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A/N
This is an old one-shot the Plot Bunnies recently dug out of its grave, and bullied me into editing and publishing. Why, I don't know. I think they are desperately looking for inspiration for that angsty Silmarillion/LOTR one-shot they are determined I am going to write…if the Valar ever decide to talk to me, that is. They are worse than Nick Fury. Though that could be something to do with the fact there are fourteen of them to try and wrangle; there is only one Nick Fury. And Manwë refuses to acknowledge me right now, after I accidently gave him a massive headache (though the headache was totally Námo's fault, not mine. I'm innocent. Or you could even blame Melkor. 99.99% of Middle Earth's problems are caused by him after all). Anyways, on to a lighter topic.
Kind of. I'm not entirely sure this angsty little story counts as lighter topic…
This is an Avengers Roman AU, and was originally planned to be part of a wider Universe that explored the idea of what would have been the characters from Phase One living, having adventures, and solving mysteries in the First Century Roman Empire. The series was going to be called the Roman Avengers Mysteries, and be a kind of amalgamation of ideas from the Roman Mysteries books along with characters from the MCU.
While it was originally part of a series, this story stands perfectly well on its own as a platonic-Clint-and-Phil-angst-fest-in-First-Century-Roman-Empire.
More notes at the end.
Warnings:
I have only rated this as a T, as nothing is explicit. But there is implied past abuse, including inexplicit mentions of rape/non-con of someone as young as fourteen. Mentions of scaring from different types of abuse. Roman slavery is a main theme (Clint is a slave who has just being rescued from a bad situation by Phil). And there is angst. Lots and lots of angst. And there is also lots of hurt/comfort.
Enjoy!
Time and Patience heal all sorrows
Clint woke up with a start. His heart was hamming against his ribcage, and sweat beaded his body. He was trembling from head to foot; the pain and fear from the nightmare still fresh in his mind. Even though it had been two months since the events, the memories were as vivid as if they had just happened. A dream, it's just a dream. I'm safe here. He told himself these words over and over as he tried to calm down.
It wasn't working, so Clint got up and padded on silent bare feet to his bedroom door. Master had given him his own room, which was a luxury he had never had before. Not only did he have his own room, but was fully furnished with a comfortable bed with a chest at the foot, a low table and, the biggest surprise of all, a small couch. The room was like a palace to Clint, and it was all his. Clint didn't understand it, but had learnt a long time ago not to question what a master did.
That only ever led to pain. It was safer to just roll along with whatever happened.
He was, however, immensely grateful for his own room. He knew if he had to sleep in the same room as anyone else right now, he wouldn't be getting much sleep. The painful memories, caused by his previous masters, were still too fresh to allow Clint to relax around other people. Clint didn't trust anyone, and when he was asleep he was at his most vulnerable. This was a large part of the reason Clint was such a light sleeper. He'd learnt that pain was generally more bearable if it didn't come as a surprise wake up call. Even though his duty was to fulfil any desire his master may have at any time, that didn't mean he liked it. Quite the opposite.
Clint paused in the hall, and noted that the doors leading into both his Master's and Bruce's rooms were closed. No light showed at all, so he knew they were both asleep. That was good, he preferred to be along; he felt safe that way. Though the rational part of Clint's brain was pretty sure they wouldn't hurt him. He'd being here two months already, and nothing bad had yet happened to him. Even when he messed something up, Master was patient with him. He hadn't yet been beaten nor denied food, two punishments that his previous masters had often inflicted on him for the slightest transgression. So far, his new Master had raised neither a hand nor his voice towards Clint, and had assured him many times that he would not be hurt like that ever again. However, after everything Clint had been through in this life (especially the last three years of it) he wasn't ready to trust anyone just yet. Especially when he'd barely know them for two months.
He might be many things, but an idiot was not one of them. He wouldn't have survived this long if that had been the case.
Clint slipped downstairs, using only the handrails, not touching the stairs once. He was glad he hadn't lost all of his skills from his days spent with the travelling entertainment troupe. Though he hadn't shot a bow in years, most of his other tricks still held up. He still felt bitter as he thought of the show manager. Clint had worked for the man for years, earning him money which he was never given any of. All he was given were beatings when he messed up, and enough food so he didn't starve. It had still been his home however; and it had been the only life he'd ever known. Clint would never have left if he'd had the choice.
The manager had gotten an offer for him and sold him, just like that, when he was about fourteen. That had been when Clint learnt the hard lesson that nothing was permanent or ensured if you were a slave. Your masters (or mistress, though Clint's experience with her hadn't been all bad) could do anything to you at anytime, and you were powerless to stop them. In fact, if you didn't let them do what they wanted the first time around without fuss, they would see to it that you changed your mind before too long. It was a hard, painful lesson which had been reinforced time and time again in the six years since by countless masters. It was for this reason, Clint was so confused with his life right now.
