled around with a muffled yelp as his Dragon went on high alert. From beside him, Phil surged up to stand in front of him, ripping his blindfold off at the same time.

The man looking at them with narrowed, burning eyes would’ve been kinda ridiculous, if everything about him hadn’t screamed danger to Clint. He had long hair that was partially hanging over his eyes, a brooding expression and a… was that a freaking metallic arm?

”If I tell you to run, you run,” Phil snapped over his shoulder without looking at Clint.

Clint was about to open his mouth to retort Phil that he could well take care of himself, when he spotted Steve jogging towards them. 

What the hell was going on?

”Bucky!” Steve called urgently.

The man stilled and his eyes went wide at the name. Then a slight tremor run through him and his frame sagged. He blinked several times, and when he looked at Clint and Phil again, he had a lost look in his eyes.

”Um, sorry?” He said hesitantly and offered them an uncertain smile.

Steve hurried to his side and took a firm grip on his arm. 

”Why did you run, Bucky? You know you’re not supposed to leave like that,” Steve chided, then added under his breath, ”I’m sorry, Phil.” 

The man, Bucky, frowned and looked at Steve. ”I don’t know. I— felt something and then I was here.”

››Clint, that man is like Tasha!›› Clint’s Dragon said suddenly.

››Oh. That explains how he got so close without us noticing,›› Clint grumbled.

Phil was still standing and shielding Clint, tense and menacing. ”Is there a reason you are taking Winter Soldier out for a walk?” He asked Steve.

››Winter Soldier? Isn’t he a myth?›› The Dragon mused.

››Apparently not,›› Clint said dryly, wondering what the hell was Steve doing with the legendary Russian assassin.

”He didn’t take Winter Soldier for a walk, he took Bucky,” Tasha said from behind Clint, and this time, Clint yelped.

”What is it about you Russians and sneaking up on people?” He hissed, and received an amused quirk of an eyebrow as an answer.

”He sensed something and took off,” Steve said and cocked his head. ”I assume that something was the two of you.” His eyes darted knowingly between Phil and Clint.

Clint shrugged. ”We were just hanging out,” he muttered, not quite reaching the level of nonchalance he was aiming to.

From the corner of his eye, he glanced briefly at Tasha, who gave him a small, fond smile. ”Hanging out looks good on you,” she said gently. 

Clint blushed and dropped his eyes at his boots. Even though he knew Tasha meant well, he didn’t like getting attention like this. It made his skin crawl.

As if sensing his mood, Phil turned a little. ”Clint,” he said quietly.

Clint raised his head to glance at Phil and realized that the blindfold was still off. Phil was standing still, eyes closed, waiting for Clint to react.

”Is there something wrong with your eyes, Phil?” Steve worried.

Phil shrugged. ”No, not really.”

Steve frowned. ”Then why —”

”I think we should continue with our walk,” Tasha interjected smoothly. ”See you around, Coulson.” 

Gently, she turned Bucky and Steve around and ushered them on the move. As they left, she turned to look over her shoulder at Clint and gave him a sly wink.

Clint swallowed and shot a hesitant glance at Phil. Phil stood in that relaxed, unthreatening pose that was meant to calm Clint down, hands on his side with palms open, still waiting for Clint to make up his mind whether to pick up the blindfold or leave.

For a moment, Clint was tempted to just go. His mood was ruined anyway, and, in some way, he hated that Steve, Tasha, and Bucky had seen him in such a flustered state. On the other hand, he knew he would have to stop running at some point, and perhaps this time was as good as any. 

Drawing a deep breath, he decided to be brave.

Phil tensed when Clint stepped forward, a worried frown appearing on his brow. Heart hammering in his chest, Clint stopped right in front of Phil, raised his hand, and carefully touched his cheek. Phil’s sharp intake of breath boomed through Clint like a thunder, and he froze, wide-eyed, waiting for what Phil would do next.

Very carefully, telegraphing his every move, Phil raised his arms and stopped.

Clint realized he was almost hyperventilating when it dawned to him that Phil asked a permission to hug him. 

He didn’t remember when he had last been hugged. For her own reasons, Tasha didn’t do hugs, and Clint’s life hadn’t been especially huggable before. It was possible that the last person who had hugged him just for the sake of hugging had been sister Bernadette at St. Mary’s.

He heard an odd, dull sound and realized it was he himself, trying to choke back sobs, and he almost fell into Phil’s arms. At some level, he waited for the panic to surge up and sweep him away, but nothing happened. Instead, Phil’s arms wrapped around him, held him in a warm and solid embrace while Phil’s frame was a rock he could cling on.

››Oh, Clint. Finally,›› his Dragon sighed, its compassion like a soft blanket in Clint’s mind.

Clint gripped the lapels of Phil’s suit in a vice grip, like it was the only thing holding him upward. Phil’s hold was tight but not restricting, and Clint sank into it, buried his face in the crook of Phil’s neck and let himself go. Before he even realized, he was crying, and Phil was rubbing slow circles on the small of his back.

From somewhere in his mind, Clint heard his Dragon humming Mama’s lullaby, and for the first time in a long, long time, he felt safe.

The feeling of Clint in his arms stayed with Phil long after he had returned back to the base. He was dizzy and distracted, and way too absentminded to comment on the questions from the team about the changes needed to accommodate the returning SHIELD agents. It didn’t take that long for Melinda to roll her eyes and herd him into his quarters, ordering him to stay put until he could control his facial features. The words were harsh, but her eyes were warm and the squeeze on Phil’s shoulder told everything she didn’t say out loud.

Alone in his bedroom, Phil sat on the edge of his bed and stared forward.

It had felt so right to hold Clint, to have him trust enough to relax and melt into Phil’s embrace. Phil’s Dragon had sung with joy at Clint’s closeness, adding to the surreal feeling of the hug. Phil had lost his sense of time, concentrating only on Clint: the rapid beating of his heart, his sobs against Phil’s neck, and the trembling that had nearly overwhelmed them both. 

Phil had read Clint’s file so many times he had it memorized, and he knew enough of Clint’s background to understand what a massive gesture of trust the hug had been. Clint never placed himself into a vulnerable position if he could avoid it, and the fact that he had stepped into Phil’s arms willingly meant the world.

There and then, Phil vowed he would do his everything to be worthy of the trust.

››Do you understand now?›› His Dragon asked.

››I think I understood it a long time ago, but I refused to believe it,›› Phil answered.

››They belongs to us like we belong to them. We are two halves of a whole,›› the Dragon intoned seriously. Then, after a pause, it asked, ››When will they move here?››

Phil rubbed his face. It was something he had thought about as soon as he had seen the base. Having Clint near was everything he could wish for, but the decision wasn’t up to him. 

››I don’t know. I don’t want to push him.››

For a moment, the Dragon was silent. ››I understand, even though I do not like it,›› it grumbled. ››However, having Natasha, Steve, and Bucky here might help Clint to understand that this is a safe place.››

Phil nodded. ››True. I should go and find them anyway. I need to know why they brought the infamous Winter Soldier to my base.››

He stood up, splashed some water on his face, and made his way to the communal kitchen. Despite the spacious common area, kitchen had already proved to be the place where the team camped up. Something about the atmosphere drew people in. That, or Steve’s pancakes.

Pausing by the kitchen door, Phil saw Natasha sipping coffee by the counter, while Steve was making pancakes with Winter Soldier hovering by his left shoulder. Except he wasn’t Winter Soldier, he was Bucky. Even after such a short encounter, Phil was able to tell the difference between the two. 

He felt his Dragon’s focus concentrate on Bucky. ››He is… I have no explanation of what he is,›› the Dragon said after a moment, sounding genuinely confused.

››He is a Russian experiment, a bit like Natasha,›› Phil explained. ››If I understood correctly, he is older than her, and since he was the first one… well, it’s surprising he is as functional as he is.››

The Dragon hummed a non-committal sound, the one that Phil had come to associate with it thinking about something profound.

››Is he Steve’s mate?›› It finally asked.

Phil blinked. ››I— actually I have no idea. Do you think so?››

The Dragon hummed again. ››It is difficult to say for certain after such a short time, but I am fairly certain they are a pair.››

Phil cocked his head and tried to decipher what the Dragon saw when it watched Steve and Bucky. He was so absorbed in his scrutiny that he missed Natasha stalking next to him. 

”I suppose I don’t need to give you the speech?” She asked mildly.

Phil barked a startled laugh. ”If the need arrives, I will personally hand you a shovel.”

She arched her brow and took a delicate sip of her coffee. ”Shovels are for amateurs,” she murmured.

Phil nodded. Nothing more was needed: they both knew perfectly well where they stood.

”So… care to explain why I have another Russian assassin in my base?” He asked after a moment of easy silence.

Natasha pressed her lips together in a tight line. ”His memory is… patchy, but he wants to remember how to be a human again.” She shot Phil a sharp look. ”This is the only place for him to be safe.”

Phil hummed and walked up to the coffee maker, making enough noise for Steve and Bucky to notice him. He nodded a greeting at them, poured himself a cup of coffee, and went to sit by the table. Steve nodded at him and handed him a plate with a stack of golden, fluffy, perfect pancakes that Phil accepted with a smile.

It was late afternoon and the kitchen was peacefully quiet. Steve and Bucky were concentrating on the pancakes and each other, and after stealing a pancake from Phil’s plate, Natasha took silently off. Phil took his time eating, enjoying the easy silence and the solitude of his thoughts. As he sipped his coffee, he snuck a glance at Steve flipping the pancakes and Bucky looking at Steve, and then Steve turned to ask Bucky something and the two froze to stare each other in the eye.

Phil’s fork stopped in the midair.

››Oh. I understand what you mean, about them being a pair,›› he said to his Dragon. 

The Dragon didn’t deign with an answer, but radiated faint smugness from the back of his mind.

Feeling like the third wheel, Phil finished his pancakes and took a fresh cup of coffee on the go. When he was on his way out, Steve called after him.

”Phil, would it be possible to get everyone here tonight? There’s something Natasha and I have to tell you.”

”Of course,” Phil said. As far as he was aware, his team was scattered around the base: Jemma was keeping an eye on Leo, Melinda and Skye were sparring, and Triplett was doing an inventory on the Bus. ”Would eight be alright?”

Steve shot a quick glance at Bucky, who gave almost inconspicuous nod. 

”Yeah, eight is good,” Steve said.

Phil nodded and went to inform his team.

That night, when they gathered into the kitchen, Steve and Natasha narrated with painful detail the events at the Triskelion, the reasons for leaking SHIELD’s files, and how they had found about Bucky. Steve did most of the talking with Natasha adding her remarks in the middle and Bucky sitting silently by Steve’s side, a slightly lost look on his face. 

Phil watched the former Winter Soldier holding a cup of tea Steve had brewed. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what kind of a life Bucky had led: he had been mind-raped for decades, had his personality almost completely wiped out, and was left without a friend in the world. The fact that he was even partially functioning, was a miracle. 

However, when Steve turned to look at Bucky and took his metal hand in his own, Phil felt a spark of hope that things had a chance for the better.

