For fifteen years now Spencer Reid had been the tool of a group of men in a place known as "The Facility". They had made him who he was, training him, experimenting on him, forcing him to be something he was never meant to be-a killer. With his mother as their leverage, he knew there was no way he was going to be able to get out. Not until the day that SHIELD stormed the place and everything Spencer had thought he'd known was tossed right out the window.

Now the sixteen year old finds himself in what feels like a new world, with a new life, and the most unlikely of heroes watching out over him. He doesn't understand why Agent Clint Barton seems to have taken a liking to him, or why the man always seems to try and look out for him, but Spencer had learned a long time ago not to trust anyone. He sure wasn't going to trust this man he barely knew.

A series of one-shots following along as Clint Barton adopts his very first little assassin.

October, 1998

Las Vegas, Nevada

In a small room that strongly resembled a cell, sat a young man. There was nothing in this room to give any indication that anyone was watching. Yet the slender young man sitting at the table knew better. Spencer, known most commonly as Erinyes, had never been considered stupid. He definitely wasn't so stupid as to think that being unable to see the cameras meant that they weren't there. Most of his life had been spent being observed by cameras. They were normal to him; something he expected instead of being surprised by. Living with cameras there was normal—playing a part for those cameras was second nature.

His choice in role had been decided the instant someone had burst into his cell at the Facility. Men with guns had come pouring in the room and all of them had sought to protect him even as a few agents came towards him, hands out and voices soothing, talking lowly to him about how "We're going to get you out of here" and "It's going to be okay."

When the choice was between playing scared and dumb or trying to kill everyone around you to escape, there's no real choice at all. Spencer had played it up, cringing away from their touch and playing every trick he had to make himself look like he was scared of everything and trying so hard to hang on to control. Meanwhile, his eyes darted around under the cover of long lashes. They took in every single detail that he could as he was led out of his cell and down the hall. Only a few looks were needed to tell him the most important thing of all—the Facility was falling. They were still fighting back but they were losing. There was no way they were going to come out against this. He knew it. Especially when he made the connection of who it was they were fighting.

SHIELD.

It was SHIELD who came in and took the Facility down. SHIELD who took him out of his room and brought him to some sort of jet where he was taken to a medical bay.

That had been hours ago. During that time, he'd been checked over for any sign of injuries—there were none, of course there were none, but they wouldn't know that—and then he was given real clothes to wear instead of the hospital style pants and shirt he'd been wearing before, and brought to this room to 'wait'. The people had no idea who they held here. They thought him just a prisoner; They had no idea and Spencer wasn't going to tell them.

If it were just himself that he had to worry about it would be easy to make a decision here. He was… tired. So tired. Just shy of sixteen and he was already exhausted with life. There were worse fates than being captured by SHIELD. If there was anyone out there with the power to make this stop, to make him stop, it'd be them. But… it wasn't just him. He had something much more important to worry about than himself. For the sake of that person, for the sake of his mother, he couldn't let himself appear weak here. He couldn't give in. They would either take Spencer away or kill him, or arrest him for the crimes he'd committed—and there were so many of those, so many—and then Diana would be all alone without anyone to look after her or help her with the bills. Spencer couldn't let that happen.

That meant he had to do whatever was necessary to get himself out of here. Much as he might be tempted to give in, to let them do with him what they would, he knew he couldn't. He was going to have to find a way to get out of here. If he could get out, he had the perfect ace up his sleeve, one he knew the Facility hadn't ever recorded. It'd get him far away from here. He just had to get out first.

The sound of the door opening had him looking up through the long bits of hair that hung down in his face. That moment might be coming sooner than he'd thought it would. With sharp, assessing eyes, carefully hidden behind lashes and hair, he watched as a blond haired man walked into the room, smiling brightly at him. He looked like he was tall—taller than him, if not by much—and he carried the build of someone who did physical activity of some kind. Blue eyes looked like they were almost laughing when they settled on him. There was definite amusement there. He looked perfectly at ease with himself, not at all bothered by being in here. That had to mean they still hadn't figured out who he was. They still thought he was a victim.

Then the door shut, the man dropped down into the chair across from him, and everything Spencer thought was thrown out the window. "So, Erinyes." The man said cheerfully as he sat back in his chair, folding his hands casually over his stomach. "My name's Clint. I thought maybe we could chat."

There was a brief moment of panic in Spencer's chest. He squashed it down quickly and ignored it. Panic was pointless. Panic would get him killed.

If they knew that name and had matched it to him, it meant they knew who he was. They knew what he could do. Or at least some of it. Not all of it if they were sending someone in here with him. Someone who he could feel had a rather decent mental shield—for telepathy. He wasn't shielded at all against empathy. Very few ever were.

