Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"
Special shout-out to all my reviewers of Chapter 2: Kylen, ImaSupernaturalCSI, shanynde, CourtGranger, bookworm1517, CyanB, lunarweather, JRBURTON, Reteka Hyuuga, Radoxical Fish, tpt player 5701, Kalo Suva, hawkeyeforever, SnappleSauce, Viviannafox, GremlinX, awkward hawk. aeriadne, speedreader1999, sweetstrawberrysmiles, Mackie911, Addle, Dsgdiva, ArabianForest, Marie, penguincrazy, VBreadergirl123, Shelbs13, SerynnLux, Gaara of the Desert564, GreenLoki, Brandi Golightly, ConnorVolturi, AsItThunders, weemcg33, YukinaKid, Kisa, gryffindorgal87, Gingerjam, authorunable, ArtGirlie815, horselover28, Lollypops101, chibi-ringo, Guest, hbbuckeye, Rose, Saffygirl, bubblysuds19, Mirabilem Electo, Qweb, Susan M. M, coastalcajun, Maire Caitroina, My5tic-Lali, xx-Forever Yours-xx, Panther Moon, Furionknight, Guest, missmostlikely, Sam Mayer, the guttersnipe, Sara, books101, LeJisemika, kimbee, Hawksicle, and hawkeye-mockingwidow
Special shoutout/apology to ViviannaFox who I accidentaly missed in thanking for reviewing last chapter.
Very well done to the NUMEROUS reviewers who pegged what the song is for this story :) "Savin' Me" by Nickleback
As always - thanks to Kylen my amazing beta ;)
And special thanks to writtergirl15 for being my awesome French translator :) she had A LOT to translate and she did an amazing job!
And now I give you, Chapter 3
Great achievement is usually born of great sacrifice, and is never the result of selfishness.
Napoleon Hill
Phil was breathing hard when he pushed his way back into the apartment. Their run had been a little more intense than usual, but they'd both had a little more to work through this time around. And of course it had started raining when they were three blocks from the apartment. He and Clint had looked at the sky – then at each other – and then they'd high-tailed it back to the apartment.
He headed for the fridge, listening as Clint closed the door. He pulled out a water bottle for himself and a blue Gatorade for Clint.
"Heads up." He tossed the Gatorade bottle to Clint, arching an eyebrow when Clint twisted awkwardly to catch it with his right hand instead of his left. He kept his gaze fixed on his agent – asking without words for an explanation.
"Aches." Clint nodded at his left arm simply.
Phil nodded. That made sense after having it fall asleep for God only knew how long. The cold rain that had pelted them as they ran those last blocks probably hadn't helped.
"Why don't you go take a hot shower? That'll help. I'll make some coffee and when it's a decent time we'll go get some breakfast."
Clint smiled slightly.
"I know where we can get the best crêpes in the city."
Phil returned the smile.
"Somehow I'm not surprised. Now go on."
Clint snagged fresh clothes out of his bag and disappeared into the bathroom. Phil had just turned to pull the coffee machine out of the cabinet where it was stored when a towel hit him in the back of the head. He turned, but the bathroom door was already clicking closed. He heard the shower kick on a moment later. He shook his head and smiled, returning to his task as he used one hand to rub the towel through his wet hair.
It wasn't the oldest coffee machine he'd ever had to use, but neither was it the expensive brand new one he had back home. He searched the cabinets for the filters and then went over to his bag to retrieve his – and Clint's – favorite coffee brew. He never left home without it.
He set the coffee brewing and leaned against the counter to wait. He ended up arguing with himself over whether or not he wanted to push the vest issue. It still worried him – Clint going around without protection when an assassin was most likely circling like a hawk. But he also had to acknowledge that Clint could take care of himself – had learned long ago to be his own protection.
Phil sighed deeply. He felt like he owed Clint an explanation – at the very least – for why he'd flown off the handle about something he'd never taken issue with before. It didn't seem like their argument was any kind of issue anymore, but it would become one again if they didn't get it sorted out.