His current Master, Phillip Coulson "please call me Phil" (like Clint would ever dare to call a master by name, he did not have a death wish), was the cause of the confusion. Clint still hadn't worked out what his game was; the man was unlike any of Clint's previous owners. He seemed to care about Clint because he wanted to, not because he had to if he wanted to keep him alive and mostly functional. Which was just weird. People did not buy slaves to keep them as pets; people bought slaves to work. At least, most did.
However, Phil had purchased Clint (on a whim, as far as Clint could tell) two months ago in Naples from the twin masters who had almost beaten him to death. Of all the men Clint had been owned by since the Troupe, they had been by far the worst. Clint had been beaten and broken and very sick when Phil found him; anyone else would have given him up for dead. But not Phil or his friend Bruce. It had been Bruce who had carefully patched him up, and Phil who had gently and patiently nursed him back to health. Clint didn't understand it. It didn't make sense that someone would spend money on a broken toy like him, when there were countless other healthy slaves who would be able to do the job better. And things Clint didn't understand, made him nervous.
And he was currently very nervous about everything that was happening to him.
Phil had treated Clint like a valued human being from the beginning. He had not treated him like the almost worthless animal pretty much everyone else in his past had. For a start, Clint could eat as much as he wanted to, whenever he felt like it, for the first time in his life. Phil also did not seem to want to use him like his previous masters had, despite the fact he was now healed. He was even paid for his work, not that he'd being allowed to do much in the time he'd been here except heal and rest. But to be given money and told to keep it...out of all the things that had happened to him since being bought by Phil, that was the most surprising.
He'd had no idea what to do with the money; he'd never possessed any before. He'd sat on his bed staring at the coins in his hand for ages the first time Master had given him some. He had no idea how much they were worth, being completely uneducated like he was. He knew slaves like him didn't need a literary education. They didn't need to know how to read or write or do sums in the same way a mule or donkey did not need to know that stuff. They just had to know how to do what they were told, look pretty, submit to their masters every whim, and to keep their mouths shut unless told otherwise.
He'd finally wrapped the coins in an old piece of cloth, and hidden them away in his room under a loose floorboard. Clint half wondered if he might be able to afford to buy a bow some day if the money was really his to spend. He loved archery, and had been good at it during his performing days. Though he had never owned any of the gear he'd used. It had belonged to the show manager, same as he had. Of course, he knew slaves couldn't own property, they were the property, but he couldn't shake the thought of owning his own bow from his head. Even though he knew it was just a fantasy, nothing more, it was a nice fantasy. And, so long as it stayed in his head, Clint didn't see why he couldn't dream of it. His masters might have their way with his body, but they had never managed to have their way with his mind.
Clint washed his face and the back of his neck at the fountain, before taking a long drink of the cold water. He was starting to feel calmer; the unpleasant memories stirred up by the nightmare were fading. He couldn't face sleeping just yet however, and Clint was suddenly consumed with a longing to get up as high as he could. He loved heights; they had always been a way for him to temporarily escape from his life. Until he'd had to come back down to the ground at least. He totally understood why the birds liked being up high.
Clint slipped back up the stairs like a shadow. He'd had plenty of practice at not making any noise. A quick glance confirmed the doors to the other bedrooms were still closed; Clint took advantage of that, and swiftly climbed one of the support columns leading up to the roof. He was careful to make as little noise as possible, but he still made more than he liked. From the column, all it took was a little agility before he could climb onto the roof. The rough terracotta roof tiles provided plenty of hand-and-foot holds, as Clint climbed up onto the roof.
Once he was up there, Clint found to his surprise and delight the roof was very flat. If he stayed away from the hole leading into the atrium, and the steeper sides, he was quite safe. He found the highest point, which happened to look onto the woods outside the town walls, and settled himself there. It was flat and almost looked like it had been made for someone to sit on. Clint leant his back against a higher bit of roof that, again, seemed to be made for a back rest, and gazed into the night.
Feeling happier than he had in months Clint relaxed, letting the sights and sounds of the night wash over him. A weak moon gave off a watery light, and the breeze coming in from the ocean was cold. Clint involuntarily shivered; he wasn't dressed warmly at all. On top of that he was still underweight, which meant he was currently very susceptible to extreme temperatures. The dried sweat on his body didn't help matters, and Clint wished he'd thought to grab one of the blankets from his bed before coming up here. He didn't want to go back down just yet though, so he drew his knees up to his body, wrapping his arms around them to try and retain some of his body's heat. It wasn't like it was the first time he'd had to endure extreme temperatures. He'd been in colder places wearing less.
He didn't know how long he sat there, listening to the faint murmurs of the sea and whispers of the trees. He was shaken out of his trance when his hearing, honed by years of having to rely on all his senses to survive, picked up on the sound of someone cursing softly somewhere behind him. Clint was immediately on high alert; his whole body tensed and his breath hitched. Memories of the punishment from the last time he'd been caught hiding rose unbidden in his mind, and he began to panic. Then a soft voice he was getting to know well spoke.