Inside of Spencer, in the part that was someone else, the part of him he worked so hard to keep separate from all of this, that part protested against what they were about to do. Spencer didn't let himself feel it. He had a lot of practice at pushing those thoughts away.

There was a smile on his face when he tilted his head up. It wasn't a friendly smile, but it wasn't his most dangerous either. It was flirtatious, with an edge to it promised endless hours of fun. It was a smile he'd worked hard to perfect years and years ago. "Is that all you're here for?" he asked, adding a playful edge to his words. "A chat?"

Clint's smile didn't break once. "Well, I might be able to order us some pizza, but I don't know if the big shots outside would like it." If he noticed the hints of lust Spencer was starting to subtly project, he didn't comment on it. No one ever really noticed anyways. He was good at what he did.

A subtle twist had his shirt shifting and sliding just the slightest bit off his shoulder, showing off the pale skin underneath. It was a move that usually drew eyes, and now was no exception. Adding that sort of physical tease always helped to add an extra punch to the emotions he projected. "I'm sure we could think of a something a little more fun to do." He upped the lust projecting out, watching as it dilated Clint's pupils, his body reacting to it; it was working, so he was completely surprised when Clint let out a laugh.

"Oh, man." Shaking his head, Clint laughed again, mirth lighting up his eyes and rolling off him in waves. "Who the hell taught you those lines? I feel like I'm in the cheesiest porno ever made. And that's making me feel all kinds of dirty, seeing as how I'm old enough to be your… well, not your father. Your brother, maybe. Way older brother. Or, well, not that much older. I'm not that old."

Dammit-–this was not the reaction he'd been expecting. Spencer mentally debated before he upped the lust a little more. It was a fine line to walk here. Turning him on enough to make him putty in Spencer's hands without having him leaping across the table and jumping Spencer here and now. That would take precious time he just didn't have and probably end up turning into the type of orgy that wasn't exactly easy to get away from. Because if Spencer spiked Clint's lust that high and the man jumped him, Spencer wouldn't be able to help but feel every emotion ten times stronger with the skin to skin contact and it would seep into him almost like it was his own, only to pour back out of him and fill the room, enticing anyone else close enough to them to come join in.

"Whatever you're trying to do here, you don't need to." Clint told him suddenly. His tone had gentled in a startling way. There wasn't the rough-rasp of want in it though it was easy to see just how physically turned on he was. "We're not here to hurt you. I know you don't believe us, but we really are here to help."

Spencer smiled at him. "You want to help, Agent? You really want to help?" With a steadying breath, Spencer narrowed down the focus of his powers right to the man in front of him and then… pushed.

It was sort of satisfying to watch how Clint jerked in his seat. His mouth dropped open on a gasp and his eyes went wide and dark with lust. Only, Spencer's satisfaction was short lived. Instead of doing any of the things that the young genius was familiar with, this insane agent reacted entirely differently. His hands gripped down onto the edge of the table and he curled in on himself instead of launching upwards. He actually stayed in his seat and mentally fought against the emotion Spencer was projecting his way. The shock of that was enough to have Spencer's shields wavering and it slowed down his reaction time when the door to the room burst open.

That slight hesitation was his undoing. The people who rushed in were hit directly with the cloud of lust that Spencer had built up in here. Instead of reacting like responsible agents, they did what Clint hadn't done, and they leapt right for Spencer.

Every part of Spencer was locked down inside and instinct took over. He was out of his chair in a flash, grabbing it on his way up and swinging it, taking out the first guard that came for him and sending the guard and chair both crashing to the ground. The next guard was met with an elbow to the jaw that created a loud crack Spencer knew meant bones had broken. Two more guards took their place and Spencer let his body flow through the moves he'd been taught, taking them both down with a few well-placed hits and a kick.

"Stop!" someone was shouting. There was more tussling on the other side of this group and Spencer felt sick when he realized just how many of them were filling the room. "Knock it off, you idiots! Get back!"

Spencer twisted and managed to get his hand on one of the guard's guns. Just as his fingers closed over it, he heard the sound of the door snapping shut and then a hiss up above them. Too many years of this same thing told Spencer exactly what it was even before it hit. Gas. They were gassing the room.

Three more guards fell under Spencer's hands before he had no choice but to breathe in the gas filling the air. It hit him in a flash, taking the world out from underneath him. He was still trying to swing even as he sank down to the ground.