The sound of the rain on the kitchen window drew his eyes. Clint didn't like the rain and he'd never been shy about pointing that out at every opportunity. Phil didn't mind it. He found it oddly soothing – something about the sound it made as it beat against glass or against a rooftop. His eyes tracked a series of drops as they hit the window and then dripped down the glass.
The sound of the bathroom door opening had him blinking abruptly. He glanced down at the coffee pot to check its progress – surprised to find it fully brewed. He looked back at the window, frowning as he considered how long he'd stood here, lost in thought.
He pulled open a cabinet, searching for mugs. Clint appeared next to him suddenly – moving more silently than a ghost. Phil blinked at him, eyes questioning. The expression on Clint's face was deadly serious and his eyes deeply contemplative as if he'd been considering and planning his next words very intently.
In the end, his words were simple.
"I get it."
There was something in Clint's eyes as he said it that told Phil it was the truth – that Clint understood everything Phil had been struggling with over the past hours.
"And I'm sorry."
Phil's throat tightened a little at the honest sincerity in Clint's tone. He should have known that Clint had been laboring over the whole situation just as intently as he had. Phil nodded in acceptance, almost relieved that he didn't need to explain himself. But that didn't mean he still didn't have something he needed to say.
"I'm sorry, too. I over-reacted."
"There was a lot of that going around." Clint made a wry face and reached past Phil to pull a mug from the cabinet. "Maybe we're both still wound a little too tight after everything that's happened."
He poured the fresh coffee into the mug and held it out to Phil.
Phil accepted it with a smile.
"Go get a shower before you catch something. The last thing I need is you getting sick and then getting me sick. I've got an op to run." Clint finished with a smirk and retrieved another mug.
Phil rolled his eyes and headed to his cot.
"Your concern for my health is overwhelming." Phil shook his head in amusement and pulled dry clothes from his bag. Clint held up his coffee mug – now laden with more sugar than coffee, Phil was sure – in mock salute. Phil was rolling his eyes at the smirk on his agent's face even as he closed the bathroom door.
Phil nearly groaned in delight as he took a bite of his crêpe. Across the small wooden table, Clint smirked and bit into his own.
"You were right. This is the best crêpe I've ever had."
"I come to Josselin every time I'm in Paris – usually more than once." Clint spoke around a mouthful of his breakfast and had barely swallowed before he was taking another large bite.
"If you don't slow down, you're going to choke."
Clint rolled his eyes.
"Are you kidding? I'm practically a professional at this."
"Eating crêpes?"
"Eating," Clint corrected with a grin as he took yet another bite. Phil shook his head in amusement and wiped his mouth with his napkin.
"So, we're scheduled to meet Moreau at 10 a.m. What's your game plan before and after?" Phil posed the question casually. He'd been letting Clint plan the missions how he deemed fit since the day he was recruited. An eighteen year old who had become one of the most feared contract assassins in the world in under a year didn't need to be told how to run an op.
Clint answered just as casually – as if it were an everyday conversation.
"Surveillance before – surveillance after – and an ass load of surveillance in between. Watching is how we'll catch this guy."
Phil nodded. Any assassin worth his salt ran a hell of a lot of surveillance before making a hit. But just because they were there didn't mean they were easy to spot. It took a guy like Clint to be able to catch a glimpse. There was a saying about that – something about 'it takes a thief to catch a thief'. The whole reason Clint was here was based on the assumption that the same held true for assassins.
"When we meet with Moreau, I'll scope out some good vantage points. I'll shadow him by rooftop for the first day or so – then I'll join his security team."
"We've got you set up as an outside hire – independent contractor specializing in security."
"That's just a fancy way of saying body guard." Clint scowled a little, almost like he was insulted by the title.
