Summary: Pre-Avengers. "There's only so much you can take before you break Clint," Coulson said to the teen's back. "Maybe it's time to do some good before that happens."

Rating: T

Warnings: Swearing, violence, and blood.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Avengers or any of its characters. (I wish…)

Lost and Found

Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony

Please come around

Something's been lost that cannot be found.

Clint's breath came in harsh gasps, punctuated sporadically with the gurgle of viscous blood in his chest. Viciously, irritably, he spat a glob of dark blood that had risen in his throat to the ground below him. Not for the first time, he strained vainly against the ropes that pinned his arms to his side, grunting softly in pain as the fibers bit into his flesh. With a defeated yell against the dirty cloth gag, he slumped forward against his bonds in the bolted metal chair, panting heavily. He felt his hands trembling at his sides from blood loss and felt the slow glug of his wounds pouring from his side, seeping through the makeshift bandage, crudely tied across his stomach. To prolong the torture, no doubt. He felt…tired. He was never tired.

God, he wished Coulson would just hurry the fuck up.

His eyes snapped open. He hadn't remembered shutting them at all. A soft squeal of iron accompanied by the clamor of boots on the metal—men's dress shoes, size 10, patent leather, well worn on the heels, he thought to himself numbly—alerted Clint to their return. As much as he would have liked to proudly stare them down, fearless and defiant, he just couldn't. the fatigue and blood loss rocked his chin down onto his chest. He felt suddenly cold. Blood ran from his open mouth, onto his bound knees in sticky strands, pooling in his lap. Again, his eyes clamped shut in pain. The footsteps echoed through the metal room, through the sluggish, cotton-lined cavern of Clint's brain. His eyes opened. The overhead lamp swayed with the waves, separated into three, and then remerged. His head was tipped back.

"Christ, Barton!" A muffled, distorted voice cut through into Clint's addled mind. It seemed…familiar. Comforting, honestly. Suddenly, the pressure holding his arms was gone and he fell forward with a jerk as he made his final bid for freedom. He fell into the soft-hardness of a man's chest where he was pinned gently with a forearm across his back in an odd semblance of an embrace.

"Hey! Kid, easy now. Calm down. You're okay." For some reason, that voice made it true. He stopped struggling and rested against the silky fabric of a white dress shirt. He was overwhelmed by the childish urge to apologize—cheekily of course—for staining it with his blood, but for some reason, his voice wouldn't work. After straining for a moment, he settled for just lying prone against this familiarly-foreign chest, trembling from exhaustion and pain. He opened his eyes again. Black lined the edges of his vision, but it slid back into focus and sharpened on the man above him. It was Phil, he realized suddenly. He then realized Phil was still talking and refocused on his voice. The sound returned with a pop.

"—alright, okay? The chopper's coming soon. We got them buddy. You got them, alright? Goddammit, I'm so fucking sorry Clint," Phil's voice sharpened and then broke off. He began to frown and Clint wondered what he was doing wrong. It suddenly dawned on him that his own mouth was moving and his left arm was reaching. He focused and finally began to splutter through the blood that caked his lips. He grasped Phil's suit jacket lapels with a shaking hand, desperately.

"My-my bow Phil," he forced out, words laced with pain. "G-get my bow." Phil's head snapped in the direction Clint was reaching. Gently, he laid Clint's head down onto the floor and rushed over to the dark corner where Clint's longbow lay in two pieces, callously tossed among a pile of dead bodies and spent bullets. It was stained with its owner's blood. Clint's eyes glazed over as Phil scrambled back, placing the shattered wood into his outstretched hand. With a monumental effort, he pulled the weapon over his heart and knew Phil recognized the old-time warrior's gesture.

"No. No no no kid, you aren't going anywhere yet. You still owe me." He grabbed at Clint's free hand.

"Tw-twenty, twenty bucks yeah?" Clint forced out breathily between clenched teeth.

"You're goddamn right kid. You owe me twenty bucks." Clint laughed slightly with Phil before reaching up to the chain around his neck. He couldn't reach. Phil saw his distress and pulled the pendant from his neck. There was a silver medallion of a saint Phil couldn't place and a lockbox key.

"I-in my apartment. It's yours." Phil's head shook violently.