After the hug in the park, Phil hadn’t heard anything from Clint and he was unsure of what to do. He didn’t want to appear too eager, but he also wanted to make sure that Clint knew Phil was there for him, no matter what. However, since Clint’s phone was blocked, Phil had no way to contact Clint, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to break Clint’s trust by asking Skye to hack Clint’s phone just because Phil was feeling lovesick. 

So he set his jaw and settled to wait.

A couple of days later, Phil was about to go to the gym to burn away his jittery feeling, when the alarm rang through the base, informing about an unknown on the door. Phil frowned. It was late and no-one was out, and the location of the base wasn’t public knowledge. Shadowed by Triplett and Melinda, he went to check the door.

It was Clint. He looked tired and worn, and didn’t flinch at the guns pointing at his face. Shooting a hard look at Phil, Melinda tugged Triplett with her, leaving Phil to greet Clint in peace.

”Hi Phil,” Clint said a bit shyly, shifting slightly on his feet. ”Sorry to show up unannounced.”

Phil shook his head, carefully keeping his eyes averted from Clint’s, to avoid triggering any unwanted reactions. 

”You are always welcome here,” he smiled and stepped away from the door to let Clint in. ”Would you like to get something to eat? I think Steve’s making pancakes again. Seems like Bucky has a thing for them.”

Clint stepped in and shrugged. ”Sure,” he said, the tension in his voice almost completely hidden.

Phil gave him a small smile and started walking towards the kitchen. Out of instinct, he placed himself in front of Clint, trusting him behind his back. As they went, Phil took a firm grip of his Dragon, just to make sure it wouldn’t try to surface and scare Clint in its enthusiasm. The Dragon grumbled but conceded, grudgingly admitting that Clint was still very fragile, and any sign of possessive behavior would most likely make him bolt.

Knowing that Triplett and Melinda had informed everyone about Clint on need-to-know basis, Phil wasn’t surprised to see a welcoming committee waiting for them. There was, in fact, a big mug of coffee and a steaming pile of pancakes waiting for Clint on the kitchen table. Steve and Bucky were sitting at the other end of the table with their own pancakes, giving Clint as much space as possible. Natasha was nowhere to be seen, but Phil didn’t have to see her to know she was around. 

Melinda was leaning at the wall on the far side of the kitchen. Phil shot her an annoyed glance, but she brushed it off with the ease of years of practice. Knowing nothing would faze Melinda, Phil decided to ignore her.

A ghost of a smile flickered across Clint’s face at the sight of the plate. ”Steve’s pancakes. I’ve missed them,” he said softly.

Steve saluted him with his coffee mug. ”Eat as much as you want. I can always make more.”

Clint dug into his food like a man starved, and the others sat in a somewhat uneasy silence as Clint ate. By his side, Phil was hyperaware of everyone in the room and he didn’t miss it when Bucky’s hand started to twitch. He tried to ignore it, but as the silence stretched, it started to get on his nerves despite the knowledge that Bucky couldn’t help it.

››Why is he acting like that?›› Phil’s Dragon demanded after a more violent twitch.

››I guess he’s nervous about Clint,›› Phil mused. ››He’s been slowly learning his way around me, but being in the same room with two full Dragons puts him on the edge.››

The Dragon huffed. ››I do not like it.››

Phil sighed. ››I don’t think he’s that fond of it himself either, but right now there’s not much I can do to help it.››

Beside him, Clint had finished his pancakes and was fiddling with the fork. He sat slightly hunched forward, his shoulders drawn higher than usual. Seeing the slowly gathering tension in Clint’s frame, Phil decided they had been social long enough. He stood up and beckoned at the door.

”Would you like to see the rest of the base?”

Clint merely nodded. ”Thanks for the pancakes, Steve,” he said quietly. Steve just shot him a quick smile and turned his attention back to Bucky.

As he headed for the door, Phil gave Melinda a warning glance. He didn’t want her trailing after them, and he definitely didn’t need a chaperone, no matter what she thought. Melinda rolled her eyes, but Phil knew she had received his message loud and clear.

Clint trailed hesitantly after him, oddly subdued compared to the Clint Phil had learned to know over the years. It made Phil slightly nervous, and, as they slowly made their way around the base, Phil kept on talking about mundane things just to fill the silence. Clint hummed and asked a question here and another there, but otherwise he kept quiet as he followed Phil around.

”Would you like to take a shower or a bath?” Phil asked suddenly. ”It’s just… we have very good water pressure here and the bathroom is quite spacious.”

He glanced at Clint, who bit his lip. 

”I don’t have any clean clothes with me,” Clint said hesitantly.

”You can borrow mine,” Phil said easily, ignoring his Dragon’s reaction at the thought of Clint wearing his clothes. 

Clint’s expression didn’t change, and Phil wondered what made him so hesitant. 

Then an idea hit him. ”The bathroom door locks, and you can bolt it from the inside, if you want. I’ll stay outside and make sure nobody bothers you.”

The minute relaxation in Clint’s shoulders told Phil he had guessed right.

Phil fetched a clean set of clothes and a couple of towels, and led Clint to the bathroom. He stayed alert, and it was only after hearing the lock click and the bolt snap to place that he sat down, leaned his back to the wall, relaxed his hold on his Dragon, and settled in to wait.

Keeping his attention partially on the bathroom, Phil let his mind wander. He wanted to ask Clint to stay for the night, for the month, for the rest of his life. His whole being ached to be near Clint, and his Dragon was practically vibrating at the fact of Clint being just behind the closed door. 

Now that he was finally at the base, Phil didn’t want to let him go. However, he knew he would if that was what Clint wanted. 

When he sensed a shadow to his side, his head snapped up, and, before he realized who it was, his Dragon drew near the surface and snarled a warning.

”I should’ve seen that coming,” Natasha said, laughter dancing in her eyes.

››My apologies,›› his Dragon said stiffly.

Mortified, Phil closed his eyes. ”I’m sorry —” he started, but Natasha waved his apologies away.

”You’ve always been protective about him. It only makes sense that now, when he’s finally come to you, you are even more on edge.” 

Phil grimaced. Even if it was true, it still didn’t justify his Dragon’s reaction.

Natasha watched Phil for a moment and then nodded, making her mind about something. ”I’m staying at the base tonight,” she said.

Phil nodded, grateful for her backup. ”Thank you,” he said quietly.

Natasha bent down to give him a kiss on the cheek before she turned and walked away. 

Phil was still staring after her when the bathroom door opened. He turned to look, and his mouth went suddenly dry. Even though Clint was thinner than was good for him, he was still bulkier than Phil, and Phil’s clothes stretched over his chest in the most delicious way. 

With considerable difficulty, Phil tore his eyes away and willed his body to calm down. The Dragon’s appreciative crooning wasn’t exactly helping.

”Um,” Clint said, stopping at the doorway. He had his own clothes bundled up under his arm.

”Ah, you can leave your clothes at the hamper in the corner if you want them cleaned,” Phil said, proud how his voice sounded almost normal.

Clint nodded and ducked back into the bathroom. When he returned, he had his hands stuffed in the hoodie’s pockets. He looked unsure and young. Phil wanted to sweep him into a hug.

”Would you like to stay for the night?” Phil asked tentatively. ”Natasha is staying at the base tonight, but we also have plenty of spare bedrooms to choose from. Of course, you’re free to leave, but frankly, I’d like you to stay in the base for a good night’s sleep.”

Instead of answering right away, Clint hunched into himself and bit his lip. 

”I— Could I stay with you?” He asked after a moment, glancing briefly at Phil’s direction. 

Keeping an iron grip on his Dragon, Phil let out a very deliberate breath. ”Of course you can,” he said with a calm he didn’t feel and turned to lead the way towards his quarters.

Once there, he showed Clint his bedroom, before he turned to head back to his office, absently glad that he had changed the sheets only a couple of days earlier. 

”But if I’m here, where are you going to sleep?” Clint frowned. 

”I have a couch back in my office space,” Phil answered mildly. ”I won’t be far. Sleep well, Clint,” he said. He could feel Clint’s eyes on his neck as he walked away from him.

As he sagged on the couch, his Dragon sighed. ››Is it really necessary to do this in such a hard way?››

››Yes,›› Phil answered and ignored the Dragon’s further muttering. 

He didn’t get much sleep that night, too aware of Clint’s proximity.

In the morning, Phil woke up to find the bedroom door open and Clint gone. There was a note on the pillow, written in Clint’s familiar scribble. 

Thanks for everything. I’ll return your clothes later.

Phil picked up the note and forced his breathing to slow down. 

Clint would come back. He had to.

It took almost a week for Clint to return, but this time, he brought his gear with him.

”Hi,” he said with a sheepish smile, hesitating by the door. ”Sorry about last time. I— I needed time to think.”

”It’s okay,” Phil said, relief making his knees weak. ”I would like to hug you, if it’s alright?”

Clint nodded, and Phil stepped slowly forward, carefully wrapping his arms around Clint, and buried his face in Clint’s neck.

”Welcome home, Clint,” Phil whispered in his ear. The tremor that ran through the archer was enough of an answer.

That night, after Phil had made sure Clint had eaten himself full and showered himself into sleepiness, he once again led Clint to his bedroom. This time, however, when Phil was about to leave for the fitful sleep on his couch, Clint grabbed his hand.

”Stay, please,” he asked in almost a whisper.

Phil swallowed. ”Clint, you don’t —”

”Just to sleep,” Clint interrupted. He paused and opened his mouth a couple of times before he admitted in a small voice, ”You make me feel safe.”

Overwhelmed by the trust Clint showed him, Phil let Clint drag him to bed. They lay down side by side, holding hands, and Phil barely dared to breathe. He forced himself to relax and waited for Clint to fall asleep. Surprisingly enough, it didn’t take long, although it took a lot longer for Phil to find sleep. He didn’t mind — he would’ve happily spent the whole night just watching over Clint.

In the morning, Phil woke up alone again. He couldn’t help the sharp twang of disappointment, even though Clint’s gear was by the wall in clear sight, probably set there on purpose. Biting back a sigh, he got up, got dressed, and made his way to the kitchen. Somehow, he wasn’t in the least surprised to see Clint eating a massive stack of pancakes drowned in maple syrup and butter.

”Morning,” Phil said, and received a smile as an answer. It made something warm and bubbly settling on his chest, and the content purr of his Dragon only added to the feeling.

As he walked past Clint, he noticed his coffee mug was already empty, so he took it for refill as he poured himself a cup. Years of working together had honed Phil the knowledge how Clint took his coffee in the morning: strong, hot, and with a pinch of sugar. He decided to ignore Skye’s knowing smile from the other side of the table.

When he returned to the table, Clint pushed his plate a bit towards Phil.

”You want some?” Clint asked almost shyly. ”There’s more than enough.”

”I’d love to,” Phil said warmly. 

He went to get a fork and a knife, and sat beside Clint to share the pancakes. At times, their forks clinked softly together, and, then and there, Phil decided he wanted his every morning to be like this. 