Phil shrugged a little, unconcerned about Clint's complaint. Clint excelled at complaining – seemed to strive for excellence in it at times. Phil had gotten used to it after three years, even found amusement in it. He watched Clint take another bite of his crêpe.
"You know, I don't think that a crêpe filled with Nutella really qualifies as a healthy breakfast."
Clint smirked, wiping some of the hazelnut-flavored chocolate from the corner of his mouth.
"We're not at SHIELD – I don't have to make the healthy choice."
"You say that like you make the healthy choice at home. You add sugar to everything."
"Only when it will improve the flavor," Clint defended, pointing a firm finger at Phil. Then he grinned. "Which is often."
"You're going to wish you'd eaten healthier one day." Phil almost rolled his eyes at himself. He sounded like his father. He wished he could pull the words back when a smirk blossomed on Clint's face.
"When?" The smirk grew. "When I'm as old as you?"
Phil gave him a mock glare.
"If I make it to your distinguished age, Phil, I promise to start eating healthy."
Phil rolled his eyes.
"Just how old you think I am?"
"Fifty." Clint smirked evilly. "Sixty."
Phil picked a caramel-covered banana piece out of his crêpe and tossed it across the table. Clint dipped his head quickly and caught the piece in his mouth, giving Phil a wildly triumphant grin. It immediately brought to mind a proud puppy and made Phil smirk in overwhelming amusement.
Clint cocked his head to the side in confusion at the sudden change of expression and Phil couldn't help it.
He laughed.
"Meeting with Moreau is at 10. Be back here by 9:45 so we can be early."
Clint made a face that had Phil shooting him a stern look.
"It's the appropriate thing to do."
"It makes us seem eager."
"It makes us seem professional," Phil countered seriously.
Clint rolled his eyes dramatically as if professional were the last thing he wanted to seem.
"Just humor me," Phil requested as he tossed Clint his comm unit. The archer caught it without even giving it a glance.
"Fine."
He said it with his most put-upon tone and a heavy sigh that had Phil rolling his eyes.
"You make it seem like I'm asking for a kidney."
Clint's little smirk at that told Phil he was trying to annoy – as he often did – just for the sake of entertainment. The archer turned back to his bag and pulled his shirt off. Phil opened his mouth – both to reply to that smirk and to ask why the hell he was changing shirts.
The words froze in his throat.
Without comment or urging, Clint pulled out his SHIELD-issued body armor – specially made to fit his upper body like a glove – and strapped it into place. He yanked his t-shirt back on over it and then shrugged his quiver into place.
He turned then, caught Phil watching, and gave him an almost shy, but definitely sincere, smile. He shrugged one shoulder and reached for his bow, lying open on his cot. He folded it quickly and stowed it away at the small of his back.
He gave Phil another smile with a meaning clearer to Phil than if he'd used words. Clint was good at that – speaking without words. What he said with that smile made Phil want to hug him.
If it's important to you, I'll do it.
"Be careful," Phil managed to force out past the lump in his throat. Clint nodded, clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, and gave him a wink.
"Always."
"Take off the sunglasses."
Clint sighed deeply – as if Phil were asking him to do something that was a great inconvenience – and obeyed, pushing his sunglasses up to rest on his hair. Phil rolled his eyes and decided to pick his battles.
"Why couldn't I bring my bow again?"
"You won't have it at the gala. Best not to tip your hand to anyone who might be watching."
Clint shrugged one shoulder in acquiescence and shifted his eyes to the left when he sensed movement. His gaze zeroed in on the man he knew to be Henri Moreau. Moreau was flanked on both sides by a member of his security team.
"Bonjour Monsieur Sinclair," Moreau extended his hand to Clint, who shook it firmly. "J'espère que votre séjour à Paris a été agréable jusqu'à présent?" (Hello, Mr. Sinclair...I trust your stay in Paris has been pleasant so far.)
"Je passe toujours du très bon temps dans votre belle ville, monsieur." (I always enjoy my time in your beautiful city, sir.)
