A/N: Okay, um. So this is a song-fic, I guess. I thought I'd never do this, but then I heard this song by Bright Eyes, and it's all I could think about. So here it is. My first official song-fic. All words in quotes are from the beautiful song, "The First Day of My Life" by the band Bright Eyes. No copyright infringement intended. I don't own the song or the characters. You should check the song out because it's gorgeous. Thanks to dysprositos for beta help and encouragement.

"This is the first day of my life. I swear I was born right in the doorway. I went out in the rain, suddenly everything changed; they're spreading blankets on the beach. Yours is the first face that I saw. I think I was blind before I met you. I don't know where I am, I don't know where I've been, but I know where I want to go. So I thought I'd let you know. These things take forever, I especially am slow. But I realized that I need you, and I wondered if I could come home."

He woke in the morning and he didn't know where he was, exactly. South side, he thought numbly. He was cold; it was early spring in Chicago, or at least it had that early spring chill, the kind that held the promise of warmer weather later in the day, but you'd better be fucking patient for it. He had on a green sweatshirt and torn jeans, with a pair of ratty two-year old purple Converse. Those were the only clothes he had, since he had to ditch his favorite brown canvas jacket the day before when he'd finished his business.

He'd had to take down the only person who knew who he was and could've dragged him back in to the big bosses. He didn't want to go back in. He was sick of hunting for other people; he couldn't do it anymore. Twenty-six with nothing to show for his life, a brother who'd left him, a childhood that had prepared him for absolutely nothing - Clint Barton didn't know what he was going to do, but he knew he couldn't do this shit again.

He'd hit his head hard on the fire escape as he'd scrambled down yesterday, thanks to some kid who'd run into the alley way and startled him as he made his descent. When his feet met the pavement, he'd wobbled a bit, brushing his hand across his forehead and seeing blood coating his fingertips. So he had to run, and the blood had dripped on the faded fabric of the jacket collar and run down the shoulder of the coat as he worked to put good distance between himself and the body laying cooling on a rooftop.

Once he'd stopped, he had to use the jacket to stop the bleeding, and then he finally had to throw it in a dumpster in another alley, far from the initial scene, so now . . . now he was cold and shivering as he woke in a pungent alley. His gun was pressing into his back and he had tiny tremors running down his arms, so he unfurled and stood and stretched, trying to work out some of the kinks of sleeping on concrete. He felt older than twenty-six.

He needed to rest. He was hungry, and kind of sick, and he needed clean clothes, but he didn't have any money to spare on anything right now. He almost had enough saved for a bus ticket to New York, and he wasn't going to waste it on clothes.

He'd been running warm before he had to kill the guy on the roof, and now he felt a little feverish (too many days without work - because fuck those guys - and skipping meals and sleeping in alleyways). After waking up and walking down the block trying to find a busy section where he could pickpocket, he had to stop and sit down on a stoop to stop the sidewalk from slanting away from him.

He caught his breath and looked around, running his hand down his face and through the scraggly beard that was threatening. There was a dingy looking bar across the street. Thinking that maybe if he waited until that afternoon he could find someone to pickpocket and get the hell out of this fucking city, he found a wall between two old buildings to sit against and hoped things would stop looking so goddamned fuzzy by then.

Later, he saw a few scruffy middle-aged patrons heading into the bar, and he wondered if maybe he should try to lift a couple of wallets since these guys looked pretty desperate themselves. He picked himself up, took a deep breath to steady himself (because he actually hated lifting wallets from guys who looked just as run-down as he did) and headed across the street.

The smell of the bar slammed into him as the door shut behind him, stale peanuts with a hint of trash and the tinny smell of spilled alcohol on the floor, and he had to swallow hard to keep the bile down. He looked around as he approached the bar, and he managed to slip a wallet quickly from a guy leaning too hard against a barstool. He nonchalantly ordered a beer, settling in on a stool a few seats down.

The beer tasted sour, and he slammed it down on the bar hard in recoil of the taste. He realized again how hungry he was, and, suddenly, how nauseous. The bartender raised an eyebrow and asked Clint if he wanted some ice water, and he nodded, spinning on his stool to look around the room for potential targets. He needed to get this done, get a meal, and get the hell out of here to where he could worry about finding a bed for a night or five.