They soon developed a routine: Clint woke up before Phil and hit the gym to spar with Natasha, Melinda, or any unfortunate agent who happened to be there. Phil went to the gym a bit later, and would absolutely not ogle at Clint while completing his daily treadmill exercise. Afterwards, they met for breakfast, often sharing a plate and sometimes even the coffee, and ignoring the curious and amused glances from the others. 

After the breakfast, they both went on their separate ways, Phil to his office to deal with ”Directorial stuff” as Clint called it, and Clint leaving to ”map the base,” as Clint had once said, even though he usually seemed to wander off to either Natasha or Skye. Phil was glad Clint was tentatively reaching out to make new friends, although he wasn’t sure whether to be glad or horrified about the slowly blossoming relationship between Skye and Clint. However, it seemed to make Clint happy, and Phil was willing to go a long way to see Clint smile.

The evenings after dinner were spent in private. They both tended to crave contact, which was why they often ended up either on the couch or on the bed, with Phil continuing with his working and Clint reading. The base had a surprisingly large library and access to various ebook libraries, and Clint dove to his reading with enthusiasm that was, frankly, endearing. More often than not, Phil got distracted from his work by the myriad of expressions on Clint’s face, but he didn’t mind. He had his priorities right.

At night, they slept side by side with their clothes on, holding hands. Phil had never slept so well.

Their lives slowly slotted into a routine of shared meals, easy conversations, and comfortable closeness that was more about easy intimacy than sex. Phil didn’t fool himself, however: he would’ve liked nothing more than take Clint to bed and unwrap him like a present he had waited for his whole life, but he knew that whatever happened, must be on Clint’s terms. The last thing he wanted was to be yet another man to take advantage.

He was slightly surprised about his Dragon’s reaction, though. Based on how it had behaved, he had been certain it would’ve tried to push them to act, but it seemed to be content to just be with Clint, happy when Clint was home.

Then one night, when Clint had been on the base for nearly two weeks, he stopped Phil when they were about to go to bed. His eyes flickered into his, then slid away.

”Is something wrong?” Phil asked, bemused. He tried to remember if something had happened, but couldn’t come up with anything. It had been, on all accounts, a boring day.

Clint swallowed, the sound a dry click in the room, and hesitantly asked, ”Would you fuck me?” 

Phil blinked at the non-sequitur, then slowly shook his head. ”No,” he said. 

He realized his error immediately, even as Clint’s face fell and he started to turn away.

”No, Clint, wait,” Phil said, gently taking a hold of Clint’s hand. ”I won’t fuck you, but if you’re absolutely sure, I will make love to you.”

Clint frowned. ”What’s the difference?” He asked, genuinely confused.

Phil had to close his eyes to keep his Dragon’s reaction from Clint, but he couldn’t hide the way his jaw clenched. He took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself before he opened his eyes. 

”You’ll see,” he said gently. Then, carefully, he stepped forward to give Clint a tender kiss.

With unhurried moves, he guided Clint to the bed and stripped him slowly, projecting his moves, giving him time to adjust, and a chance to stop if he wanted. 

When Clint raised his hand to take off his aids, Phil asked him to keep them on just as a precaution. Clint frowned, but didn’t protest.

”If you want me to stop, just say so,” Phil reminded as he stripped himself and lay down beside Clint.

Without fully meeting his eyes, Clint gave him a nervous smile. ”It’s okay, Phil. I know how to be good.” 

It took Phil only a split second to understand what Clint meant, and as soon as he did, his Dragon let out a furious growl. Too slow to control it, Phil felt it break to the surface. To his side, Clint went unnaturally still, closed his eyes, and turned his head slightly to the side. 

With a cold feeling in his stomach, Phil realized Clint had bared his throat.

››Stand aside and let me handle this,›› he snapped at his Dragon.

The Dragon snarled and spat, ››I want them suffer for what they have done to him!›› 

››So do I, but this is not the time or the place,›› Phil gritted out. ››You’re scaring him.››

The Dragon hissed out a protest, but Clint’s reaction was enough for it to rein in its anger. Phil waited until it had once more retreated into the back of his mind before he drew a calming breath and softly said, ”Clint, look at me.”

Clint squeezed his eyes shut and let out a whimper. 

Phil’s heart ached at the blatant evidence of Clint’s fear. ”Clint, please,” he begged. ”My Dragon will not hurt you. It’s furious for you. It wants to hunt down and rip to shreds all those who have ever hurt you. It wants to lay down on your feet and take upon itself your pain, and I would gladly do the same, if it was possible.”

Leaning forward to caress Clint’s brow, Phil waited until Clint opened his eyes. They were wide and scared, and darted wildly around, looking for escape. When he realized it was Phil and not his Dragon looking back at him, the fear slowly bled out of them, but it still took him a good while to calm down.

Phil swallowed. ”Do you want us to stop?” He asked. ”I need you to be honest, Clint.”

Clint shook his head. ”No?” It sounded like a question.

”What do you want?”

Clint blinked. ”I don’t know,” he said, sounding lost.

Phil kissed him gently. ”May I take care of you? Please?”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Clint swallowed and nodded.

Phil let out a relieved breath. ”Thank you,” he said and kissed Clint again. 

Taking his time, he let his mouth trail slowly along Clint’s jaw, along his neck to his collarbone and chest, tracing his hands over his archer’s body, caressing every dip, arch, scar, and dimple. He left behind a row of goosebumps and an almost inconspicuous tremble, accompanied by a sigh so soft he was sure Clint wasn’t aware he let it out. However, when Phil glanced at him, he had his eyes squeezed shut and he was biting his lip.

Clint was holding himself back, tensed up about the whole situation, and asking him if he was alright or encouraging him to relax might just make him to clam up. For a moment, Phil wondered what to do. Should he stop altogether? Should he continue? Would it be even remotely alright to keep on kissing Clint?

Then Clint’s hand twitched, an aborted move to reach out for Phil, and Phil decided to continue. 

Slowly, he kissed his way from Clint’s chest to the trail leading down from his bellybutton. When he reached Clint’s cock that was resting on his thigh, shyly filling, Phil had to stop and breathe for a moment. 

››He is gorgeous,›› Phil’s Dragon sighed adoringly. Phil wholeheartedly agreed.

He made sure to lavish Clint with kisses and caresses before he approached his cock, but when he finally took Clint into his mouth, he let out a startled sound and twitched violently. Worried that he had accidentally hurt Clint, Phil looked up at him, only to see Clint staring straight back at him with wide eyes. 

He was about to ask if Clint was alright when he felt the magnetic pull that was their Dragons resonating with each other, and, too slow to rein in his Dragon or avert his eyes, Phil realized they were locked in each other’s gazes. Carefully, he let Clint’s cock slip from his mouth, and crawled up to stretch beside Clint, reaching out to pull him flush against his chest. Trying to get Clint to relax, Phil stroked his hand along his back in long, calm moves, never trailing past the small of his back. 

Gradually, Clint melted against him, until his body was loose and pliant, eyes half-mast. Up close, his eyes were fascinating, their natural kaleidoscope tinted with his Dragon’s bronze, and Phil was sure something similar was going on in his own eyes. He had no idea of what was happening other than it was important to their Dragons, and after waiting for such a long time, they had earned their time together. Losing himself in Clint’s eyes, Phil made them comfortable to wait it out.

A good while later, Clint drew a shuddering breath and the bronze in his eyes gave way to a slightly dazed look,  Phil knew that whatever bonding time the Dragons had needed was over, and he leaned forward to give Clint a lingering kiss. It started as almost chaste, gentle, and reassuring, but soon turned heated, and when they finally parted for air, Clint was breathing heavily, with flushed cheeks and gorgeously kiss-swollen lips.

”Clint, may I? Please?” Phil asked a bit hoarsely.

Clint didn’t say anything, but he nodded. Then he started to turn, and it took Phil embarrassing long time to understand why.

”Don’t turn,” he interrupted, touching Clint on the side. ”I want to see you.”

Clint frowned and his eyes darted around again, but he lay back.

Sitting up, Phil reached out for the bedside drawer and rummaged for lube and a condom he had stashed there ages ago. When he turned back to Clint, the younger man was eying him slightly warily. Phil set the bottle and condom carefully on the bed and looked at Clint.

”You say stop, I stop, no matter what,” he said seriously. 

Clint blinked. ”Okay,” he said tonelessly.

Phil sighed. ”I mean it, Clint. I told you I will not fuck you, but I’d consider it an honor to make love to you, if you let me. You asked what the difference is, and this is one of them: making love is to make us both feel good. It’s for both of us, not just for me. If you are uncomfortable or afraid, I won’t enjoy it either.”

He reached out to cup Clint’s face and smiled at the way Clint leaned on the touch.

”You mean the world to me,” Phil whispered. ”I will not hurt you.”

Clint stared at him intently for a long time, searching his eyes. Then he let out a breath, took Phil’s hand in his own and turned his head a little to press a kiss on Phil’s palm.

It was all Phil needed. 

He leaned over Clint again to give him a thorough kiss, and reveled in the way Clint relaxed into it. He took his time, lavished Clint with kisses and caresses, and made sure to draw little sighs of pleasure from him before he gave himself permission to trail lower.

Clint’s cock was just as beautiful the second time it filled as it had been the first time, and Phil couldn’t help but kiss it all over, earning a startled huff. As he took Clint to his mouth again, Phil reached for the lube, covered his fingers generously, and very gently rubbed around Clint’s hole before carefully slipping a finger in. 

To his surprise, Clint was already slightly loose and slippery, and he realized Clint had prepped himself earlier. 

Was that been what Clint had meant, saying he knew how to be good? 

Phil gave himself a mental slap to get his mind out of it and to the matter at hand — and mouth. He would have time to think about Clint’s past later.

While he made sure to sufficiently stretch Clint, Phil sucked his cock lazily, just enough to give pleasure, but not nearly enough to make him come. He ignored his own need and concentrated fully on Clint. He was determined to make it good, to make Clint feel loved, cherished, and precious. He added finger after finger until he was sliding four fingers effortlessly in and out, and Clint was a panting mess of beauty. There was lube smeared all around his groin, and Phil took advantage of it, rubbing behind Clint’s balls with his thumb. Clint jerked and let out a muffled groan, and Phil smiled around Clint’s cock. He would have to remember the reaction for later.

Deciding the prepping was sufficient, Phil gently extracted his fingers and let go of Clint’s cock with a final kiss. Clint’s eyes were dazed and he had bit his lower lip red. He looked absolutely gorgeous.

When Phil reached for the condom, Clint grabbed his wrist. ”No,” he managed, and swallowed. ”I mean, no condom.” 

Phil frowned. Going bare wasn’t usually something he did. ”Are you sure?” He asked.

”I was tested to the bone after… Loki, and nobody’s touched me. And I trust you,” Clint said, and Phil felt humbled by his trust.

A deep blush traveled from Clint’s cheeks down to his chest as he bit his lip and mumbled, ”I want you to mark me. From inside out. I want you to make me yours,” he finished, glancing quickly at Phil and then away again.