Phil breathed a silent sigh of relief that Clint was turning on the charisma. When he wanted to, Clint could be just as charming as he was deadly – he just usually preferred not to be.
"Vous avez un français comme si vous étiez né ici."Moreau nodded appreciatively. "C'est impossible que ce soit votre première visite à Paris." (Your French is as if you were born here...This cannot be your first visit to Paris.)
"Non monsieur, j'ai eu ce plaisir plusieurs fois." (No, sir, I've had the honor many times.)
"Et qu'est-ce qui vous amène ici?" (And what is it that brought you here?)
For a moment Clint didn't respond and Phil knew that Moreau was being analyzed in that moment – essentially scanned for any signs of deception. It was too curious of a question, Phil knew, one that had probably set Clint on edge. But then Clint smiled genially.
"Ah vous savez des affaires par-ci et par là...veuillez m'excuser, mais la nature de mon boulot demande un certain niveau de...," Clint seemed to search for the right word and ended up smirking darkly, "discrétion." (Oh you know, this and that…forgive me but the nature of my profession requires a certain level of...subtlety.)
Phil looked warily to Moreau – curious if he would be intimidated by the glint in Clint's eye. He was pleased – and marginally surprised – when Moreau laughed a little.
"Quelque chose me dit que j'ai engagé l'homme qu'il me fallait pour ce boulot." (Something tells me I have hired the right man for this job.)
Clint smirked, eyes drifting to the two men flanking Moreau – they'd both been sized up and analyzed upon approach. Now he was just letting them know that. One of the men shifted his weight and the other swallowed thickly.
Clint's eyes went back to Moreau, who was watching him with a knowing smile. The man turned his attention to Coulson.
"Ah, my manners, Monsieur Carter, it is a pleasure to meet you." Moreau extended his hand to Phil, who shook it readily.
"Now, I imagine a tour of the house is in order." Moreau motioned them to follow him.
"We can show ourselves around if you have more important matters to attend to," Phil offered.
Moreau waved him off with a smile.
"Do not be ridiculous. I am not so busy that I cannot take the time to show my own home. Come, follow me."
As they made their way through various rooms of the large house, Clint kept his ears tuned to Moreau and his eyes scanning and memorizing every detail of the layout. They were returning to the foyer of the house when a young woman with her black hair pinned back in a tight bun stepped out of what Clint knew to be Moreau's office – though they had yet to see the inside of it.
"Monsieur Moreau, c'est l'heure de votre conférence téléphonique avec le Premier ministre." (Mr. Moreau, it is time for your conference call with the Prime Minister.)
Moreau nodded to her and turned to Phil and Clint.
"It appears time has gotten away from us. Feel free to continue wandering about, this should take no time at all."
Moreau started towards the office door. Clint stepped after him.
"Monsieur Moreau," he began, intent on asking the man for permission to accompany him into the office – if only to analyze the entry and exit points. He sensed the hand coming for his left shoulder a moment before it made contact.
A distant part of his brain recognized that it was just one of Moreau's security guards. But the instinctive, combat-trained part of his brain was what took control. Maybe it was that it was his left shoulder. Maybe it was that the guy dared to actually put a hand on him. Maybe it was just his foolish pride – and maybe it was that he just didn't like to be touched…but Clint just reacted.
He turned, sweeping his left arm up and over the guard's. A sharp jerk and twist later and the man's shoulder snapped out of socket. The second guard was already coming at him. Clint grabbed his hand as he reached for Clint's arm and twisted. The man's arm contorted awkwardly and Clint drove his boot into the man's thigh, sending him to his knees. He twisted the hand further, silently urging the man to stay on his knees, even as he turned his head back to the first man – whose arm was still trapped between Clint's arm and his side. Clint pulled the man towards him and slammed his forehead into the guy's nose. The man dropped – and Clint let him. He spun, driving his boot into the second man's head, letting him fall to the floor as well.