When Spencer woke up he found himself in a new cell. This one was designed as a bedroom. He was lying on the bed, his head a bit muzzy the way it always was after drugs or anesthesia. There was only a hazy second before he pieced together what had happened. Then he began to curse himself roundly. Way to overplay his hand there. They knew he could do something with emotions now. Or, at least with lust. They'd be prepared for that. They'd also be prepared for the skill he'd showed. That meant that whatever room they'd put him in was going to be a whole lot harder to escape from.

Sometimes he hated how often he was right. A look around the room made it clear that Spencer wasn't going to be easily breaking his way out of this one. The room was basic, a bedroom with a single bathroom off to the side, and had minimal furniture, no windows, and nothing that could be used as a weapon. It gave Spencer an internal laugh when he saw that all the furniture was bolted down.

On the far side of the room was a big, empty wall, easily viewed from the bed. Spencer had barely pushed himself up on his elbows before the wall lit up and an image appeared there. It was a video, or it looked like one, showing what appeared to be an office with a man sitting at the desk. Spencer immediately started to catalogue details, drawing in everything and trying to get as much information as possible. The man was dark skinned, with an eyepatch on that made him look just a bit more dangerous-not that he needed any help. There was threat in every single inch of his face and clearly written in the other dark eye. Spencer had no doubt just who it was he was facing here. He lifted his chin, staring at the man. "Fury."

"Erinyes."

This was going to be quite the conversation. Spencer shifted his weight around in the bed until he could drop himself back against the pillows. One arm came up and was curled casually behind his head. Every inch of his body gave off a relaxed air, and the tilt of his lips showed amusement. The mask of Erinyes was firmly in place. "What can I do for you, sir?" Spencer put just enough of a twist on that last word to make it an insult.

Fury didn't look the least bit amused by Spencer's display. He moved back a little and it let Spencer see that he was sitting in some big chair, probably in an office of some sort wherever they were. His hands were folded in front of him, a couple fingers lifted and pressed together, but his sharp eye stayed right on Spencer the whole time, reading everything he could from him. "You caused quite a bit of trouble for my agents earlier, Erinyes."

"I tend to get a bit testy when I'm kidnapped." Spencer said dryly. At the same time, he found himself wondering what was going on here. This whole thing didn't feel right. Once they found out who he was, they should've had him locked in a dark cell or executed on sight. Why was he in this fancy little room? Why had they just gassed him instead of letting those agents try and kill him? Not that they would've succeeded. But, still. Why?

With one hand Fury reached out and picked up a file off his desk. He opened it, only flickering his eyes downwards briefly. Most likely he already had the information in there memorized. Or there was nothing in there at all—an intimidation play. "It took us a while to figure out just who exactly you were. The files we gathered from the Facility don't offer much detail."

"Mm. That so?" Of course they didn't. Those fools there weren't going to keep Spencer's information out where anyone could find it. He was a ghost. He was their ghost. They weren't going to just offer up details about him that could be found and used by someone else.

"However, combined with the information we've already gathered on you on our own, it paints a much clearer picture. You have quite the… impressive record. Sixteen years old and already with a kill sheet that rivals quite a few of my own agents. And that's just what we know about. Something tells me there's plenty more on your dossier that we aren't aware of. Very few people seem to know you even exist. You're a ghost. A boogeyman. I'll admit, it's a good cover. Skinny young teenager doesn't exactly scream killer."

The familiar pang echoed around Spencer's heart. On the outside, he smiled. "If you know so much about me, I find myself curious why I'm not currently in a cell. Or, well, a less attractive cell." A flash of something on Fury's face that had his eyebrows going up. Oh, this was getting interesting. Spencer found himself drawn in despite his plans to stay detached, to only think of getting away. He'd known from the instant he woke up in this fancy room that things weren't quite right. The little things all slid into place and he was surprised at what it revealed. "Well now. You don't want to arrest me. You want to recruit me." He shook his head and let out a low laugh. "Unbelievable. Doesn't SHIELD have enough of their own assassins on hand? You have to steal others now?"

"I think you'll find working for us a much more pleasurable venture than the Facility."

"And if I refuse?"

The man spread his hands out in a 'what can you do' gesture. "We can't allow you to fall into the wrong hands." No regret on those words. Just a simple statement of fact.

Spencer let out a mirthless laugh. "So those are my choices, are they? Become a pet to new masters, or death. Yes, sir, I'm clearly seeing where you and the Facility are different."

Silence filled the room. Fury watched him, head tilted and gaze steady. It made Spencer feel like he was some sort of science experiment that was being carefully studied to see how it would react to what was being done. Fortunately, that was a sensation he was quite familiar with.