Possessiveness flashed hotly through Phil, and he had to grip the base of his cock to prevent himself from coming right there and then. He surged forward to claim Clint’s mouth in a demanding kiss before he leaned back and coated himself excessively with lube. He tucked a pillow under Clint’s hips, positioned himself, and started slowly pushing in. He went carefully, even though he knew Clint was thoroughly stretched. He didn’t want even the slightest bit of discomfort marring this, and if it meant exceeding the limits of his self-control, he would do it. 

When Phil finally was all the way in, his hips resting snugly against Clint’s ass, he had to close his eyes and grit his jaw to stay in control. Clint surrounded him with tight heat, and it was overwhelming, almost too much, and he had to bite his lip to ground himself. His Dragon was letting out a continuous low purr, and the feedback loop from his body and the Dragon was something Phil had never even dreamed about.

When he felt he could open his eyes again, he was met with the sight of Clint’s tear-stained face.

Worried, he reached out to cup the younger man’s face. ”Clint? Sweetheart? What’s wrong?”

››What is it? Why is he crying? Are we hurting him?›› The Dragon demanded, sounding almost panicked.

Scrunching his face, Clint shook his head. ”I didn’t…” He let out a shaky breath. ”I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he whispered hoarsely.

”Oh Clint,” Phil breathed and leaned down to kiss the tears from his eyes. Leaning his elbows on the mattress, he rested their foreheads together and cradled Clint’s face in his hands, rubbing a gentle circle on his cheek with a thumb. 

After a moment, Clint raised his hands hesitantly, wrapping them tentatively around Phil, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed. Phil thanked him with a smile and a tender kiss, reveling in Clint’s tentative eagerness.

Phil was still inside of Clint, although, due to Clint’s distress, he had softened to half-hard. He didn’t pull out, but started gyrating his hips slowly instead, keeping his eyes on Clint’s. He continued with the small nudges until his cock was fully hard again and then, carefully, he started moving more, rocking slowly back and forth, conscious of Clint under him: his breathing, his soft whimpers, and the tremors that run through him.

As the momentum slowly grew and Phil started panting, Clint was still slightly tense, even though his breaths came in short gasps and he had closed his eyes at some point. Gripping his self-control with all he got, Phil restrained his growing need to fuck into Clint in earnest, because he had made a promise. Gently, he closed his hand over Clint’s cock, smearing the pre-cum, and started pulling in tune with his thrusts. 

Clint’s eyes flew open and he gasped at the touch, locking his eyes with Phil’s gaze.

”I have you. Let go, Clint,” Phil encouraged softly. ”Let me take care of you.”

For a moment, Clint resisted, then something in him unwound. A short while later, he arched off the bed with a silent scream, spilling over Phil’s hand, clenching gloriously around Phil’s cock. Fascinated, Phil watched Clint as he trembled through his orgasm, humbled he was allowed to see it all. 

It didn’t take Phil more than half a dozen of jerky thrusts to follow behind. When his orgasm unwound from somewhere deep within him, Phil instinctively ground himself against Clint, burying himself as deep as possible. It felt like he pulsed inside Clint forever, and when it finally was over, Phil slumped on top of Clint with a groan.

When he raised his head, he was met with a pair of softly glowing eyes. 

Phil’s breath hitched.

”He is alright,” Clint’s Dragon said. Its voice was almost like Clint’s, or perhaps slightly deeper, more velvety. 

Phil nodded mutely, bewildered about the turns of events.

”He loves you. He might never be able to say it, but it doesn’t change his feelings. You are the reason we are still alive,” Clint’s Dragon said. It paused for a moment, and the bronze glow turned assessing. ”I hope you understand what this means to him. You are the only one he has let this close, after everything that was done to him.”

Phil cleared his throat. ”I hope I’ll be worthy of his trust,” he said hoarsely.

Suddenly Phil’s Dragon asked, ››May I speak with them?››

Phil frowned. ››Why?››

There was an odd quality in his Dragon’s tone. ››It would mean a great deal to me, Phil.››

››I guess that’s okay,›› Phil said. Because, why the hell not?

He relaxed his mind and felt his Dragon carefully push forward. The feeling of handing over the control of his body was weird, even though it was done in full understanding this time. He was leaning were very close to Clint, almost nose-to-nose, and Phil could see the reflection of his own golden Dragon eyes in Clint’s glowing bronze.

”We are deeply honored by your trust,” Phil’s Dragon said, oddly formal. ”If you find it acceptable, we will pledge our life to protect and defend you for all the days to come. We will never betray you, never deceive you, and never leave you. We are your mate. No matter what happens, we will be there for you, for as long as you are willing.”

The speech was like a vow, and Phil could feel the enormous conviction behind his Dragon’s words. It left him reeling, and he wasn’t the only one: Clint’s glowing eyes had gone wide, and they looked little wild.

”We… Yes, we are willing,” it finally said. ”We accept your pledge.”

The relief Phil felt radiating from his Dragon was palpable. Without a further comment, it released its control and retreated to curl contentedly in a purring heap in the back of Phil’s mind. 

”He’s coming back to,” Clint’s Dragon said suddenly, drawing Phil’s attention back to Clint. ”Take care of him.” 

Then the bronze eyes fell shut.

Phil barely dared to breathe, waiting for what was to happen next. 

After a moment, Clint’s eyelids fluttered, and then he blinked his eyes open, gazing at Phil owlishly.

”What?” He asked with a confused frown.

Phil smiled and kissed him. ”Nothing. I love you.”

Clint blinked again. ”What?” He croaked.

With a small huff, Phil shook his head. ”I said, ’I love you.’ I think I’ve loved you for a long time, but I never realized it. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.”

Clint swallowed. ”Phil, I —”

Phil silenced him with a tender kiss. ”You don’t have to say anything,” he said seriously, looking Clint in the eye. ”That’s not why I said it. The fact that you are here, in my arms, is enough for me.”

Something haunted and vulnerable flashed in Clint’s eyes before he ducked his head. Recognizing Clint’s emotional barriers, Phil decided to direct his attention to something else. He pushed himself carefully up, wincing at the clammy stickiness on his stomach.

”I’m going to pull out now. Then I’ll clean us up, and then we should probably get some sleep. Alright?”

He waited for Clint’s nod before pulling out with an obnoxious wet sound, and Clint let out a small groan of dismay. It made Phil’s Dragon fret in distress, and Phil resisted his urge to roll his eyes fondly. He made his way quickly into the bathroom to wash up and return with a wet, warm towel to clean Clint up.

The pillow under Clint’s hips was completely ruined, and Phil discarded it with a shrug. He wiped Clint’s stomach, peppering it with kisses before he turned his attention to his hole. Despite knowing he had prepped Clint properly, he wanted to make sure he was alright. 

After he was sure he had gotten all come and lube off, he pressed soft kisses on Clint’s groin, thighs, spent cock, and, finally, on his swollen hole. It made Clint jerk.

Worried, Phil raised his head to look at him. ”Did I hurt you?”

Clint bit his lip and shook his head, a beautiful shade of rose spreading down his cheeks.

Ah, Phil thought.

Cradling Clint’s thigh between his arm and cheek, he drew gentle circles on the skin of Clint’s stomach with his other hand. 

”Just so you know,” he said calmly, ”that’s something I like to do. However, if it makes you uncomfortable, you need to tell me so that I know.” He kissed the side of Clint’s knee. ”I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

Ignoring Clint’s embarrassed blush and the way he refused to meet Phil’s eyes, he pecked a final kiss on the tip of Clint’s cock before standing up and taking the now tepid towel to the hamper. 

On his way back to the bedroom, he filled a glass with water and handed it to Clint.

”Drink it all. It’s just water,” he said. 

The way how Clint trusted Phil to chug down the water in one go, made Phil all warm inside out. He filled the glass again and left it on Clint’s nightstand in case he got thirsty during the night. He waited for Clint to take his hearing aids out, climbed into bed, and lay on his side, facing Clint.

Beside him, Clint was still and slightly tense. Phil hoped he didn’t regret their lovemaking and run in the morning, although he couldn’t really blame Clint if that happened. According to Clint’s Dragon, Phil was the first person Clint had given the permission to touch, and, after years of abuse and negligence, loving intimacy was probably terrifying.

Phil hoped he could be worthy of Clint’s trust.

His thoughts were interrupted when Clint scooted a bit closer and glanced at him almost shyly. 

Slowly, with a smile, Phil closed the distance and took Clint into his arms. He felt more than heard the content sigh as Clint burrowed himself as close as possible, tucked his face in the crook of Phil’s neck, and tangled their legs together. 

Phil drew the blankets over them, closing them inside a warm cocoon. He fell asleep surrounded by Clint’s scent and with the pleased purring of the Dragon in his head, feeling like the luckiest man on Earth.

When Clint woke up, the first thing he noticed was that he was naked in a strange bed and that there was someone behind him. A solid arm stretched across his midriff, holding him gently, and his ass rested snugly against someone’s crotch — and prominent morning wood. 

Clint froze and tried to take in his surroundings. His hearing aids were off and his ass was sore, but there was no sense of violation. In fact, he felt quite good.

It was disconcerting.

The arm moved slightly, and a finger started steadily tapping on his chest: S-A-F-E and P-H-I-L in Morse code, over and over again at the same time as his Dragon said, ››You’re safe, it’s Phil.››

He let out a breath and relaxed minutely — and then he remembered what had happened the night before.

So. He had had sex with Phil. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. 

Part of him wanted to get away, to run and hide, but a bigger part of him wanted to stay right where he was. It was nice, laying there, with Phil’s solid warmth in his back. He felt safe and protected, and Clint thought he could get used to it, even though he knew that nice things like that weren’t meant for someone like him.

››Don’t be a moron,›› his Dragon huffed.

››Gee, thanks.››

››I mean it, Clint. Phil has already proven himself. You should just trust him. Trust this.››

Clint let out a slow sigh, careful not to jostle Phil’s arm. 

››Yeah, I guess. But—››

››I told him you love him,›› his Dragon interrupted calmly.

Despite his best efforts, Clint tensed. ››You WHAT?››

For a split second, the arm around him held him closer and then relaxed, a clear sign of Please, don’t go and You’re free at the same time.

The Dragon sniffed. ››After he blew your mind last night, I took matters in my own hand, so to speak. He deserves to know, and you probably couldn’t do it anyway.››

››You— ››

››As a result,›› the Dragon continued, ignoring Clint’s sputtering, ››his Dragon came forward and pledged their life to us.››

Clint’s mind went blank. ››It did what?››

››It was… strange. Archaic in a way,›› the Dragon said, slightly awed. ››It reminded me of Thor, actually.››

››Pompous Shakespeare?››

››Well, I was thinking about the heartbreaking sincerity, eagerness, and honor, but whatever,›› the Dragon said dryly. 

Clint frowned. ››Why can’t I remember that?››

››Probably because Phil literally fucked your brains out, although I believe he’d rather use the phrase ’love you senseless,’ or something equally romantic.››

Oh. Right. 

Clint blushed as fragments of the previous night trailed through his sleep-foggy brain. 