The whole exchange took less than ten seconds.
Clint stepped back, shooting Phil a sheepish look. Phil didn't look at all surprised – or even disappointed. He just looked vaguely amused. Clint looked to Moreau.
The man was blinking in wide-eyed shock. He raised his eyes from the two groaning men on the floor to Clint and then…he laughed.
"Yes, it would definitely seem I hired the right man."
Four days later…
Phil looked up from his laptop in time to see Clint yawn widely, stretch, and then hunch back over the blue prints he had spread out on the table. Watching Clint yawn made Phil yawn himself. He looked down at his watch, frowning when it took him a beat longer than it should to focus on the numbers.
He closed his laptop and stood, stretching as he did.
"I'm going to get some sleep," he announced. "You should too."
Clint didn't even glance up from his blue prints.
"I'm fine."
"Clint." Phil knew it was pointless – Clint was in full-on op mode. The operator part of his brain had kicked into high gear and wasn't about to be slowed down now. Not with the gala tomorrow.
"I've got too much to do. I've still got a dozen contingencies I haven't mapped and two exit points to run."
Phil nodded, reached for Clint's empty Gatorade bottle and tossed it in the trash. He retrieved a fresh one from the fridge and placed it on the table.
"Promise me you'll get some sleep. You need to be sharp tomorrow night."
He got a vague grunt of acknowledgment as Clint scribbled notes on the blue print near one of the points he'd marked as an exit. Phil shook his head in affectionate exasperation. The kid was thorough – he had to give him that. Clint's ability to see situations from all possible angles, analyze all possible contingencies made him the most brilliant strategist Phil knew. He could see the big picture no one else could. It was one of his most deadly qualities.
Phil patted Clint's shoulder and headed to his cot, all but collapsing down on it. He stretched out with a tired sigh and rolled onto his side. He blinked slowly, watching Clint pull a spiral notebook closer and start writing quickly in it – no doubt in shorthand notes Phil would barely be able to decipher if he tried. He closed his eyes, focusing his ears on the sound of Clint's pencil on the paper. Before he knew it, he was asleep.
"This is Phil Coulson, ID 2-3-5-9-8-7-Yankee-Tango. Confirm the line is secure."
He listened to the confirmation as Clint came up next to him.
"He can't have gotten far," Clint insisted. Phil could tell he was itching to take off in pursuit.
"Get me Fury."
"Hold for transfer."
Phil turned his attention away from the phone and back to Clint.
"We have no idea which direction he went." He knew that point wouldn't deter Clint and he wasn't disappointed.
"He might still be in the area. A guy like that would want to make sure no one was left to tie him to this plot." Clint held up the stack of papers detailing the planned hit on the president. "He's gotta be close, Phil. I can feel it."
Phil nodded in agreement, his gut telling him the same thing.
"Fury."
Phil held up a finger, silently telling Clint to just hold on for a second.
"Andrić is dead. McGuire killed him."
"Where's McGuire now?"
"In the wind, but we think he's close."
"Turn Barton loose – we both know he'll run him down faster than anybody else could."
Phil nodded, glancing at Clint. He quirked an eyebrow when Clint cocked his head. A breath later, Clint's hand was aborting a movement towards his arm and shoving him in the chest instead. He watched Clint step in front of him, distantly heard the sound of the gunshot, saw Clint's body jerk back a step and then go boneless.
"CLINT!"
The phone clattered to the floor.
He caught Clint against his chest as the agent fell, pulling him back into the house. His agent's eyes were closed and Coulson cursed when his attention was ripped away as another bullet tore into the wood of the open door. Phil raised his gun, visualizing in his mind where the shot had come from. He thought about the direction Clint had been looking, the angle his body had jerked. He peeked around the door frame to confirm.
He found Gabriel McGuire standing in an alley across the street, a semi-automatic rifle with a laser sight up at his shoulder. Phil pulled back as a bullet bit into the doorframe – an inch from his head. He spared a single breath to look at Clint, motionless on the ground with a dark stain spreading across the shoulder of his black shirt.