"I'll give you some time to think." Fury said. He folded the file in his hand and set it down in front of him. When he leaned forward, his face took up more of the screen and Spencer resisted the urge to lean backwards. "Think well, young man. Offers like this don't come by all that often."

The image on the wall blinked out and Spencer was left alone in his room. He didn't let his masks drop. Not when he knew that he was still being watched.

On the inside, his mind was racing, running through everything he'd just learned. The Facility was gone, taken apart by SHIELD, but there were other buildings out there. Other bases. This was just one among many. And those left weren't going to be happy at the loss of their favorite weapon. If he didn't go back, they'd take drastic measures to get him home. That meant his mother was a risk. But… the thought of getting away from them. Of being free… Oh, sure, SHIELD wasn't technically free. Spencer would just have a new set of masters to answer to. They had to be better than the Facility, though. SHIELD was supposed to be better. They were supposed to be the good guys.

Spencer had a lot of thinking to do. Luckily, it seemed like he was going to have plenty of time to do it.

No one came in to see him after that. For the next four days Spencer was left almost completely alone. The only time that he was disturbed was when someone opened the small flap on the bottom of the door and pushed in a tray of food and a bottle of water. God, what he wouldn't do for a cup of coffee!

It gave Spencer plenty of time to think about his options. However, it also gave him time to brood, time to be alone, and that was never a good idea. Not for a 'path. Especially not for an empath.

He'd resigned himself to not having human contact, something that the Facility had quickly learned was an amazing torture for him. Though after what he'd done with Clint and the other agents it wasn't really surprising. That didn't make it easier. Nor did it make him any less bitter about it. It was a living hell for a 'path to go without contact against other minds. At least he had the brief sensation of one when they came near his door to deliver food. Whatever psi-dampening shields they had up, or magical barrier or whatever, didn't work when the person lifted that flap to push food through. It was the closest Spencer came to any kind of contact and he'd accepted it was all he was going to get.

That's why it was a complete surprise when his door opened and Clint Barton strolled on in like he owned the place.

The feel of another human presence against his mind had Spencer wanting to weep with joy.

He sneered instead.

Spencer had been lying on the bed with his legs dangling off the end when his door opened and he'd lifted up just enough to look. Now he propped himself up on his hands behind him, arms stiff to hold his body up, trying to look casual and disinterested despite the way his empathy was already reaching out towards the warmth of the man's emotions in front of him. Clint was feeling so much in that moment. Concern, amusement, worry, confusion—but no fear. Odd.

Lifting his eyebrows, Spencer jutted out his chin. "What do you want?" he demanded. If the people here thought he was going to make this easy for then than they had another thing coming.

Clint seemed to be surprised by the venom in his tone. He stopped just a few steps in the room and raised his eyebrows while the door shut behind him. "Well someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

The sneer on Spencer's lips grew. "What? You think I should welcome you with open arms? Pardon me if I'm not that eager, agent. You can go back out and tell your superiors I won't break this easily."

"No one's trying to break you. I told you before, we want to help you. I wasn't lying about that, kid."

The worst part was, he honestly sounded like he believed that. Spencer couldn't get a read on this man. He wasn't making any sense! That only made him more annoyed, though. Spencer didn't want to be confused by him or soften towards him. These people were holding him here until he either agreed to work for them, or they got to lock him away. Or kill him. Whatever route they took. They weren't his friends. Reminding himself of that helped Spencer harden his voice once more. "Right. Because I always torture the people I want to help."

Everything about Clint went abruptly hard. In a flash the calm and cheerful looking man was gone and in his place was someone that Spencer would've hesitated to approach out in the field. Someone that just radiated danger. Sharp eyes narrowed and ran over the young genius in what was clearly an assessing gaze. He was checking him over for injuries. What the hell? "Torture?" Clint repeated the word like it was something vile. "Who the hell tortured you?"

"Like you don't know."

Clint took a step forward and Spencer allowed himself to lean back. It was a warning not to get close that Clint took to heart. The man froze and his expression tightened a little more. "No one should've been in here. I'm not supposed to be in here. So whoever hurt you, I need a name, Erinyes. They're not going to get away with this. Who laid their hands on you?"

The emotion coming off of Clint backed up every word that he said. Spencer had been around plenty of people who could shield their emotions or who knew how to manipulate them so that they displayed only what they wanted. He'd met some who were masters at it and some who couldn't do it at all. So far Clint didn't seem like he was capable of manipulating his emotions that much. This all felt… real. But if it was real, then that meant he really had no idea what Spencer was talking about. Did that mean that he just wasn't informed? Or that maybe Spencer had gotten this wrong? There was only one way to find out. Slowly, sitting up a bit again, Spencer met Clint's eyes and told him, "No one had to touch me, agent. Maybe you really don't understand, but I'm sure your bosses do. What do you think happens to a telepath or an empath when you stick them in a shielded room? What do you think it does to someone who's used to always feeling something around them when suddenly they don't feel anything at all?"