He had sorta understood that Phil wasn’t like Trick (or anyone else who had fucked him), but he hadn’t really known what to expect, and the reality had come as a shock. No-one had ever touched him like that. No-one had ever made him feel so good. Phil had been so gentle, so careful and loving, and, as a result, Clint had cried like a girl. 

Embarrassing, really.

The Dragon was silent for a moment, then it sighed and said seriously, ››Turn around, Clint. You need to face him.››

Clint swallowed nervously, but the Dragon was right, as always. 

Slowly, he turned around, careful to stay in Phil’s arms. He wasn’t sure where to put his hands, if he was allowed to hug Phil back, or if it was too intimate. He knew that, after their activities the previous night, his hesitance was irrational, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t know how these things worked.

He could feel Phil’s chest rise and fall with his steady breathing, and the warm breath tickling his hair. If it was up to Clint, he would’ve wanted to bury himself against Phil and stay like that forever, but he knew he couldn’t, not yet. He drew a breath, braced himself, and raised his head to meet Phil’s eyes.

”It’s 6:04 am, you’re in my quarters in Fury’s secret base, and you let me make love to you last night,” Phil said, articulating clearly to give Clint time to lipread in the dim light. His voice rumbled in his chest, resonating through Clint in pleasant waves. 

Carefully, Phil squeezed him closer. ”Please, don’t run,” he said. This time, there was no resonation, just Phil’s lips forming the words, emphasized by the emotion in his eyes.

Clint shook his head. ”I’m not gonna run,” he said, hoping his voice wasn’t too loud.

Phil closed his eyes for a moment and smiled. ”Good,” he said, and the rumble of his voice felt like caress to Clint.

He burrowed himself closer and in a sudden burst of bravery, reached his arms around Phil to get closer. It felt good, to be connected from head to toe, to feel Phil’s skin warm against his own and tangle their legs together. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against Phil’s chest, concentrating on the steady thrum of Phil’s heart under the raised scar tissue.

Phil’s chest rose and fell along with his sigh, and then Clint felt a kiss on the top of his head. Phil’s hands surrounded him like wards against the world, and the steady caress of his thumb on Clint’s hip was a brand, a reminder of I’m here, right where I’m supposed to be.

L-O-V-E  Y-O-U, Phil tapped on Clint’s skin.

Clint let out a contented sound and kissed the scar on Phil’s chest. Soothed by Phil’s caress, he drifted off to sleep.

Hours later, Clint slowly resurfaced. He felt pleasantly groggy, plastered against Phil’s chest, his nose filled with Phil’s scent and chest hair. He wanted to stay there, but the call of nature forced him off the bed. Figuring he would just hurry back to Phil, he didn’t bother putting on clothes as he made his way to take a leak.

Compared to his time in the circus, the morning after a night with Phil felt very different from a night after Trick. Even though Clint knew the two men were vastly different in every aspect, he still couldn’t stop marveling. Yeah, his ass still ached as he moved, but it was an almost pleasant feeling, the kind of throb he got in his body after a good work-out. 

Thinking about his ass and the reason for the ache, Clint blushed. His cock twitched with interest at the memory of Phil’s mouth on it and Phil’s cock gently breaching his hole. Watching his cock slowly fill, Clint wondered if this was the reason why people were so into sex in the first place? Did it make others feel like this too, a bit jittery, all hot and bothered?

Would it always be like this, with Phil?

He shook his head to get his mind out of the gutter and splashed some cold water on his face before he returned to the bedroom. 

Once there, he stopped by the bed to watch Phil. He was in deep sleep, slightly on his side with the blanket pooled around his lap. He didn’t look that much younger, not really, but he looked less stressed. Clint’s eyes wandered lower and froze on the jagged scar on Phil’s chest. He had known it was there, he had seen it the day before, but this was the first time it was fully visible, and Clint couldn’t suppress a shiver at the sight of it. 

He must’ve let out a sound, because Phil twitched, his body going from soft and happy to worried and tense in an instant.

”You died,” Clint managed, staring at the scar. ”You died and I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t understand why. Then you came back, but it wasn’t you, and all I knew was that I had to get away.”

His heart was hammering and he didn’t know how loud he was talking. He didn’t even know if Phil was saying something to him, because he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scar long enough to glance at Phil’s lips.

However, Phil was already moving to sit up. His hand reached out to grab Clint’s chin, forcing him to look at Phil.

”I’m sorry. I’m here now. I’m not leaving you again,” Phil articulated clearly, searching Clint’s eyes. He seemed to reach some kind of decision and turned to get something from the nightstand.

Clint blinked as Phil handed him the hearing aids. He frowned and glanced at Phil, who raised his brow and nodded at the aids. Pressing his lips together in a thin line, Clint took the aids and put them on.

”Okay, they’re on,” Clint muttered sullenly and heard Phil let out a breath.

”Good,” Phil said. ”Not because I think you should be wearing them as such, but…” He paused for a while, then reached out to gently grab Clint and pulled him to lie down beside him, flush against his chest. Clint went willingly, even though he had no idea what Phil was about.

”I’m scared,” Phil said quietly into Clint’s hair.

Clint frowned, because what?

”I’m scared that I’ll drive you away. That I won’t be worthy of your trust.” Phil fell silent. ”I’m scared that my loving you isn’t enough, but I’m still going to do my everything for you.”

Clint didn’t know what to say, so he buried his face in Phil’s chest and hugged him tight. 

He was of a half-mind to creep up and kiss Phil, when the door to Phil’s quarters slammed open, and Skye barged through.

”Hi, AC!” She piped brightly. ”You missed your meeting and didn’t answer your phone, so—”

Clint tensed and his Dragon went on alert, but he didn’t get the chance to do much else before Phil had flipped him to his back, shielding Clint with his body, rigid with barely contained violence, eyes flaming with gold.

Clint dared a quick glance at the door, and saw Skye frozen on her steps, eyes comically wide and mouth hanging partially open. 

”Skye? I think you should back away slowly,” Clint said quietly, turning his attention back to the Dragon shielding him. ”Phil isn’t home at the moment.”

From the corner of his eye, Clint saw how Skye started to inch back, and he ignored her, trusting her to have the sense to obey. Instead, Clint focused on Phil: slowly, he reached out to hold his hand against Phil’s cheek, forcing him to look away from Skye. It took some doing, and when the golden eyes finally turned to stare at Clint, he nearly pissed himself. If it hadn’t been for the steady calm and trust radiating from his own Dragon and the way Phil’s Dragon eyes changed from furious to worried in a heartbeat, Clint would’ve probably lost it. 

Nevertheless, he swallowed around his dry throat, fully aware that his fear shone through his eyes.

”My apologies, Clint. I did not mean to frighten you.” Phil’s Dragon sounded exactly as archaic as Clint’s Dragon had said. It even looked different from Phil, no matter they shared the same skin.

”Yeah,” Clint said nervously. ”I know. It’s just—” He averted his eyes, unwilling to admit aloud how messed up he really was.

››You’re not messed up,›› his own Dragon chided. ››You were abused and neglected. I thought we’ve had this conversation often enough.››

”I would like you to know that, was it up to me, I would hunt down your abusers and avenge the wrongs you have suffered,” Phil’s Dragon said in low, passionate voice. ”However, Phil has advised against it,” it grumbled, almost petulant.

”Oh?”

”Yes. I recall him mentioning something about it being your decision.”

Clint blinked. ”Um. Okay. Let me think about it?”

”Of course,” Phil’s Dragon answered somberly.

They fell silent for a moment. Clint’s fear slowly leeched out of him, although he couldn’t say he was exactly comfortable, lying there with Phil’s Dragon partially on top of him.

Slowly, he reached his hand to cup Phil’s face, braced himself, and looked the Dragon straight in the eye.

”I don’t mean to be rude, but… could you please let Phil out?”

Phil’s Dragon eyes widened slightly, like it just realized it was still in control. It blinked rapidly a couple of times before inclining its head and closing its eyes. Fascinated, Clint watched Phil’s features relax and return back to what Clint had learned to love.

”Clint?” Phil asked softly. ”Are you alright?”

Clint swallowed and nodded. ”Yeah, I guess.”

Phil looked at him for a long time, traced his gaze along Clint’s face with an intensity that was frankly a bit intimidating.

”My Dragon got, well, excited to speak straight to you. It hopes it didn’t scare you too badly.” Phil’s worry was evident in his eyes.

Clint shook his head. ”I’m okay. It actually helped when it talked to me. It’s… different from anything I’ve met before.”

Phil smiled wryly. ”Tell me about it.” He fell silent for a moment. ”It also wishes to express its adoration and admiration towards you. It says you are exceptional. I fully agree.”

Clint blinked and ducked his head. He wasn’t used to compliments, and comments like that made him flustered. 

Phil shrugged. ”If you don’t believe our words, I guess I just have to show you.”

He kissed Clint’s nose, then scooted back to kiss his way down Clint’s chest, to his stomach and groin. Clint’s cock perked with interest and, to his bewilderment, he heard Phil let out an appreciative sound.

”Phil—!”

”Shh,” Phil said with a smile. ”Let me do this.”

Clint didn’t know what to say, so he swallowed and nodded. Phil didn’t move, but waited for a short moment longer before kissing his way down again. 

Gently, giving Clint plenty of time to understand what was happening, Phil nudged his legs wider apart, and the next thing Clint knew was Phil’s mouth on his cock. He let out a startled sound and turned his head to the side, unsure of what to do. It felt so good, but the feeling was almost overwhelming, and his hand groped the sheets in attempt to get something to hold on to. Then Phil’s hand was there, anchoring him and keeping him safe, and Clint let himself sink into the feeling of Phil’s mouth on his cock, of Phil’s fingers caressing his balls and the tender area right behind them. He wasn’t sure what Phil did, but there was intense pressure and pleasure blossoming somewhere inside him, and, a short while later, he came down Phil’s throat with a gasp, clutching Phil’s hand like a vice.

When he felt the world had stopped spinning, he reached out for Phil, slurring a promise of reciprocation. Phil merely shook his head with a fond smile, kissed him, and pulled him against his chest, ignoring his erection that strained against Clint’s softening cock. 

Clint thought that tasting himself on Phil’s lips should’ve been gross, but somehow, it didn’t seem important. 

He was about to drift off, when a thought hit him.

”Phil, how did I look like as a Dragon?”

”Beautiful,” Phil answered immediately. Clint snorted, but Phil stopped him by pressing his finger gently on Clint’s lips.

”I mean it. You were — are — beautiful: a sleek, powerful, gorgeous, bronze drake with a long, slender neck and massive wings. And you had horns.”

”…Horns?”

Phil nodded. ”Horns. I think you are more an Asian kind of a Dragon than a Dungeons & Dragons sort of a Dragon.”

Clint stared at him for a moment before dropping his forehead against Phil’s chest with a muttered, ”Nerd.”

Phil’s chest twitched in a soft huff of laughter.

Before he fell asleep, he felt Phil take off his hearing aids and tuck them snugly under the blanket.

Next time when Clint awoke, he was alone. The bedroom was dim and the place beside him cold. He looked around and saw a note on the nightstand.