"Clint, are you up here? It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you. In fact, I'd like to join you, if that's okay. Where are you?"
Phil.
Clint felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease, though the rest of his body and mind remained taunt. So far, when Phil had said he wouldn't do something, he hadn't done it. Clint had no reason to doubt his words now, but old habits died hard. Plus, he still wasn't sure about his Master's motives. Everything that was happening to him seemed too good to be true. All the masters Clint had known in his life (and there had been a fair few) didn't treat their slaves like Phil treated him. Even the better ones hadn't been half as nice as Phil was. Clint took a couple of deep breaths to try to calm his racing heartbeat down before answering. You always answered when a master spoke to you if you didn't want a beating, or worse.
"I'm here."
A few seconds later, Phil found him. His face was in shadows due to the diminishing moonlight, so Clint couldn't discern his expression. But there was no mistaking the relief in his voice.
"Thank goodness. I got worried when I found the door to your room open, and you gone."
Phil then noticed Clint was only wearing his sleeping tunic and pants, and was barefoot and shivering. He frowned.
"Why, in Jupiter's name, aren't you wearing something warmer? It might be summer, but that isn't a valid excuse. Especially when you are still so thin. Good thing I brought this up with me. Here. It's yours now."
He held out a bundle of cloth to Clint, who quickly realised it was a cloak. Clint hesitated to take it; he hadn't had one of those since the Troupe. Also, why would his Master be giving him one now? Sensing his indecision (or getting tired of holding the bundle of cloth out), Phil draped the cloak around Clint's hunched shoulders. He then sat down nearby, making sure he didn't sit too close to Clint, but was still close enough that they could talk.
Clint gratefully pulled the cloak tighter around him. He hadn't realised just how cold he was. It was made of good quality wool, not the most expensive kind, but the best for general wear. It was easily the warmest and softest things he'd ever worn. He risked a quick glance at Phil, but wasn't able to discern much from his expression. Phil must have caught his glance however, because he smiled at him kindly.
"Warming up?"
Clint nodded, and swallowed the panic rising in his throat, before speaking.
"Y...yes. Thank you, s...sir."
"Next time, make sure you dress warmer. The last thing we want is you getting sick again. Bruce would not appreciate that, and I wouldn't be happy either. We only just got you well."
Clint couldn't stop himself. He might not be an idiot, but he'd still never really learnt when to control his tongue.
"I'm not in trouble?"
"Why would you be in trouble, Clint?"
Phil sounded genuinely curious.
"Mast-...people don't like it when I climbed things."
"Why should I care if you want to climb things, Clint?" Phil was deeply saddened by this revelation of a part of Clint's life, but kept his voice gentle.
The boy said nothing in reply, instead huddling deeper into the cloak. Phil mentally sighed, and tried to change the subject.
"How did you get onto the roof? The hatch was still bolted."
"Hatch?"
There was clear panic in Clint's voice. Mentally sighing again, Phil made sure his voice stayed soft and soothing, and made his body language as non-threatening as possible. He did not want to spook Clint anymore then he already had. That was not the way to earn the boy's trust. Though, so far, being kind didn't seem to be going him anywhere fast either.
"You're not the only one who likes coming onto the roof for some space, Clint. I don't do it as often as I use to, but there is an easy way up here. I can show you for next time, if you would like. So, how did you get up here?"
He thought the boy wouldn't tell him, so was slightly stunned when he actually spoke.
"Climbed up the column, and from there use the terracotta tiles to get onto the roof. It wasn't that hard."
Phil stared at him in awe.
"You used one of the columns to get onto the roof?"
Clint cringed away, expecting to be hit, or at the very least, yelled at.
"Yes."
Phil noticed his reaction, and quickly drew away.
"Sorry Clint. It's okay, you're not in trouble; please don't look at me like that. I'm not going to do anything to hurt you. I just can't believe that anyone would be able to climb onto the roof via a support column. That's quite a feat. Will you show me sometime?"
A pause.
"If you like."
"It's fine if you don't want to Clint. I'm not about to force you to do anything you aren't comfortable with. Remember that, ok? As long as you are under my protection, you don't have to do anything you don't want to, ever, and no one has the right to make you. And if anyone does try, they'll have me to answer to. This even goes for Bruce. You're mine now, and I intend to take care of you. I know I can't change your past, but I can make sure you have a better future."
Clint said nothing to that. Looking over at him, Phil noted a faint glint in his eyes, and his trembling lower lip. He was obviously trying very hard to keep it all together, and Phil felt deep pity and sympathy for this young man. He didn't know if Clint had ever been shown any kindness in his life, but he'd sure seen plenty of the opposite.