He forced himself to take a deep breath and then steeled himself. He dove out into the open door way, taking have a second to aim before firing three shots in quick succession. A fourth shot echoed across the street even as McGuire fell back in the alley and Phil felt the burn of the bullet as it creased his right bicep.
He ignored it, dropped his gun and scrambled to Clint's side, pressing down on the bleeding bullet wound.
"CLINT!" His barked order demanded attention, but Clint's eyelids didn't even twitch.
Phil felt his heart hit his throat as he pushed his index and middle finger against the pulse point on Clint's neck. He waited, but the steady thump he was hoping for – that he needed – wasn't there.
"No…"
Phil bent over and put his cheek in front of Clint's mouth and nose. The air between them remained still. Phil shook his head in denial, folding his hands over Clint's sternum and starting compressions. He pushed down on Clint's chest thirty times and then tilted his agent's head back and blew two breathes into his still lungs.
"Come on, kid. Don't do this to me."
Phil started compressions again – knew it was wasted. CPR sustained life – it didn't bring it back. But he couldn't stop – wouldn't. His mind replayed the moment Clint was shot back before his eyes. Clint had stepped in front of him, had seen something and pushed Phil back.
Clint had taken a bullet for him.
Clint had died for him.
"No!" Phil nearly growled, his chest tightening painfully and his eyes overflowing with moisture. "You don't get to do this, Clint!"
He blew two more breaths, but nothing changed. Clint's skin was growing cold.
"Clint!"
Clint jerked awake, jumping when the papers beneath his face crackled. He blinked owlishly and looked around. The apartment was quiet, just as it had been when he'd laid his head down – just for a few minutes. He squinted at his watch, frowning when he realized he'd slept for almost an hour.
He scrubbed his hand down his face and stretched his back, groaning quietly at the soft pops that cracked through his spine. He returned his attention to the notes on the table and reached for his abandoned pencil.
He pressed the lead to the paper and froze. Slowly, he turned his head to look at Phil, who was sprawled on his back and sleeping deeply – just as he had been when Clint had last glanced at him over an hour ago.
Clint stared at his handler, wondering if he'd imagined the sharp intake of breathe. He nearly jumped when Phil's head jerked to the side and he expelled a sharp breath. Clint stood slowly, shifting cautiously closer.
Phil had told him that he dreamed too – but Clint had never seen it in progress. He wondered if Phil was this disconcerted when he found Clint in a similar state. He swallowed and came closer, debating whether to wake him or not. Licking his suddenly dry lips, Clint crouched. Finally –after another moment of deliberation – he reached for Phil's shoulder.
He nearly had a heart attack when Phil jack-knifed as soon as he touched him, latching onto the front of Clint's shirt with one hand and onto his forearm with the other.
"Jesus…" Clint gasped, nearly toppling backwards under the sudden assault.
Phil's eyes were clenched shut – and his breathing was painfully ragged. Clint swallowed again.
"Phil…" He didn't know what to say. How the hell did Phil always know what to say when the situation was reversed? Clint could only stare in wide eyed shock as Phil gasped for breath, his hands bruising Clint's forearm and wrinkling his shirt.
"Clint?"
Phil's surprisingly lucid eyes were suddenly focused on him and Clint could only nod. His level of surprise and confusion rose when Phil suddenly looked away – everything about his expression shutting down – locking Clint out.
So that was what that felt like.
Clint suddenly understood why Phil got so mad when he did the same thing. It was beyond frustrating – and in its own way, it hurt. Clint's reaction to hurt had always been anger, but he knew that wouldn't help the situation right now so he pushed it away and forced his tone to be calm – even if it did carry a measure of uncertainty in it as well.
"What was it about?" He asked carefully.