Doing ’Directorial Stuff’ with Melinda. Go get yourself something to eat. I’m sure Steve will make you pancakes if you ask nicely.

Clint smiled at the words and the small heart Phil had drawn on the side. He was pretty sure no-one would believe him if he told that Director Coulson doodled hearts on his notes. Chuckling at himself, he made his way to the bathroom for a quick shower before getting something to eat. It was probably for the best, considering that being all sticky and gross with dried saliva and semen wasn’t polite in public. 

When he entered the kitchen, he first thought it was empty. Then his Dragon warned him about the shape in the dark corner, and Clint stopped.

››It’s Bucky,›› the Dragon said.

Clint hesitated. He knew that Bucky didn’t mean any harm, but he wasn’t the problem, and Clint didn’t know what triggered the Winter Soldier to make an appearance. 

He didn’t have to make the decision, though.

”I can sense you, Clint,” Bucky said quietly. 

Clint blinked. ”Okay. I’m just getting something to eat,” he said carefully and made his way to the fridge, keeping an eye on Bucky from the corner of his eye.

”There should be a stack of pancakes left. Steve made them for you earlier.”

Peering into the fridge, Clint saw it was true. He took the plate, a jar of jam and the bottle of maple syrup, momentarily debating whether to warm the pancakes or not.

”Do you want some?” He asked, glancing at Bucky.

The other man shook his head. ”No thanks. They’re for you. I ate mine earlier.” Then he hesitated. ”But I can take coffee, if you make it.” It came out slightly awkward, like he wasn’t sure how to ask.

Clint nodded. ”Yeah, sure.”

He brewed the coffee and decided on warming the pancakes before drowning them under a considerable amount of jam and maple syrup. He saw Bucky eying his condiments with suspicion, and gave him a shrug and a rueful smile.

”Pancakes are my favorite, you know? Never really got them as a kid.”

Bucky raised his brows and shook his head. ”Hey, I’m not judging you. It’s your diabetes.”

Clint snorted and carried his plate to the table, and, when the coffee was ready, he poured them both a cup. They sat in relatively comfortable silence while Clint ate and Bucky sipped his coffee with a slight frown.

”What’s your story?”

The question was quite sudden, but when Clint glanced at Bucky, the man looked genuinely confused.

”What do you mean?” He asked carefully.

Bucky shrugged and frowned into his cup. ”I know you’re a Full Dragon. I can sense you. From what little Steve and Nat have told me, I also know that your life has been hard, but you seem…” His voice trailed away and he made a vague motion with his metal hand. ”I just want to know how.”

”How — what?”

Bucky raised his head and looked at him. ”How are you still alive?”

Clint was silent for a moment, then he shook his head and huffed an unamused laugh. ”To be honest? Sometimes I wonder that myself.”

He rubbed a hand over his face and pondered how much he could say. Something about Bucky called out for him, resonated in him — a kindred spirit or something like that. For the first time in his life, Clint actually wanted to tell someone about what he had been through.

He just didn’t know if he actually could do it.

››Actually, I think you can and should talk with him. You are among friends here, Clint,›› his Dragon reminded.

››I sorta know. It’s just…››

››It’s a big step.›› The Dragon’s voice was soft.

After a moment of consideration, Clint took a deep breath and decided to go for it. 

”You said you knew my life was hard… My dad was an abusive drunk who beat the shit out of my mom, my brother, and me. After my parents died, Barney and I were taken into an orphanage. They tried to put us into foster care, but turned out our foster father was —”  

He stopped as his throat closed up, refusing the words. He gritted his jaw, swallowed around dry throat, and blinked several times to get past the odd ringing noise in his ears. After a couple of gulps of air, staring unseeingly at his plate, he forced out, ”He nearly killed me. He was a Full Dragon, by the way.” 

Without even realizing, he had started trembling, and he wrapped his arms around himself in futile attempt to keep still.

”Later, in the circus, I was… used for years. He too was a Full Dragon. And he too tried to kill me.” Clint was shaking now, and he didn’t seem to make it stop. ”After that… fuck, I don’t even remember.”

He jerked when Bucky grabbed his arm with his metal hand, peering seriously at him from under his hair. The grip was hard, bordering painful, but it was grounding pain. Slowly, staring at Bucky’s intent eyes, Clint managed to make the trembling stop. 

”Thanks,” he said hoarsely and gulped down his coffee, ignoring how his hand shook.

Bucky blinked and nodded a couple of times. 

”After I fell to what everyone thought was my death, I was kidnapped by HYDRA, used as a guinea pig for experimental medical procedures, and mind-raped for seventy years by Russians to act as their secret assassin.” The words came out in a flat monotone, and when he fell silent, he sagged like a puppet with his strings cut.

Clint stared. Holy fuck!  

Unsure of what to say, he asked, ”More coffee?”

Bucky glanced up and nodded. 

Clint poured them both fresh coffee, then pushed his plate with the few remaining pancakes towards Bucky. They shared the pancakes in silence, but this time, it was comfortable. 

Brothers in nightmares, or something like that, Clint thought wryly.

Later, when Phil came to look for him in the kitchen, Clint offered his lips for a kiss. Phil’s eyes flashed to Bucky for a second, a question if Clint really wanted Phil to kiss him in public. Clint just smiled, and that was all Phil needed to press a loving kiss on Clint’s lips.

When they parted, Bucky was watching them in deep thought. 

That night, after a long, shared shower, Phil asked what the kiss had been all about.

”I don’t know,” Clint shrugged. ”I guess… He’s so lost, you know? I wanted to show him that fuck-ups like he and I can have something good in our lives.”

››Clint… How about not going there again?›› His Dragon reproached.

”You are not a fuck-up,” Phil said seriously. ”And neither is he. You both are exceptional, strong people, and you deserve every good thing in your lives.”

”If you say so,” Clint grumbled, feeling like an underdog, what with both his Dragon and Phil teaming up against him.

”I say so,” Phil said sternly. ”Now, go to sleep.”

The life at the Playground slowly shaped itself into a routine. After some painfully detailed discussions regarding rules, regulations, and proper use of airways, Clint was appointed to a status of Director’s badass spouse, do not touch. It wasn’t official of course, but the fact of the two of them being the only Full Dragons on the base, spiced up with the elaborate (”Not to mention highly exaggerated, please stop encouraging them, Clint!”) depiction of Phil’s Dragon almost jumping Trip, resulted in an effectively wide berth on Clint. 

Of course, Agents being Agents stuffed together in close quarters meant that there were the inevitable talks about Clint being merely the Director’s bitch with no real value of his own. Those rumors were quickly dispersed after Clint invited the four biggest loudmouths into the gym, took out his hearing aids, put a blindfold on, and proceeded to kick their asses six ways till Sunday. 

››Showoff,›› his Dragon snorted. Clint didn’t deny it, because he knew damn well Phil was right there and watching, and so what if he just happened to flex and bend a bit more than necessary?

After he was done, Phil shook his head and rolled his eyes in exasperation from the other side of the gym, but that night he made Clint come repeatedly, until he was oversensitive and his Dragon whited out. He didn’t walk exactly right for a couple of days, but he didn’t really give a flying fuck.

That was a fun day.

As time went by and they learned more about the magnitude of HYDRA’s infiltration, the more they started to understand what a huge thing rebuilding SHIELD actually was. Even with the new base and the resources the Toolbox provided, getting back to where they had been was going to take time and energy — something Clint knew Phil didn’t have in abundance.

So, despite being back to his cocky asshole role, he tried to help as much as he could, training and evaluating the refuge Agents. It didn’t take him long to be the most sought-out weapons instructor and tactician, if only for the fact that nobody dared to ask Tasha or Bucky. And, as much fun as kicking baby Agent ass was, Clint realized he actually enjoyed tutoring.

However, the early mornings were dedicated to Clint’s ass-kicking, in the most literal sense. Tasha enjoyed way too much the chance to wipe the floor with him, and tended to show off every time Melinda or Skye were watching. Clint wanted to believe it had something to do with hierarchy and establishing dominance by proxy, but most likely she did it because they all thought it was funny.

After she had slammed him to the floor for the seventh time in twenty minutes, Clint called uncle. 

”You’re getting soft,” Tasha complained and straddled his middle. 

”I’ll show you soft,” Clint drawled, then blinked and groaned. ”That came out wrong.”

His Dragon let out a long-suffering sigh and muttered something inaudible. Clint decided to ignore it.

”Idiot,” she snorted, poking him in the chest. She tilted her head to the side a bit and gave him a searching look. ”You look happy, yastreb,” she said quietly. ”Is he treating you right?”

Clint made a face. ”What are you, my chaperone?”

”Yes,” she answered calmly. ”And you didn’t answer me.”

Clint bit his lip before raising his gaze to meet Tasha’s assessing stare. ”Yeah. He’s treating me right,” he said, voice soft and almost shy.

She stared at him long and hard before nodding and leaning down to kiss him on the forehead. ”I’m glad. But if you ever feel uncomfortable or afraid, you contact me. Do you understand?”

”Yeah, I know. No need to rub it in,” he grumbled and rolled his eyes. 

Tasha squeezed his ribs painfully hard with her thighs, making him gasp. ”I’m not joking, Clint,” she hissed, her eyes hard. ”I don’t care who he is or what position he holds; if he ever hurts you, I’ll come and get you. I promise.”

››You are her family, Clint,›› his Dragon reminded him. ››And she loves you more than she loves herself.››

It was as much of a promise as a threat, and Clint nodded mutely, recognizing a blood oath when he heard it. 

Tasha stared him down for a moment longer. Then she nodded and straightened herself, tapping Clint’s sides with her thighs like he was a horse.

”Now. Try to throw me off.”

It ended just as well as he expected, but at least Clint got an applause for his attempts, and when Tasha laughed at him as she helped him up, Clint knew they were good.

”You smile a lot more, you know?” Skye said from the couch. ”I’m glad everything worked out between you and Clint.”

Phil glanced up from his paperwork and shot Skye a look over the rim of his glasses.

”And you being the witness of our, how did you put it, ’Epic love story’ is just a happy coincidence, right?”

She raised her hands in the air. ”Hey, I can’t be blamed for wanting to fix my adopted dad’s sorry excuse of a love life. By the way, does this make Clint my stepmom? Except that he can’t be my stepmom, because stepmoms are usually evil, and he’s not evil.”

”He’s also not female, so technically he can’t be your mother of any kind,” Phil pointed out, silently amused by his Dragon’s bafflement at Skye’s reasoning.

”Psshhh, semantics,” Skye said airily. ”And speaking of the devil, he’s here.”

Phil already knew, what with his Dragon alerting him to Clint’s presence a little while ago. 

Ever since the bonding (or whatever the Dragons had done during their prolonged eye contact), Phil had been more aware of Clint’s whereabouts and his general mood. It was almost like the Dragons acted with some sort of telepathic symbiosis. It was just another thing to be added to his list of daily weird things.

He was curious, however, how Skye knew Clint was nearby.

››It is because of her abilities,›› his Dragon grumbled.