In the two months since Phil had saved him, Clint had avoided both him and Bruce as much as he possibly could. Phil was actually really impressed by all the avoidance techniques Clint had managed to pull off. Even with the level of care he'd needed (and Phil had willingly given him) he'd still managed to avoid them more than Phil thought would be humanly possible. Especially with them all living in the same small house. This was only the third time Phil had spoken to him when it wasn't completely out of necessity, about things that weren't necessary. Though Phil felt this conversation was very necessary, and had being trying to work out how best to approach the boy about it for several days now.
"Are you okay, Clint? You can talk to me if you like. You won't be punished; I've already promised you that. You can talk to me about anything, anytime. Are you going to tell me why you're up on the roof at this ungodly hour, and weren't dressed warmly enough?"
Clint said nothing, and Phil didn't press him about it. He had a fair idea why Clint was up here (he heavily suspected nightmares, based on his own experiences) but wasn't going to say anything if Clint didn't. His past was just too painful to talk about, for Phil included. He knew some of what had happened to Clint firsthand, and the scars covering Clint's body had told him the rest of the story. Thinking about all those scars for too long made him mad, so Phil once again changed the subject.
"How long have you liked heights for?"
Clint stared out into the night, huddled further into the cloak. Phil suspected it wasn't just to keep warm.
"For as long as I can remember. It's amazing how many people fear them. It was sometimes the only place I could get away. I've always being small and agile, so I was able to go places where most other people can't."
Phil understood what Clint meant. Sometimes, hiding was the only way you can't be hurt. It was the only way to have a respite from the pain, and Clint knew pain intimately. Phil resolved right then and there to protect this young man in whatever way he could, from whoever he needed to, until his dying day.
Then Phil frowned. They were only talking about physical pain, and Clint had bigger issues than that right now. His body was mostly healed, thanks to Bruce. He had yet to gain enough weight, and was still learning how to eat regular, nourishing meals, but they were making progress with all that. The wounds had left scars, but compared to some of the others on his body, those ones weren't any more significant. His mental and emotional scars, however, were another ground entirely. In fact, they were gaping, bleeding, raw wounds.
Phil knew Clint's psyche was damaged, his mind as abused his body had been. Maybe more so; his mental wounds just couldn't be seen or fixed as easily. Clint hadn't had a choice but to learn to cope with the physical pain. Mental pain, however, he'd never learned to cope with. Phil recognised the signs that told him Clint hadn't been able to cope with his mental pain. To continue functioning, he'd ignored the pain by internalizing it, and moved on.
While that had worked short term, long term it was the worst thing he could have done. As they had not healed, over time these wounds had just gotten bigger and harder to ignore. This had led to despair, fear and hopelessness, all of which was still clear if you looked into Clint's eyes. It wasn't as obvious as it had been two months ago, and for that Phil was grateful, but it was still there. Healing those wounds would be a mega task; Phil wasn't even sure it could be done. The hurt ran very deep, and was part of who Clint was now.
However, Phil was damn well going to do the best he could to heal them. Nothing was going to deter or stop him. Clint needed him, whether he knew it or not. Phil wasn't one to let people he cared about down, and he didn't plan on starting now. He'd known at the time he was taking on a lot of work (though he hadn't realised just how much work Clint would be at first) but he was totally committed to seeing this through now. As Phil had told Clint before; he owned him, and so was responsible for him now. And responsibility was something that Phil didn't take lightly.
Clint risked a look at Phil, who'd been quiet for some time now. He couldn't see it clearly, Phil's face been very blurry. Clint realised with sudden horror that was because his own eyes where full of tears. Due to his own tumultuous thoughts, he hadn't even realised they were there. He tried to blink them back, and for a moment though he'd succeeded, until more came to take their place. Clint did his best to hold them in, but in the process, he gave an involuntary sob that had Phil's attention in seconds.
The older man's voice was nothing but concerned.
"Clint? Are you okay? I'm not going to hurt you; you have nothing to fear from me. I know you don't trust me, but I promised not to hurt you. And I don't break promises. What's the matter kid? Can you tell me? Please?"
It was those last words, and the tone of voice in which they were spoken, that finally broke Clint's steel resolve. He hadn't been a kid in years. In fact, he'd never been a kid. Slave children were put to work as soon as they were old enough to understand how to work; childhood was a foreign concept to most of them. Clint sobbed a few more times, tears running freely down his cheeks. He wasn't quite aware of what was happening around him, and when Phil pulled the younger man closer and hugged him, he stiffened momentarily in panic. Phil began running his fingers gently over Clint's scalp; and his obvious care and kindness was what finally caused the dam to break. Clint completely broke down and cried freely, soaking Phil's own cloak in the process. Forgetting where he was, Clint clung to Phil, seeking the contact to keep him anchored. The older man held him firmly and murmured softly in his ear, as he rubbed his hand in soothing circles on Clint's back.