The low cursing that came told Spencer that the man had figured it out. Curious, Spencer tilted his head and watched the other man to see what he was going to do. So far Clint hadn't really been anything like what Spencer was expecting. He was, different. Strange, yes, but not in a bad way. There was something about his mind and emotions that Spencer found himself responding to. There was danger inside of him, he was someone capable of doing very deadly things, but there wasn't the maliciousness that Spencer was used to seeing in those around him. He was used to something far more evil in the people he worked with. Clint didn't feel like that.

Still cursing, and using a few ones that Spencer didn't quite understand, Clint pulled a phone out of his pocket and started dialing. A second later he had the phone against his ear. The greeting he gave the other person had Spencer snorting to cover up a laugh. "I'm gonna shoot someone, Phil, and you told me to call you if I felt like shooting someone." There was a brief pause and this time it was Clint snorting. He looked over at Spencer, eyes running over him in an assessing sort of way, and then he shook his head. "Do you realize what everyone's doing to the new kid? He's a freaking path, Phil. A path! And they've got him down here in a shielded—no, I know that! Of course I know that! I'm not saying send in someone who's got a ton of secrets we don't want known. But we can… he's an empath too, Phil!"

Spencer sort of tuned the conversation out as he watched Clint pace over to the far wall. At the moment the young genius was too caught up in what was going on to really want to pay attention to the rest of the conversation. He sat there, stunned by the realization that Clint was calling and yelling at this 'Phil' because of him. Him. He actually sounded like he was upset by the way that Spencer was being treated. Was this some sort of trick? Were they trying to play good-cop-bad-cop with him?

A low growl drew Spencer's attention back out to the present moment. He looked up to find that Clint had hung up his phone and was once more standing nearby. Only, he didn't just stop there. He strolled forward and dropped down onto the floor right near Spencer's feet. The stupidity of that move stunned Spencer even more. Didn't he have better self-preservation than to put himself in such a vulnerable position around an unknown assassin?

It would appear so. The man sat there and folded his legs until he was comfortable. Then he looked up at Spencer's face. "Phil's gonna talk to someone and see if we can't at least get someone to swing by here and sit outside the door or something a few times a day. It's not much but it'll be better than what you've got right now. I mean, it's gonna take him a bit to make sure he can find people who don't know any dangerous information and such. He'll do it, though. We're not going to let a kid get tortured here."

"I'm not a kid." Spencer said reflexively. He hadn't been a child in a long, long time. If ever.

Clint didn't buy it. He actually laughed. "File says you're not even sixteen yet. So yeah, you're a kid. Deal with it. There's nothing wrong with being a kid. I'm grown up but Phil tells me all the time I act just like a kid. Who wants to be a stuffy old fart like him, huh?"

The urge to giggle bubbled up in Spencer. He had to duck his head down to keep it contained. Why was he being stupid enough to let his guard down at all in front of this man? Spencer tried to hold on to his resolve. He tried to grip it tight and let it firm out his voice. "This whole good-cop-bad-cop shtick isn't going to work."

"Didn't think it would." Clint said easily. He looked a little more relaxed than before. Less tense. "Maybe I just wanted to talk, check up on you."

"Why?"

"I was there when they brought you in. An after things in the room, I just wanted to make sure you were all right. It just took me a bit to finagle my way around the security."

Finagle his way around…. Spencer's eyebrows went up with the realization. "You're not supposed to be in here."

"Nope!" Clint said, grinning.

This man made less and less sense with each passing minute. Spencer couldn't stop himself from asking "Aren't you afraid?"

"Pfft, no. Why would I be?"

"I could kill you." Spencer said slowly. "I've made no promises to SHIELD. I could kill you or try and use you as leverage to get out of here."

"I'm sure you could. Hell, you might even succeed. I don't know, I've never seen you fight. But why would you try? I mean, it'd make no sense." The way that Clint shrugged suggested he really didn't think it would make any sense. "I'm not here to hurt you, kid. I just want to make friends."

"Friends?" This time Spencer didn't even try and stop it. A bitter laugh tumbled past his lips. He saw the way it made Clint flinch and felt bad, but not bad enough to stop himself from saying "Things like me don't get friends."

As he scooted himself back to lay on the bed, he caught sight of the pained way that Clint was looking at him, could feel the emotions rolling off him, and Spencer had to pull his shields up tight against it.