"That's not funny and you know it."

"Sorry Ph-Phil. I-I tried."

"Dammit Clint, the medics are almost here! Hold on! Fucking fight back, don't go down like this!" He squeezed Clint's hand and pulled the younger man into his arms. "Since when did Clint Barton give up so easy?"

"It's—it's okay Phil. I'm not scared," Clint's voice was quiet—unlike anything Phil had ever heard. He leaned his tired face onto Phil's black tie. "I'm okay to die Phil."

"No you're goddamn not! You're just a fucking kid! You're 19 years old, asshole, you can't be done living yet." Clint lifted his old blue-grey eyes to Phil's and leveled his gaze through the blood that had oozed from the laceration on his forehead.

"It's been a hell of a ride," he rasped, lifting a bloodied fist. He could have sworn Phil had tears in his eyes as he gently rapped his own fist against Clint's knuckles after a beat of strained silence. But he knew that was impossible. The stoic 27 year old would never show that amount of emotion. "You-you're the brother I've always wanted." In his head, Clint mentally berated himself for being so sappy, but considering how he was on his deathbed and all, and the way Phil pressed Clint's hand against his own forehead and squeezed his eyes shut, he knew it was the right thing to say. "Thanks for giving me a shot, old man." His ears were ringing now; he fought against the blackness that threatened to overtake his vision.

"You dumb bastard," Phil's inexplicably thick voice anchored Clint once more. "Always so fucking dramatic. The chopper will be here any minute. I can—I can hear it already." Clint knew that was a blatant lie. Phil never lied—that was one of the things Clint liked most about him. "Just wait a little while longer, hey? Please." Phil also never begged. "I can't lose you. Fury would have my ass."

As he always did when it came to Phil, Clint relented and inclined his head, eyes sliding shut. "Okay. I'll try." And they were silent, Phil pressing his hand over Clint's stomach wound and stroking the thick blonde hair with the other, Clint pretending he could still feel his fingers. Blood continued to pool underneath both of them, seeping onto the metal floor of the storage container from Clint's broken body.

"Can we go to Boston when we get out of here?" The brokenness in Clint's voice surprised even himself. "Maybe—maybe catch a h-hockey game?" He was whispering by now and he didn't even know why.

"So you're telling me you've been over the whole goddamn planet, but you've never been to my hometown?" A gentle laugh slid out of Coulson's mouth, eliciting a small grin from Clint.

"Didn't—didn't know you're from Boston. You d-don't have the a-accent."

"I'm a secret agent Barton. Don't you think I'd be able to cover up an incredibly identifiable accent by now?" Clint shrugged and his lopsided grin grew. A shudder overtook him and he furrowed his brow in pain. Phil pulled him closer and whispered into his hair: "Yeah, buddy. We'll go catch a Bruins game." He could have said more after that, but Clint heard no more.

A sudden lightness took over Clint's mind. A sudden warmth spread through his bones. He opened his eyes. The container was illuminated by a strange bluish-white light. A controlled thudding echoed through Clint's body, growing slower and more distorted. It was accompanied by the rush of coolness over his body, through his hair.

Phil's face was in his suddenly, and Clint wondered when he'd gotten there. He could no longer hear Phil as he talked, no matter how hard he focused. He thought he could see his lips say Hold on. A sudden spiraling feeling overtook his body and Phil wasn't there anymore. A cold feeling of terror washed over Clint, but he couldn't move at all. His breath grew ragged and pained. A white flash passed over his eyes and suddenly Phil was there again.

He knew he was about to die.

With an effort that shook the world around his ears, he grabbed the back of Phil's neck and pulled him down so he could speak.

"I knew you'd come for me," Clint managed in a shocking moment of pure clarity before slipping, past Coulson's shouting face and through his fingers into a space that was simultaneously light and black and silent and punctuated by the faraway sound of his handler's panicked yells.

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AN: Hey guys! I know both gentlemen are pretty OOC in this chapter, but hey, Clint's dying! This is meant to be a very short prologue to a longer story about Clint's introduction to SHIELD, so please, review and let me know if it's worth moving forward with or if I should just leave it alone. Thank you so much and as always, any critique is welcome!

-Robin1231