Phil knew the best thing was for Clint to let all his emotions out, so he simply held the boy and murmured soothingly. He didn't know how long it was until the crying subsided into sobs which shook Clint's whole body; but even they eventually stopped. Clint was limp in Phil's arms, but after he'd been quiet for a while, he wriggled free. Phil made no attempt to stop him. When Clint was once again seated on the roof (closer to him this time, Phil was quick to note, though still not close enough for Phil to touch him unless he leant over) he looked hesitantly at Phil. Tears still glistening in his eyes, but his voice was the steadiest it had been in a while.
"Sorry."
"You've done nothing you need to apologise for Clint. Are you feeling better?"
Even after everything that had just happened, this man's demeanour still radiated nothing but care and honesty. Clint liked to think he'd become very good at reading people in his life and detecting their lies. Right now, he couldn't detect any lies in Phil Coulson. That in itself was frustrating, as it meant there were two options. One, that Phil was really good at lying and hiding the fact that he was or two, that he was actually speaking the truth. Clint wasn't sure what the truth was anymore. And, being really tired and having a head ache coming on, he was too tired to attempt to work it out right now.
"So, you enjoy climbing?"
Clint nodded without thinking, as Phil resumed their previous conversation like nothing had happened. He was too tired to object to anything Phil said at this point.
"Yes. I love it."
"Rather you then me. I don't mind heights, but I'm not terribly fond of climbing. Or cooking. I am not a good cook, which is why we have so much takeout from the taverns. Bruce isn't bad at it, but it doesn't really interest him. Besides, he'd too busy most of the time with is patients to do much."
"I can cook."
Phil stared at Clint in surprise, not sure he had heard right.
"Sorry, did you just say you can cook? I had no idea."
Clint debated what to say to that, and finally decided to just trust Phil with the truth.
"Yes. I don't know a lot of recipes, but I've enjoyed what I have done and know a fair few off by heart. I learnt something about cooking four masters ago. When you learn the way I did, it's something you don't forget in a hurry."
Phil bet the experience of learning hadn't been an enjoyable one for Clint, even if he had enjoyed the actual cooking part. That gave Phil an idea.
"If I gave you some recipes, do you think you could occasionally cook for us? Tavern food can get a bit boring after a while. Besides, Bruce is convinced eating too much of it isn't healthy. Would you like to do that? No pressure, you can just do it to have fun. And it will stop Bruce worrying that I'm going to conduct some dreadful disease through eating too much oily food. At least think about it, please?"
Clint was silent for a while as he thought it over. He thought about how kind Phil had been to him, and how he felt he wasn't earning his keep like he should. That second thought caused him to make up his mind, and Clint looking at Phil.
"Yes. I will do it, but I'm no good with strange recipes unless they are read out to me. But I don't mind giving it a go, if that happens."
Clint's response made Phil internally start; he hadn't even considered the fact Clint more than likely wasn't literate. From what Phil knew of his past, the odds to him having any kind of literary education weren't terribly high.
"Can you read Clint? Or write? I want to know the truth, not what you think I want to hear. You won't be punished for answering me honestly; and a simple yes or no will do. Can you read?"
Clint's response was soft.
"Not really."
"What about writing?"
"No."
"Can you do anything else, like maths or geometry?"
"What's gee-o-metry?"
Phil sighed, leaning back and staring contemplatively out into the night as he sorted out his complicated thoughts. Finally, he looked back at Clint with a kind expression.
"Geometry is, um, what say I teach you what geometry is, along with how to read and write? We can start tomorrow; I don't have anything pressing to do. How about it? I will teach you to read and write, and you can take over the cooking for the household in return?"
Clint thought about it, and decided he liked that idea. The thought of being able to read was a very exciting one; he'd knew what words said. By taking over the cooking, he'd also be doing something Phil wanted him to do. That thought alone was enough for Clint to make up his mind.
"What time tomorrow?"
"Whenever we're ready, I have tomorrow free. What about after lunch?"
Clint nodded. He liked knowing exactly what to do and what was expected of him when. He got into trouble less frequently that way.
"Okay."
Phil's smile told Clint he'd done the right thing, and the two of them sat in silence, watching the sky gradually get lighter. Phil could feel how much calmer Clint was compared to when they'd first started talking, and was immensely grateful for it. He had more things he wanted to ask Clint about, but held his tongue for now. He did not want to upset the apple cart when Clint had been talking to him without hesitation for the first time ever.
Clint, on his part, desperately wanted to talk to Phil, but couldn't quite find the courage to speak up. Phil seemed to be some sort of mind reader, as after the silence had dragged on for a while, he looked over at Clint.
"Is there something you would like to tell me, Clint? I'm here, and willing to listen. I'm whatever it is can't be doing you any good bottled up inside. Do you want to talk about it?"