Phil's grip on Clint's arm tightened and the archer resisted the urge to wince. For a moment he thought Phil was going to just spill it all right there – as Clint had done so many times when the situation was reversed.
And then Phil shook his head.
"Nothing, I'm fine."
On second thought…anger seemed like a pretty good option. He couldn't believe, after everything they'd been through, that Phil couldn't bring himself to be honest with him. And suddenly he was beyond being just pissed and hurt – he was offended too.
He jerked his arm out of Phil's grip – didn't miss the flash of panic in his handler's eyes before that, too, was hidden. Just further proof that Phil was lying to him.
"Fuck you, Phil."
Phil's eyes widened.
"Excuse me?" Now Phil was angry, too. Good. Maybe now he'd be honest with him.
"Three years of you forcing me to lay my nightmares out for you and now you're gonna hold out on me?"
"Clint, it's not your problem. Nothing you need to worry about."
"Not my problem?" Clint's anger took over and bled into his tone as he pushed himself to his feet. "That's a hell of a thing for you to say. After Croatia – after all of that shit we both went through, after everything you lectured me on – you think you get to sit there and tell me this isn't my problem?" Clint turned away and headed back to the table. "Yeah, well, you can go to hell."
He froze halfway there when Phil's voice – cracking with emotion – finally sounded.
"You were dead."
Clint turned around to see Phil pushing himself to his feet, his face a confusing mix of anger, frustration – and fear.
"You wanted to know? Fine. Here it is – I dreamed that you died. And it's not the first time."
"What?"
Of all the things he expected Phil to confess, this wasn't even on the list. He realized with startling clarity that it should have been. After what Phil told him in Vienna, it should have been right at the very top. He didn't get a chance to continue his line of thought before Phil suddenly went on.
"Why does this come as a shock to you? I told you I dreamed about this stuff too – what? You think you're the only one whose subconscious twists what happened into the worst possible outcome? Did you think you had the corner on that market? You have losing your bow – I have losing you."
Clint opened his mouth to interject, but Phil was on a roll and plowed on before Clint could get a word out – making the archer scowl.
"Did you not hear anything I told you in Vienna?"
"Of course I did." Clint felt his temper flaring again. He got a distinct feeling that he was being scolded. For what, he wasn't sure.
"Then why do you still look like this is news to you? Like you're somehow shocked that you would mean enough to me that losing you is literally my worst nightmare?"
"That's not..." Clint growled in frustration when Phil interrupted him. If this was what it was like to argue with him when he got on a roll, he suddenly pitied Phil for the last three years.
"That's not what, Clint? That's not what this is about?"
Clint let his anger loose once again, if only to get through Phil's stubborn head. Goddamn it, they were too much alike sometimes.
"No, goddamn it – it's not! And if you would shut up for half a second and let me get a word in, you'd see that!" Clint spun on his heel and stalked towards the kitchen.
"Where are you going?" Phil demanded sharply – but with more confusion than anger.
"To make some damn coffee!" Clint practically ripped open the top of the coffee maker and started the process to brew a new pot. "Cuz something tells me we aren't getting any more sleep tonight." He muttered the last part to himself as more of an outlet for his frustration than anything. He slammed the lid to the coffee machine closed and braced his hands on the counter. He sensed Phil move into the small kitchen and then drop into one of the seats at the table with a sigh.
Phil rubbed a hand across his face and blew out a breath, raising his eyes to take in the set of Clint's shoulders. His charge was pissed – that much was obvious. Phil just wasn't sure why. He also wasn't sure why he'd flown off the handle when he'd seen surprise register in Clint's gaze when he admitted what his dream had been about.
He wouldn't have even admitted that if Clint hadn't gotten in a huff and told him to fuck off. Phil still couldn't figure out what had spurred...
His train of thought was abruptly severed when Clint spoke – in that soft-spoken, terrifying tone that gave away how truly angry he was.
"That's not my worst possible outcome."
Phil blinked. Huh?
Clint turned, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest.