Too long. He'd been running too long, and fighting too long, and had been scared for too long, dealing with empty people hungry for the wrong things. They were arrogant, brutal men who paid money for death and refused to pay unless Clint got out scot free with no complications. Men who paid Clint to kill people-some who probably didn't deserve it-and then beat him senseless if they felt slighted at all and left him broke and broken in the end.

He was tired of it.

He didn't know what he was going to do in New York, but he was going to get there and try. He hadn't tried anything outside of being a criminal for too many years now, and it was clear that anyone he'd known before all this started had given up on him and weren't going to come looking for him like he'd been uselessly hoping for all this time.

So he looked around again at the sad and broken men in the room, spotting a couple potential victims and analyzing escape routes if they caught him, taking another swig of ice water to settle his stomach a little more. He could do this. He had to. He needed out of this town, out of this life.

That's when the door opened and a man his own height walked into the decrepit, crumbling room wearing a sharp black suit and tucking slick sunglasses into his jacket pocket. He had piercing blue eyes that scanned the room quickly, settling on no one, even though everyone in the room had their gaze fixed on him. He coolly ignored all of them and strode to the bar and right to where Clint was sitting. He sat down next to Clint and assessed him with a quick look and a small smile.

Clint felt the world tip again.

"Mr. Barton. Before you relieve any of the other men in this fine establishment of what's probably their last dollar until payday, I'd like to offer you a job." He had a soft-spoken voice, but it was firm and clear, and it rang in Clint's head like the sound of a spoon hitting a drinking glass.

Clint couldn't stop staring at the guy's eyes, seeing a sea of possibility resting in their calm, clear gaze. He listened, dazed, for a couple of minutes as the man explained something about 'unique skill set' and a 'government agency' and 'you'll be given a salary and benefits' before Clint nodded numbly and asked, "Is there a contract?"

The man's eyes scanned Clint from head to toe and his eyes softened a little. "Yes, Mr. Barton, we'll give you a contract. You'll be aware of what's expected before you sign, and you'll have options for what you do for us."

Clint took a sip of his ice water and ducked his head for a moment before he sighed and said "Okay." Options sounded good. Options based out of New York sounded better.

The mild-mannered guy in the suit seemed a little surprised at his quick acceptance, but Clint just shrugged and said, "I'm really tired and I've tried the other team. You guys sound like a better deal."

The guy who had introduced himself as Agent Phil Coulson gestured for Clint to head to the door, so Clint stood up, but he made a quick detour to drop the wallet he'd stolen in front of the guy he took it from. He offered a low "Sorry. I owe you a beer," before he followed the agent out into the bright sunlight and was led to a nondescript black car. Clint climbed wearily into the passenger seat.

As Agent Coulson steered away from the curb and talked some more, Clint thought maybe his voice was magical, because Clint had followed him without a second thought, and because he felt his body relax as soon as he sat down. He was asleep in under a minute.

He hadn't slept in the presence of another man in years.

"Remember that time you drove all night just to meet me in the morning? And I thought it was strange you said everything changed, you felt as if you just woke up. You said, 'this is the first day of my life. I'm glad I didn't die before I met you. But now I don't care I could go anywhere with you and I'd probably be happy.'"

The car was silent as Phil drove down the dark highway at midnight. His hands were sweaty against the steering wheel, and after an hour, he reached up and loosened his tie. He'd left the meeting with Fury and Hill without a backward glance once he got Fury's nod of permission and a 'good luck bringing him home,' from Hill.

He would bring Clint home.

Phil had gotten a trace on the car that Clint had jacked from the street near SHIELD headquarters a few hours ago. Clint didn't stay with that one for long, but when they found it ditched a few hours later, Phil knew what direction he was going and a few places he could probably land.

Clint didn't have a lot of places to ground him - he'd said over and over that wherever he was with SHIELD was the closest to a home he'd ever had. But during late nights over a couple of beers - never enough to get drunk, Phil never saw Clint drunk - Clint had spoken about a few places that meant something to him.

There was one that meant something to both of them.

When Phil had first set eyes on Clint in that dingy bar, Clint was older than he looked, but his dynamic blue eyes were stormy and etched with worry, exhaustion and even, Phil thought, a hint of despair. Clint Barton had looked like one of the Lost Boys that day in Chicago, stuck shooting arrows at bad guys who someone had made up from their dreams, unable to grow up because there was no one there to guide him.