Clint had tears in his eyes again, and this time he didn't try to hide them. Instead he nodded and looked hesitantly at Phil. Phil Coulson was unlike any man he'd ever known. Maybe, just maybe, he'd finally found someone he could trust, someone he could talk to without fear of experiencing pain as a result. Phil, on his part, watched the younger man with a look of genuine concern written on his face. He couldn't even begin to imagine some of the things Clint had been through in his relatively short life, but he bet not much of it was good.
"You want to know what I dreamt about tonight that's stopped me from sleeping?"
Phil blinked. Taking in Clint's serious expression, he nodded immediately.
"Only if you want to tell me, remember. I will not force you to do anything you aren't comfortable with."
"It's okay." Clint gave Phil a look that could be interpreted as a genuine attempt to smile, a very weak one granted, but an attempt nevertheless. "You've being so kind to me, I want to tell you this. I dreamt about what my previous masters did to me. It w...was so real; it didn't seem like a dream at all. The pain was as fresh as if it had just happened. W...will the nightmares ever s...stop?"
Phil's already fragile heart all but broke at the tremor in Clint's voice. He sounded so lost and desperate, and so dreadfully young. Controlling his own complicated emotions with difficulty, Phil looked Clint in the eye with total honesty.
"I don't know if they'll ever go, as in not bother you anymore; but in time they will dim and fade and not be as bad. They likely happen because you're uptight and upset all the time; you don't give your mind a chance to relax. I don't know what we can do to relax your mind. Do you have any suggestions?"
Now was the perfect time to ask for it. Clint's brain was telling him not to, but he ignored that and pushed on. He really never had learnt to control his tongue.
"Yes, I have an idea. I used to be good at archery; it was a way to escape from my mind. I haven't shot a bow in years though."
Phil shook his head in amazement.
"Where on earth did you learnt to use a bow?"
"I spent the early years of my life in a traveling entertainment troupe. I was there until about six years ago, when the manager sold me. I learnt a lot from them."
A traveling entertainment troupe, hah? Well, that went a long way in explaining Clint's agility. Phil didn't press for more information on the topic at this point, but made a mental note to follow up on that information later.
"How many other talents are hidden in there, Clint? Where you much good at the archery?"
Clint half smiled. Though it was more a slight twitch off his lips, Phil still counted it as an attempt as a smile.
"I was the best. They called me The Amazing Hawkeye. I never missed what I aimed at, hitting the bullseye of the target every time despite my age and height. Do you have a bow anywhere?"
Phil's answer was a crushing blow to Clint, even though he'd expected it.
"No, I don't. I don't hunt, and so have never needed one."
Clint stared at the sky which was starting to turn a deeper shade of pink. He was so absorbed in his own thoughts, he almost missed Phil's next words.
"However, if you really think that will help we can get you one, no problem. There's a stall in the forum that sells bows and other hunting gear. We can go there later this morning if you like, and see about getting you a bow."
Clint's head whipped around to face Phil again, the disbelief in his eyes clear to see in the growing light.
"Really? You're serious? We can get me a bow?"
"If you would like one, then yes, we can. I don't know where you would use it, but we'll deal with the details later."
Clint disbelieving and hopeful expression suddenly changed. In the time it took Phil to blink, his facial expression had morphed into a guarded and mistrusting look that shocked Phil. Before he could gather his thoughts, Clint spoke.
"Why? Why are you doing this? In my experience slaves can't own property; they are property. Why are you doing this, and what do you want from me?"
Phil closed his eyes briefly, while he carefully chose his next words.
"All I want is to look after you and have you be happy, Clint. That's all I want. For you to be happy, because that'll make me happy as well. I'm not lying. I just want you to be happy and feel safe, and not to fear being hurt. That's the reason I bought you."
Clint was clearly getting very upset about this whole conversation. Phil was just plain confused about what had caused this side of Clint to come out.
"What do you mean, that's the reason I bought you? Didn't you buy me to work for you, to clean up after you and Bruce, and do what I was told without asking questions? That's what most people buy slaves for. They don't teach them to read and write, and buy them bows."
Phil suddenly saw a way to potentially defuse the situation; and took it without hesitation.
"Well, I'm not most people. In fact, before you, I have never owned a slave of my own. You are the first one I have ever had. And, if you want honesty, I only bought you because I couldn't with a clear conscience let those swine beat you anymore. Not when it was in my power to stop them hurting you. I didn't think about what I would actually do with you until later."
Clint was clearly thrown off balance by Phil's answer.
"So you've never kept slaves before?"
Phil shook his head.
"No. You are the first."
Clint's next words weren't angry. Instead, they sounded like he was close to tears again.
"Why? It's not like you couldn't afford to. For example, you could have gotten someone to do the cooking a long time ago, and then all the problems would have been solved. Why didn't you? Why am I the first? How do you know how to behave towards a slave if you've never had one?"