››Oh, right. You mean the ones you refuse to talk about?››

››It is… an uncomfortable topic,›› the Dragon admitted. 

››You do understand that, if her abilities are potentially harmful to her or us, you should tell me,›› Phil reminded it, even though he knew it was most likely futile. They had had this conversation several times already, and every time the Dragon grumbled and hissed, but eventually refused to tell him anything of substance. It was annoying to no end.

Phil’s musings were cut short when Clint knocked and, as usual, entered without waiting for admittance. With the practiced ease borne from years working together and a handler knowing his asset inside out, Phil’s eyes raked across Clint’s frame, cataloguing the stiffness in his posture and the slight hitch in his breathing. 

”Did Tasha kick your ass again?” He asked mildly.

Clint grinned. ”She was on a mood. I think she bruised my ribs.”

”How did she do it this time?” Phil asked, ignoring his Dragon’s displeasure with Clint’s battered form. Despite the fact that Phil had explained Clint and Natasha’s sparring routine to it several times, it always fretted and worried, being even an worse mother hen than Phil himself. Phil thought it was kind of cute.

”With her thighs. Never let her straddle you, I tell you. She’s a menace.”

”I have no intention to let her straddle me, but I appreciate the warning anyway.”

”Yeah, because the only one allowed to straddle you is Clint,” Skye sniggered.

In a synchronized move, both he and Clint turned to stare at Skye. She blinked and her leer slowly melted away. ”Okay, yeah, you made your point,” she huffed. ”Also, for the record, that choreographed move was just creepy.”

She gathered her things and stomped away, muttering under her breath about old people having no sense of humor whatsoever. 

After she had closed the door (with too much force, if anyone asked Phil), Phil took off his glasses and gave Clint a sideways glance.

”She’s right, you know. About you being the only one allowed to straddle me.”

”Oh, is that so?” Clint asked with a shy grin. 

Phil cocked his head and let his lips draw into an indulgent smile. ”Yes. Not here, of course. But how about tonight?”

Clint swallowed. ”Yeah?” He said, a bit breathlessly.

As he watched the faint blush rise to Clint’s cheeks, Phil wondered if it would ever cease to amaze him, how easy it was to make Clint flustered, or how wonderful it was that he had been granted the privilege to make it happen. His Dragon agreed, practically purring at the prospect of ravishing Clint again.

”Yes,” he said softly. ”Now, if you excuse me, I have some work to do.”

He absolutely didn’t stare at Clint’s ass as he walked out. Also, despite his declaration, he got absolutely zero work done.

››You are incorrigible,›› his Dragon huffed in mock exasperation. It didn’t fool Phil at all.

››Pot, kettle, and so on and so forth.››

Clint was nervous.

It was silly, really, because there was no reason to be nervous. He was 35 years old and, for obvious reasons, had at least as much sexual experience as most prostitutes, but he couldn’t help it.

Before Phil, he had been the one to be used, and over the years, he had honed his skills to near perfection. Before Phil, every sexual relation he had had, had been about the other party — Trick, a john, or Mark — and Clint had been unimportant.

Until now.

Phil had turned everything around. From the moment they had first kissed, he had made sure Clint was feeling good, that he was safe and happy, and it hadn’t changed ever since. Every time they fucked or made love (and Clint understood the difference now), Phil made sure Clint came first. It was almost enough to make him feel guilty, and the only thing that kept him from protesting was the look of utter awe and adoration on Phil’s face, of his love shining through his eyes.

Clint still didn’t understand how he had earned it, but was slowly starting to realize that perhaps he didn’t have earn anything. He just had to accept it.

››You’ve come a long way,›› his Dragon said gently. 

He had, but it had been a damn hard lesson to learn.

He was jolted from his thoughts as Phil walked in and instantly realized something was wrong.

”What is it?” 

Clint shrugged, inwardly cringing at making Phil worry for nothing. ”I don’t know. I guess I’m just nervous.”

Phil let out a noncommittal sound and sat right beside him on the bed.

”You do understand that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to?” He reminded Clint gently. ”Like I’ve told you before: I love you, and I don’t care if we have sex or just sleep, as long as I can have you in my arms.” He ducked his head a little, a prompt for Clint to meet his eyes.

”Okay?”

Clint nodded. ”Yeah. Okay.”

Phil didn’t stand up, just reached out with his hand to hold Clint’s hand in his own. He started to sweep his thumb gently over Clint’s knuckles, back and forth in a slow motion, and Clint relaxed to the touch.

”What do you want to do, Clint?” Phil asked softly. ”Would you want to be inside of me?”

Despite himself, Clint twitched.

Along the weeks, Clint had had Phil inside of him in so many ways: his fingers, his tongue, and his cock, and each time, it felt just as overwhelming. Phil had the ability reduce him into a shivering mess of live nerves, a sheer sensation of want, blow him into pieces and then put back together again. To have a power like that over someone was terrifying, and even though Clint enjoyed massively when Phil sucked him off, that was as far as he was willing to go.

At least for now.

He shook his head once, a sharp move.

”Okay,” Phil said easily, keeping up with the slow rubbing of his thumb. ”You are in charge here, remember?”

Yeah, and that was another weird thing.

For some reason, Phil kept insisting Clint was in charge, even though it felt he was the last person to know what he was doing, and he usually was the one being overwhelmed. Phil had tried to explain that even though he remained the more composed one, everything happening in their bedroom was dictated by how Clint felt. It sounded fake, but Clint didn’t argue.

››And if you try, I’ll kick your ass,›› his Dragon promised darkly. ››You really should know better by now.››

Yeah, he should. 

There had been that one time when Clint had become so overwhelmed that he had started sobbing and begging Phil to stop, and he had. Phil had immediately dropped his ministrations and gathered Clint close, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear until he had fallen asleep. The next day, his head had hurt like hell and the whole day had been spent in odd, cottony, floating feeling, only made better when snuggled close to Phil. Clint had been embarrassed (receiving a stinging lecture from his Dragon), but Phil had just smiled and continued his paperwork like Clint hadn’t had a meltdown, but he had never strayed far from Clint.

”Clint?”

Clint blinked and glanced sheepishly at Phil. ”Sorry.”

Phil shook his head fondly. ”It’s fine. You went away for a moment.”

”Did you really mean that? The straddling thing?” He asked, dropping his gaze into his lap.

There was a moment of silence, then Phil’s fingers took a hold of Clint’s chin and turned him to meet Phil’s eyes. ”I meant what I said: I want you in each and every way you are willing. It really is your choice.”

Clint nodded. ”Okay then.”

Phil’s eyes turned dark and hungry, and it sent a familiar, delicious shiver along Clint’s spine. Mutely, he stood up as Phil gently drew him to stand and started undressing him. At times, it was quick and efficient, and then sometimes, Phil did this: he unwrapped Clint slowly, piece by piece, as if he was a present Phil had waited for forever, kissing every inch of exposed skin along the way. 

In the beginning, it had been weird and slightly uncomfortable, being showered with such attention, but Clint had slowly started to accept that this, too, meant something — it was important to Phil.

When they were naked, Phil took his hand and walked the couple of steps backwards to the bed, tugging Clint to follow. It was a bit clumsy, what with Phil scooting back and Clint stumbling behind, landing on his lap. It was a new position, and honestly Clint felt slightly bewildered, to have Phil laid out under him. So far, it had usually been Phil on top when they had made love, mainly because Phil wanted to see Clint. 

Sometimes, in the lazy mornings, they had a long session while spooning, but it was more about the intimacy and being close than actually having sex. They had even tried a couple of times of Phil kneeling down and Clint sitting on his lap, leaning against his chest, but as much as Clint liked being safely in Phil’s arms, he didn’t like how the position made kissing more difficult.

Not even once had Phil suggested Clint to go on all fours, and for that, Clint was desperately grateful.

”I like this,” Phil said from under him. ”I like it how I have all of you to touch, have all of you right there.” His hands trailed down Clint’s flanks, to his hips and thighs and back, as if Phil couldn’t get enough of touching him. 

The emotion shining through his eyes made Clint duck his head and lean forward to claim his mouth in a kiss.

Kissing Phil was awesome. Clint would’ve never imagined how much it was possible to feel just from two sets of lips meeting, but every time they kissed like this, it overwhelmed him. Phil kissed with conviction and determination, tinted with desperation for Clint, and it took his breath away every single time. 

”Phil…” he started, unsure of how to ask.

”Anything, Clint. Anything,” Phil breathed, as Clint’s Dragon softly prompted, ››Just ask him.››

He rested his forehead against Phil’s and whispered, ”I want you inside me. Like this.” The words made him awkward like always, as if asking things for himself was selfish and somehow embarrassing, even though he knew Phil didn’t think like that. 

”Yes,” Phil agreed, almost reverently.

Because Phil was almost bullheadedly stubborn about prepping him, he stretched Clint carefully, and then gently, slowly, guided him to sit down on his cock. 

It felt so much different, so much more, and Clint had to close his eyes to compose himself for a moment after he was fully seated. When he opened his eyes, Phil was staring at him in awe, like Clint was the best thing ever happened to him, something precious and special. Usually, when Phil looked at him like that, Clint just averted his eyes or turned his head away, but this time he gave his hips a tentative twitch to distract Phil.

Phil’s jaw went slack and his hands on Clint’s hips trembled. 

Clint blinked. Then cocked his head a little, frowned, moved again, and Phil let out a breathy sound, almost like a whimper.

Encouraged by his Dragon and curious about what reactions he could wring out of Phil, Clint started to move. It was a bit difficult, of course, because having Phil inside of him always felt so damn good, but he was determined to make it even better for Phil, to make Phil feel as good as he always did for Clint.

He started to move slowly, keeping his eyes on Phil, watching the expressions ripple across his face. It didn’t take long for Phil to start panting, and Clint watched, fascinated, as the deep red blush traveled down his chest as his pleasure built, and his hands clutched Clint’s hips with almost bruising force. He didn’t guide Clint, however, but held on like his life depended on it, desperate to have whatever Clint was willing to give him.

”Clint— Clint!” Phil gasped as he came, eyes wide and wild, his body convulsing under Clint. 

It was all Clint needed: he gripped his cock and only a handful of pulls later followed him over the edge, bracing himself with his other hand on Phil’s chest as he came all over Phil’s chest.

His breathing had barely slowed down when he felt Phil’s hand cup his cheek. He raised his head and opened his eyes, and saw Phil looking back at him with so much tenderness that Clint swallowed back tears.

”Phil,” he whispered hoarsely, trying to convey everything he felt with that one word.

››We love you,›› his Dragon echoed.

”I know,” Phil whispered back. ”We love you too.”

Had someone said to him a couple of years ago that he would have this — a lover, a found family, and a home, the whole nine yards — Clint would’ve laughed and then crawled into a dark corner to feel sorry for himself. He had never thought this to be possible, hadn’t even dared to dream about having something as precious as this. 

To have Phil.

Phil, who was gentle and caring, understanding to the point of being frustrating, and not-so-secretly a badass who could kick anyone’s ass in the base. Well, almost anyone’s, because Tasha was un-kickable, Steve was indestructible, and Bucky, despite his slow rehabilitation to the land of the mostly sane, was usually just plain scary.