Phil had thought at first he would guide Clint, and he worked hard at it for a while, helping Clint get back to healthy, steering him through SHIELD training and helping him get his GED and start on a college degree. However, it didn't take long for Clint to surpass every goal SHIELD had for him, and he didn't really need Phil's guidance very long before they were simply colleagues and close friends, part of an elite team at SHIELD that could be counted on for anything.

Phil carefully pressed any feelings that he felt something other than friendship down, down, down. He wasn't going to screw with something he valued so much.

They counted on each other, each of them caught mumbling in a painkiller-induced haze after particularly nasty missions that they didn't know what friendship was until they'd met each other. Now they knew, but despite their connection, yesterday Clint had torn out of headquarters full-tilt before Phil could get to him, his ID and phone left sitting on the ugly antique nightstand he'd bought at some flea market on the road a year ago.

Phil had checked the phone for messages after Psych had called Fury to tell him Clint had a "bad session" and they considered him a flight risk (the only reason they could call Fury). There was nothing. Fury had called Phil, and Phil had gone through Clint's personal records then, sifting through to see if there was an important anniversary that would have upset him enough to bolt. There wasn't, and SHIELD had records going back to elementary school for Clint. Phil was confused, and SHIELD couldn't have one of its best agents with clearance like Clint's just disappearing. Fury sent him off on a retrieval mission.

Phil would have gone anyway.

He knew that as he drove the highway, breaking speed limits and daring a cop to try to stop him. Three years in and Clint was his best friend – something Phil had determinedly not allowed himself since very early in his career. People were unpredictable, people were messy, and people never liked Phil as much as he liked them. He'd always overcommitted in his personal life, driving several lovers away by being overprotective and jealous of their time together. He didn't get much of it with his job, after all. They rejected him and told him he needed to relax, to back off.

Clint never told him that, but maybe that's because Phil always felt relaxed around Clint.

But a few tries at close friends and lovers told him he was better off by himself, and he'd cultivated that theory for years and years by the time Clint Barton collapsed into his car outside a bar in Chicago. Clint had been sick and run down to the bone when Phil found him, and he was wary of everyone except Phil.

Phil had asked him about it once, this quick trust and comfort, and Clint had just shrugged and smiled, saying, "I dunno. Something about your voice."

They did trust each other quickly, and built an easy friendship from the start. Clint had his moments, though, where he'd disappear into the rafters for a couple hours at a time, and when Phil would go and find him, he'd have his arms wrapped around his knees and his head ducked down and he wouldn't talk to Phil at all. Phil would just set a cup of coffee down and sit down beside him until he finally looked up, took the coffee, and gave Phil a grateful smile.

Phil found himself fishing for those smiles more and more often lately. Three years in, and Phil felt the weeks when Clint was gone on a mission without him fiercely, even though that didn't happen much. Phil felt the days when he had to go to Washington for meetings fiercely, too. If he was honest with himself, he felt the hours when he was working and Clint was training fiercely.

So now, he drove fiercely across three states because he was afraid of what made Clint bolt.

He was also afraid of the feelings Clint's sudden departure stirred in his own chest. He hadn't felt this way about another man in years.

"So if you want to be with me, with these things there's no telling. We just have to wait and see, but I'd rather be working for a paycheck than waiting to win the lottery".

Phil found him fourteen hours, seven cups of coffee, and five packages of powdered doughnuts later, sitting outside the bar in Chicago where they'd met three years ago.

Phil's suit was rumpled and he was strung out and wired, but it only took a moment to realize that Clint had probably been sitting on the steps of the bar since he'd gotten out of whatever car or off whatever bus he'd taken to get here, at least a few hours ahead of Phil. He was still wearing black cargo pants and a black SHIELD issue t-shirt, along with his standard combat boots even though the fall air was crisp and bordering on cold. His hair was messy and he had a thousand-yard stare, hardly noticing Phil's approach.

He looked up as Phil sat down next to him, glancing down at the cup of coffee Phil had picked up at the nearby coffee cart and set on the step, but he didn't say anything. He just scooted a little to the left to give Phil some more room. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, dropping his head down. Phil just sat, waiting.

He knew words weren't terribly important right at this moment. He'd found Clint, and he'd found him in their place, the place they silently acknowledged every time they reassured each other of their friendship. He'd take that for now.

They sat quietly for a few minutes before Clint raised his head and grabbed the coffee, giving Phil a smile.

"You found me quick," Clint said quietly.