"I've never owned one before. My family owned slaves as I was growing up, and slavery is a part of the Roman society we live in, whether we like it or not. It's hard not to know all about it and to understand it, which is the reason I've never owned my own slaves."
"Why?"
That question could mean a lot of things, but Phil knew it meant Why Haven't You Owned a Slave Before. Phil regarded Clint with a serious expression as Clint stared back at him with eyes full of tears. His anger still simmered just under the surface, but he never broke eye as he waited for Phil to speak.
"I have never owned a slave because I do not agree with how people view you, Clint. You are people, not objects, even though society sees things differently. I never wanted to own someone who is thought of as simply being an object; if didn't sit right with me. You were an extreme case, and would have died if I hadn't stepped in. I couldn't, with a clear conscience, stand back and let that happen to anyone. Especially someone as young as you are. While I may not have wanted to own slaves, there was no way I was going to let them kill you. Not when it was in my power to stop them and save you."
Clint looked shocked. Phil's answer had clearly thrown him totally off balance.
"That's the only reason you bought me? Because I was being beaten and you wanted to save me? That's the only reason you bought a slave?"
Phil's answer was a simple as it was honest.
"Yes."
Clint's head dropped, and he stared at the roof. All the anger he'd shown a few minutes ago had totally evaporated. In it's place, he struggled to make sense of what Phil had just told him.
Phil carefully did not tell Clint he fully intended to free him when he was ready. That Clint wouldn't be a slave forever. Phil didn't think that now was the right time to tell Clint that. In fact, he didn't know if he would tell Clint until it happened. Right now, Clint obviously needed security in his life. And would probably take the news as Phil rejecting him. It was best to keep it a secret for now.
Though, Phil had already changed his will to state that Clint would be free if he died. Though Phil fully intended to live to see the day that Clint became a freedman; he wanted to be there and see Clint's face. The line the will was just a precaution, designed to ensure that Clint wouldn't ever be mistreated again.
But, and this thought scared Phil, what if he had unintentionally being mistreating Clint? What if his wanting to be kind to Clint had messed him up even more? Clint had clearly not had a lot of kindness shown to him after all. With that thought Phil desperately hoped that he hadn't made this situation worse.
Clint lifted his head and looked at Phil. Tears were running down his face but his voice was steady when he spoke.
"Sorry."
Phil knew what he was apologising for and nodded, smiling kindly at Clint. It was only through sheer willpower that he managed to hide his own tears.
"That's okay Clint; you're forgiven for yelling like that. I fully understand everything is very strange for you, and perhaps part of your insecurity is my fault. I know that I am different to your previous masters, and I have no intent of being anything like they were. You're right, this is a whole new experience for me. Knowing about something, and doing it, are two different things. I'm sorry for anything I've done that's upset you or scared you as well. I certainly didn't intend it that way."
Clint stared at Phil, tears still running down his face, shocked that he'd apologised for trying to make him happy. Phil seemed to be waiting for him to say something, so Clint swallowed and opened his mouth.
"That's okay."
Phil relaxed.
"I guess we're even now with apologies."
It wasn't a question. Clint sighed and dropped his head onto his knees.
"Yeh."
Phil nodded and let out a sigh of his own.
"You'll have to help me out with all this, Clint. I must learn what you want from me to make you happy. I don't want you to just be a tool or an object; I want you to at least partially be a person. This is going to be a whole new experience for both of us I feel."
Both were silent for a while as they thought about things. Finally, Phil broke the silence and brought them back to the topic that had started all this.
"So, now that's out of the way, do you want to see about getting a bow tomorrow? Also, slaves can unofficially own property you know. It's called peculum, and by law still belongs to the master. Your wages are the same thing; though I don't care what you do with them so long as it makes you happy. As far as I'm concerned, you earnt them fairly. I'll teach you how to count and manage money as well. Then, one day, you'll be able to do your own shopping one day as well as mine. But, for now, I'll come with you."
Clint had one more question to ask, but he hesitated. Even though his fear of Phil had diminished somewhat while they'd been talking, he still wasn't sure how to ask this. Finally, he decided to just take the plunge and trust Phil with one of his deepest wishes. After this conversation, he knew he owed the older man that much.
"I can buy it. I've saved every bit of money you've given me. Do you think I'll have enough?"
Phil was about to say it was okay, that he'd do it, when he paused and considered those intense blue eyes. Eyes which were now clear of tears, even if they were still red and puffy. He realised Clint wanted to buy the bow, to have something that was his, his alone, something that Phil said was his and no one else's. Clint seemed to believe what Phil had told him about slave's possessions, for which Phil was glad.
Phil realised that Clint had probably never truly owned anything in his life. What Phil had given him didn't really count. and up until now Clint had believed that he couldn't truly own property. Now, he wanted to use the money he'd earnt to buy a bow, and Phil saw an opportunity to gain some more of Clint's trust. Phil smiled warmly at the boy as Clint watched him with a look of slight apprehension on his face.