And talking about Bucky…

Even after six months at the Playground, Clint still hadn’t figured Bucky out. The former assassin was still reeling from decades of conditioning slowly being unraveled, and even in the small, confined, and structured environment of the base, he was sometimes volatile. During those times, it was up to the three of them — Steve, Tasha, and Clint — to talk him out of whatever waking nightmare he was currently in.

Clint didn’t understand what had qualified him to be one of the three trustees. Steve was an obvious choice, of course: the guy was Bucky’s sun and stars, his only link to the days he still knew who he was. Tasha made sense too, having a shared history with the Winter Soldier. But why Clint?

”He thinks you’re relatable,” Steve said one night while baking cookies. 

They were in the kitchen. Bucky was asleep under a blanket in the corner and Clint was sitting by the table, watching Steve cut perfect stars from the dough. Bucky had had one of his episodes, and it had taken both Steve and Clint to help him to calm down. 

Neither of them felt like sleeping after that.

”Huh?”

”Even though he and Natasha share the same background, he feels you understand better what he’s been through.”

Clint shot an incredulous stare at the slumbering figure. ”Me?”

››Tasha might know what’s it like to be unmade and she has at least as much blood on her hands as Bucky has, but you know what it’s like to be slave to someone else’s will, to be violated to the very core.››

››You mean Loki,›› Clint said.

››Yes.››

”And the fact that you told him about it, even just a little, means more to him than you can imagine,” Steve continued, oblivious about Clint’s inner conversation.

Clint swallowed. ”Yeah, well. We’re both fucked up and fucked over,” he said with a self-deprecating shrug.

Clint’s Dragon let out a frustrated snarl at the same time as Steve put the cookie-cutter down and turned around to face him. ”You might think that, but that’s not true,” he said seriously. ”You’ve both been through more than anyone should ever have to, and you both survived. I think that’s got to count something.”

”Yeah, and look at the price we paid,” Clint muttered.

Steve sighed. ”Sometimes, there isn’t such thing as reasonable price. And sometimes you’re paying for someone else, and you’ll never know.”

He fell silent, busying himself with transferring the cut cookies to the baking sheet and into the oven.

”On the other hand, you’re both here, aren’t you?” He glanced up at Clint with a small smile and raised eyebrow. 

Clint felt an answering smile tug the side of his mouth. ”Yeah. We’re both here.”

There was yet another thing he hadn’t dared to dream about: a tomorrow.

Now, he had it.

”Sister Bernadette? Sister, you better come quick!”

Blinking at the bright midday sun, Sister Bernadette sighed and blew at a sweaty curl that had escaped from under her veil. She pushed herself up from her knees, closing her eyes at the flash of pain. She wasn’t even sixty; she shouldn’t be suffering from arthritis yet. However, The Lord worked in mysterious ways and so on, so she pinched her lips together and straightened herself.

”What is it, Sister Miranda?”

The young nun in front of her was flushed, her eyes darting nervously behind her.

”It’s Tony Stark, Sister Bernadette,” she whispered. ”What is he doing here? I thought he was a Godless man!”

Sister Bernadette sighed inwardly at her indignation and drew on a serene smile. 

”I guess we need to find out then, won’t we?” 

She removed her gardening gloves and apron, and walked calmly past Sister Miranda, not bothering to wait and see whether the young nun was following or not. She was one of the newer ones, and, as patient and skillful as she was tutoring the children, she sometimes was… almost too enthusiastic in her faith for her own good. 

Then again, she was still very young. Sister Bernadette was sure she would soon see the light of reason.

Hopefully.

The corridors of the orphanage were deserted, as the children were having their lunch and hence conveniently out of the way. As much as Sister Bernadette loved the young ones under her care, she was also a realist: no matter that they lived in a Catholic orphanage, the children knew well enough who Anthony Stark — or Iron Man — was. There was no need to advertise that he was visiting.

The man in question was waiting for her in her office, leafing through an old version of King James’s Bible with a sardonic quirk of a smile on his lips. From behind her, Sister Bernadette could feel Sister Miranda’s disapproval, and she dismissed her with a smile and a sternly raised eyebrow.

”What can I do for you, Mr. Stark?” Sister Bernadette asked. ”Did you come to visit our renovated chapel?”

”Is it worth visiting?” Stark asked, the smirk still playing on his lips.

”A House of God is always worth visiting, Mr. Stark,” she answered calmly.

The smile slowly drained from Mr. Stark’s face and his eyes narrowed. ”Let’s cut the crap, Sister,” he said, and didn’t bother apologizing his language. 

”Let’s,” she agreed amiably. ”Why don’t you start with telling me what are you doing here. As far as I’m aware, you’ve never professed any interest in God — at least not in public.” 

”Oh, I have interest in a god, just not the one you worship. I’ve sort of had enough of gods after one of them fucked over my friends, but that’s not why I’m here.”

She cocked her head and looked at him long and hard. ”Are you interested in adopting, Mr. Stark? Because if you are, you’re in the wrong place. I will never sanction you an adoption from this orphanage.”

Mr. Stark’s eyes widened almost comically. ”Oh, good grief, no,” he said. ”I’m barely able to handle myself, I’d be a horrible parent.” 

Sister Bernadette decided to add an extra prayer on her evening rituals for the hot flash of satisfaction she felt at the admission.

After a short moment of slightly uncomfortable silence, Mr. Stark turned sharply and started fiddling with the books on the bookcase.

”Tell me about this place, Sister,” he asked, shooting a glance at her from the corner of his eye.

She raised a brow.

”…Please,” he added as an afterthought.

She inclined her head. 

”St. Jerome’s is a small place, barely able to house forty children in need. We specialize in caring for children with certain behavioral issues, but unfortunately the lack of funding has prevented us from going through with more elaborate plans.”

”Do you offer kids to fostering?”

Sister Bernadette shook her head. ”No. We realized early on that, for these children, a steady, calm environment and a structured daily rhythm with a certain set of therapies work better than a foster family.”

Mr. Stark cocked his head. ”But that’s not the whole reason, is it?”

She narrowed her eyes, realizing she wasn’t looking at the infamous genius-playboy-billionaire-philanthropist, but something else entirely. That something prompted her to tell the truth.

”No, it’s not,” she agreed, sat heavily on her chair, and closed her eyes. 

”Years ago…” She paused and sighed. ”There was this child who nearly died because the orphanage he was in was too eager to find him a foster home, and it… we failed to screen the family properly.” 

That hadn’t been strictly the case. Back then in Iowa, St. Mary’s had been too full, and having the chance to place two growing boys was just too good to be passed. The whole incident was something that still gave her nightmares.

”What happened to him?” Mr. Stark asked softly.

”I don’t know,” she said and shook her head. ”One day, a couple of years after the incident, he just… vanished. I’ve never heard of him since.”

”Did you try looking for him?”

She gave him a flat stare. ”Mr. Stark,” she said coolly. ”I don’t know what kind of resources you had at your disposal when you were in your twenties, but I can assure you that I had none of them. I was a young nun among many at a Catholic orphanage, and I had no skills or funds to find an abused child who didn’t want to be found. But I made an oath to never let that happen to another child, and his memory is what prompted me to start this orphanage, and not a week goes by without me thinking of him.”

She held his stare until he inclined his head as an acknowledgement. 

”What was his name?”

She closed her eyes, feeling drained. She had no idea why Mr. Stark wanted to know the name, but she saw no harm in telling it. It wasn’t like even Iron Man had the resources to find the man that abused, broken boy had grown into, if he even was still alive.

”Clint. His name was Clint.”

Well, that was an odd meeting, Sister Bernadette thought some time later as she made her way to her chambers. 

Something about the way Mr. Stark had talked gave it the air of a personal agenda, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what it was. As far as she was aware, Stark was an atheist, and hadn’t so far expressed any kind of interest in any religion, unless worshiping himself counted. So why was he investing in a remote Catholic orphanage? It made no sense.

And yet…

When Stark had nonchalantly announced that he was interested in investing, she had been sure she had heard wrong. But then Stark had started rambling about new, experimental behavioral and occupational therapies, about the benefits of art, music, and gardening for troubled young minds, and Sister Bernadette had been forced to face the fact that Stark actually wanted to donate them a decent sum of money.

More likely a ridiculous sum of money.

She had protested, of course. Not because they didn’t need the money, but because she was sure he had no idea what he was doing. And then the most peculiar thing had happened.

Stark had stepped right into her personal space, grabbed her hand in his, and with a low, intense voice he had said, ”I need to do this, Sister. Please, allow me to make a difference.”

It was still a ridiculous sum of money.

On her way to her chambers, she passed a short nun, and, as their eyes met, her eyes flashed briefly before she dropped her gaze demurely and nodded in greeting. Sister Bernadette frowned and turned to look at the nun walking away. She had personally picked all nuns who worked at St. Jerome’s, and she didn’t remember there being one with green eyes. She guffawed and made a mental note to look it up later.

When she unlocked the door to her chambers, she saw immediately that someone had been there. A gorgeous amber rosary with an intricately carved cross was resting on her pillow, and right beside it was a card with a beautifully drawn picture of St. Sebastian.

Confused, she sat on the bed and turned the card around. 

There were three lines of text written in purple pen.

I’m finally alright.

Thank you for everything. 

Take care of yourself and the kids.

— Clint

Sister Bernadette let out a shaky breath. 

What were the odds having Mr. Stark asking personal questions, pleading to be allowed to invest in the orphanage, and meeting a strange woman dressed as a nun (she was quite sure now that the woman wasn’t one of hers) coming from the direction of her chambers in the same day? 

She had no idea how Clint was associated with Iron Man, and she didn’t care. She held the card in her hand, traced the first line with her finger, and felt a weight lifting from her shoulders. 

Thinking back to the boy with a past no child at his age should’ve had, she reached out for the rosary with her other hand, closed her eyes, tilted her face upwards, and smiled.

On the other side of the country, the world was only now waking up to a new day. 

The two men walked unhurriedly, with the measured steps of people who were at peace with themselves and their environment, with full knowledge of everything going on around them.

The early strolls were something Phil had never done before, but sometimes Clint needed to get out of the base, and Phil was more than happy to accompany him. They didn’t talk, barely even looked at each other, comfortable with being alone together.

There was a small pebble in his shoe, and Phil bent to remove it, letting Clint wander ahead. When he straightened himself, Clint had stopped on a small hill, looking down at something. The early sunlight painted the sky in blood, and Phil’s breath caught in his throat, watching Clint as a stark relief against the flaming sunrise. 

He looked fierce, wild, and beautiful. Phil still couldn’t believe his luck — that he was allowed to love this man.

The archer turned his head a to glance back, as if sensing Phil watching him. For a short moment, his eyes glowed bronze, and Phil felt the answering flash from deep within himself.

››They are gorgeous,›› Phil’s Dragon rumbled reverently.

››Yes, they are,›› Phil agreed.

››And we belong to them.››

Phil smiled. 

››With all our heart.››