Phil shrugged. "This was just the first stop on my list. I got lucky."

Clint looked over at him. "What else is on the list?"

"Des Moines and Waverly," Phil replied, taking a sip of his own coffee. "It's not much of a list."

Clint gave a low chuckle and nodded. "Yeah, can't say I have a lot of history."

"Too much, Clint. Just not a lot of places to come back to."

"Yeah," he said, running his hand through his tousled hair. "How'd you know I was going back somewhere?"

Phil sighed. "I didn't. You stole a car and left it a few hours east. That's all I had to go on. You've been a little down the last week or so, and then Psych called Fury and said you were a flight risk. I didn't think you were in any trouble, so it stood to reason you needed to get back to somewhere." He paused. "To someone?"

Clint stared at him for a beat and then shook his head. "You know I don't have anyone." He dropped his head back to his knees and mumbled, "'cept you."

"Clint?" Phil asked, feeling something shift in his chest. "What's going on?"

Clint didn't answer right away. Instead, he stood up and stretched a little, saying, "Come on. I want to show you something."

Phil offered him the keys to the car and Clint drove for about fifteen minutes, weaving expertly through the Chicago streets before he came to a rundown area and pulling in next to a raggedy park. There was an old apartment building across the street and a few stores behind them. The two of them climbed out of the car and crossed to the park, tossing their coffee cups in the trash can at the entrance.

The grass was still green and the oak trees held gorgeous variations of orange and yellow leaves, and there was a park bench along a cement path. Clint sat down and leaned back with a small smile on his face. His eyes were tired, though, and Phil was more than a little worried.

"Did I ever tell you why I came to Chicago after leaving the circus?" Clint asked.

Phi shook his head. "I just figured it was the closest big city to where you were."

Clint leaned forward. "That was just convenient. No. See that apartment building over there?" he asked, gesturing to the building behind them. Phil nodded and Clint continued. "My mom grew up there."

Phil turned to look. "Really?"

"Yeah. She lived here until she was about eight and then her folks moved to Waverly to get away from the city."

Phil could hear the 'what if they'd never done that' in Clint's voice.

Clint sighed. "Barney says we came here once when we were kids, but I don't remember it. He showed me this place later when the circus was just outside the city. I figured—" he broke off and ducked his head. "I figured when I left that maybe Chicago would have a second chance for me, since it was part of my family's past. I thought maybe – she had a sister," he finished quietly.

Phil was shocked. "She did? Did you know her?"

Clint shook his head and looked up at Phil. "No. She was a lot older than my mom, so she stayed here when they moved. Made the family mad." He paused and took a deep breath. "After everything that happened, I thought maybe I'd find her if I came back here. That maybe someone would be around for me and I could find someone to help me. I was a dumb kid," he finished bitterly.

"No," Phil assured him. "It makes sense. You never found her, though?" he asked.

"No. She must've got married. Sometimes I wondered if my mom made her up," he said with a small smile. "I didn't find her, though, and Chicago went to hell for me, too."

They sat quietly for a few minutes, watching some kids play on the beaten up playground nearby. Phil thought about a seventeen year-old Clint making his way to Chicago in the hopes of finding family after the only one he had betrayed him violently and felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.

He was curious. "Do you remember much about your mother, Clint?"

Clint shrugged. "A little." He smiled suddenly. "I remember that sometimes my dad would disappear for a couple days and she'd relax a little. You know, no one to watch out for. When that happened," he ducked his head and chuckled. "I don't know why, but I remember she was funny. She had this beautiful smile," he said, and yeah, Phil could believe that. "She told me knock-knock jokes and tickled me. I remember that," Clint said.

He paused for a moment and looked over at Phil with a smile. "She was smart, too." He stopped and seemed to think about that for a while, and then he added, "Barney used to say she was stupid. He figured she wouldn't have stayed with my dad if she were smart. But I remember her showing me stuff in books and telling me all about it – couldn't tell you what it was – and she could remember anything she read."

"Like you," Phil said gently, and Clint nodded. Phil had been in awe of Clint's near-photographic memory as he tutored him for the GED, and it was one reason he was such a good agent. He had incredible instincts and the ability to quickly memorize anything he was given.

"Yeah. I look like my dad, though." He sighed. "A lot, if I remember right."

He stood up and tucked his arms to his chest. "My mom is why I ran yesterday."

"Besides maybe this time is different. I mean, I really think you like me."