"If you would like to do that, we can. I doubt you'll have enough at this point though, so I can throw in the extra. I will then take it out of your wages until it's all paid. I suppose you'll need a quiver and arrows as well?"
Clint stared at Phil, apprehension giving way to an expression that was a mix of awe, gratitude and disbelief. He realised just then that Phil meant exactly what he'd said. There were no lies, no deceit, no trap; just simple honesty and understanding. It was a whole new experience for Clint, and he found he liked it.
Phil watched the understanding slowly dawn on Clint's face, before the beginnings of genuine smile took its place. Clint knew Phil understood. He didn't have to say anything more. Phil waited for Clint to answer, hoping he'd done the right thing this time, as it seemed he'd managed to mess up most other things involving Clint so far. He was only marginally surprised when Clint nodded, an odd expression on his face.
What did surprise Phil, was the way the younger man suddenly scooted closer then leant into Phil of his own accord. For a moment Phil was frozen trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Clint, who had been so badly hurt, was initiating contact that wasn't necessary for the first time ever. The boy didn't relax much it was true, but he made no attempt to move away just yet.
Phil recovered quickly, and smiled to himself as he placed his hand comfortingly on Clint's shoulder. Clint automatically stiffened, then slowly relaxed again, still not moving away or trying to break the contact. If anything, he lent into it a little.
"Would you like a cuddle Clint?"
Clint's eyes flickered to Phil's face. The uncertainty was clearly still there, but the wariness and suspicion was gone. Clint's eyes were more questioning.
"Could I? Your hands are so warm and soft."
"Come on."
Phil opened his arms, and Clint hesitated slightly before coming even closer, allowing Phil to wrap his arms around him. Once nothing bad happened, Clint relaxed even more. Tension Phil hadn't even known was there disappeared, and Phil smiled. This was all he'd wanted from Clint from the beginning. Trust. Phil spoke softly.
"I thought you weren't big on physical contact."
"Mm not." Mumbled Clint's voice from somewhere in the cloak covering Phil's chest. "But this is nice."
Phil felt tension bleed out of him at those words.
"Anytime Clint, anytime you want a hug all you have to do is ask. Okay?"
Clint's voice was muffled but distinct as he melted even more into Phil's touch.
"Kay."
After a while, Clint moved to a position where he could breathe easier. Leaning back into Phil, who started gently rubbing Clint's back, the boy closed his eyes with a full body sigh. Before Phil knew it, Clint's breathing had evened out, his body had gone limp, and he was sleeping, totally exhausted. Phil carefully moved Clint's head onto his lap so he'd be more comfortable; the boy only muttered what sounded like a small protest before settling down again. Phil was careful not to move too much after that, not wanting to wake Clint up. The boy had been awake most of the night battling with his emotions after all. He deserved a break.
Phil decide right then, as he sat on the roof with Clint's head resting on his lap, that it was possible to heal mental and emotional wounds. It would take time, and lots of patience from them both, but they would get there in the end. Phil would have to learn to be the sort of master Clint needed, and Clint would have to be patient with him while that happened. Clint would also have to find his place in this household in his own time, and figure out a new purpose in life.
Phil glanced down at Clint's sleeping face. The lines that normally made his face appear far older than twenty (that was about how old Clint believed he was) had smoothed out when Clint had relaxed fully; he almost looked his age. The longer he looked at the boy, the more Phil felt a deep-rooted sense of responsibility that hadn't been there before his talk with Clint. Phil really hadn't considered seriously what he'd gotten himself into before now. He hadn't fully understood what owning a slave meant. Especially one as damaged as Clint. Now he knew, and Phil felt this knowledge gave him an opportunity to forget the mistakes he'd make in the past two months, and to start afresh.
Phil stayed sitting there on the roof with Clint, not planning on leaving until he woke up. Phil watched as the sun rose, and the first golden rays of warmth touched them both. To Phil it not only symbolising the dawn of yet another day, but the start of a new chapter in both his and Clint's lives.
The End (or Finis in Latin, the language of the Romans)
A/N
Wow. I'd forgotten how heavy going this was. What were my Plot Bunnies thinking on that day back in 2014 when I originally wrote this? They must have been going through serious teenaged-angst or something.
Anyway, there it is. My first ever attempt at writing a one-shot, which almost turned into its own book based on its word count. Looking back through my old notes, I actually put a fair bit of development into long term ideas for this Universe, down to character bios and plot outlines for future stories. If people are interested enough in this one to want more, I might be persuaded to post these ideas and bits and pieces. Though I will never write any of them. This Universe was laid to rest a long time ago, and I have no plans of reviving any more of it.
Let me know your thoughts on this story in a review (or leave me tips on how best to handle the Valar. I will welcome advice from someone with more experience. Having all fourteen of them staring down at you in disapproval at the same time is NOT fun...)