"Your mom?" Phil asked. He looked very confused.

"Yeah. Well. Sort of." Clint looked over at Phil. "My dad didn't get a lot of good things. His life was pretty shitty, and I guess he felt some need to make sure ours was shitty, too. And hers."

"I don't think I'm following the connection, Clint," Phil said frankly.

Clint knew. Every time he thought about his parents he got caught in this web of emotion that just got more and more tangled the more he let himself remember them.

He sighed. His parents tripped him up too much. He should know better than to talk about them. They pretty much abandoned him before they died, and then they died, leaving him with Barney and a world too busy to worry about one little boy. At this point in Clint's life his memory of his mother was like a Picasso painting that you look at and know it's beautiful, but you get frustrated because sometimes you really want to see the whole picture put together in a normal way.

He knew she loved him, he knew she was beautiful, and he knew she tried to make life easier on him, but she was in pieces in his memory, nothing coherent.

Then again, he felt so desperate to let Phil see something about Clint's mother. "Yeah, the connection's probably all in my head. Look, there are two people in my life who made it their job to try to make my life better. Two. Maybe a few in the circus who didn't consciously try to give me hell, but really? There's only two. You and my mom." He looked at Phil, who crossed his arms across his chest and nodded.

Clint sucked in a deep breath and plowed onward. "My dad is who I see in the mirror every day, and my life was shitty for a really long time, Phil. I just figured he'd gotten his claws in me too early for any good to come. Then I get dragged out of a shitty bar in Chicago by the first person who sees past all my crap and -"

Clint's voice broke and he started to walk away, shaking his head. This wasn't working.

Phil ran ahead and turned around, keeping Clint from walking any further. "Wait," he said. "I'm still not seeing it." Phil looked panicked, like he was just as desperate to understand as Clint was to explain. "Tell me, Clint. Why did you run yesterday? Why are we here?"

Clint stopped and tried again, his voice tense and low. He would give Phil the one thing he had only for himself now. He would give Phil his only memories and hope it didn't make him run.

Clint had been ignoring the feelings he had for Phil long enough that he couldn't bear it if he ran.

"She told me knock-knock jokes. She tickled me. She made me laugh and tried to distract me from all the crap whenever she could. That's what you do, Phil. You keep all the crappy parts of my job, of my world, and my past away because you're funny and smart and you care about me, like she did. But I lost her."

Phil swallowed; afraid he was still missing something crucial. "So why –"

Clint cut him off. "I'd never made the connection before. I got to thinking about her, and then I thought of you and – and I don't want you to get taken away from me. I can't handle it if I lose you, too."

Clint offered a weak smile at that, and Phil paled a little. "So you ran?" he said, his voice shaky. "I chased you down here because – Clint, what the hell is this about?"

Clint looked at Phil with pleading in his eyes and his voice dropped low. "You had to find me. I guess – I guess I needed to know if you'd come looking."

Phil stepped close to Clint, pulling his chin up so he could look into Clint's stormy eyes. "I'll always come looking."

Clint felt hope, something he'd been in such short supply of before he met Phil, bubble in his chest, focused on the feel of Phil's hand on his chin, his calloused fingers on Clint's rough jaw. He couldn't help it; he leaned into the touch.

And Phil leaned in and kissed him, softly, on the lips. Clint felt trust and need in the kiss and then pulled back quickly, astonished that Phil would do this. He looked at Phil with wide eyes and then relaxed, crinkling his eyes in laughter and nodding his head. "You want this? Really?" He said, leaning back toward Phil with obvious intent.

Phil grinned and nodded. "I didn't know where today would take me, but the only thing I knew was I would find you. I need you, Clint. You-you make me honest," he said quietly, and he kissed Clint again, long and slow. "I'll always come looking, Clint."

"I guess you will, huh?" Clint said, brushing his hand across Phil's cheek.

"Yeah," Phil said with his own tired grin. "Yeah, I will."

Later, when they lay in the bed of their hotel room together, Phil ran his hands through Clint's hair and murmured, "This feels like the first day of my life."

Clint suddenly leaned up on an elbow, flashed a smile, and said, "Knock-knock."

Phil grinned. "Who's there?"

"Me."

"Me Who?"

"Me, Too," Clint said with a quiet laugh and a spark in his eyes. Maybe this time is different, he thought. Maybe this time he wouldn't lose the best thing in his life.