"Losing my bow," he explained. "That's not my worst possible outcome and it kinda pisses me off that you think is."
Phil sighed. He knew where this was going.
"I dream that you died, that I wasn't fast enough to get between you and the bullet. You know that."
Phil put up a placating hand. He did know – he'd found Clint on the rooftop of the SHIELD base more than a few times due to that dream over the past four months.
"I know, kid. I was just..." he searched for the right word, "ranting."
Clint made a face that told Phil that was next on the docket.
"Yeah … about that." Clint's eyebrow arched. "What the hell?"
"You started it." Phil winced at his own childishness in that response.
Clint rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, okay but you lied to me – so I could argue that you started it."
And Phil suddenly understood what this had all been about.
Clint shook his head and turned to retrieve two coffee cups. He scooped sugar by the spoonful into his and then poured the fresh coffee into both cups. He turned back to Phil and set the all-black coffee onto the table in front of his handler with a crack.
"So?" Clint dropped into the other chair and glared across the table. "Why'd you try and keep this from me? Why did you lie to me?"
Phil sighed and wrapped his hands around his coffee cup.
"For a lot of reasons, Clint."
"Pick one." Clint's tone was darkly quiet again and Phil hated that he'd caused that.
"For starters, it's humiliating." He watched Clint silently mouth the final word almost angrily as he went on. "And I let that influence me."
"You think I don't know that? You think I don't feel that every time you have to pull me out of one of mine?" Clint gestured angrily towards his own cot.
"I know you do, but it's not the same."
"How the hell is it not the same?" Clint demanded in a tone that indicated he thought the idea was ridiculous.
"Because it..." Phil trailed off and shook his head. He didn't know how to put it into words – to tell Clint that a parent didn't tell their kid about their nightmares. It was his job to protect Clint, not add to the weight he carried.
"Because it what?" Clint snapped.
"Because it's not supposed to work that way!" Phil couldn't help but snap the response back. Clint had always managed to bring out emotion in him, even when he could do without it. He watched confusion flash across Clint's eyes.
"What way?" At least the anger wasn't as obvious anymore – the tone still quiet, but not carrying nearly the deadly weight it had moments ago.
Phil rubbed a hand across his face. Clint wasn't going to let this go. He rarely did once he latched onto something. His stubbornness was one of his best – and worst – qualities.
"It's my job to protect you." He finally started his confession quietly, but then he shook his head – that wasn't right. "It's not a job – it's … who I am." He could feel the weight of Clint's stare and raised his own eyes to meet the familiar stormy gaze – it was carrying its usual intensity with something more that Phil couldn't quite identify. "I'm supposed to worry about you – not the other way around. Kid, you carry so much already. If I could keep from adding to that, you have to know I would. I would always do whatever it took to protect you, even just from that."
Clint sat back slowly, his gaze dropping briefly down to the papers still strewn across the table and his hands curling loosely around his cooling coffee mug.
"Protect me."
He repeated the words so quietly Phil almost didn't hear them. His blue-gray eyes rose again, settling on Phil. And this time there wasn't any anger. Instead, a swirl of emotions were there – starting with understanding and overwhelming gratefulness and ending with the measure of affection Clint reserved only for Phil.
"You've always been good at that – protecting me." Clint's lips quirked in mild amusement. "And it's not like I made that easy."
Phil smiled, relieved to see the familiar sense of humor making an appearance.
"Yeah," he agreed with Clint's assessment, "but that's what made it worth the effort."
Clint's smirk shifted to a brief, but genuine, smile and then he went on more seriously,
"When I was eighteen, I needed that. I needed someone to protect me."
Phil had a sudden memory of an eighteen-year-old Clint sitting on the catwalks of the SHIELD base after managing to get a concussion on a training mission. It had been the first time he'd looked at Clint and seen nothing but an eighteen-year-old kid. Even Clint's eyes had been young in that moment – hadn't carried the weight they usually did. He had been so young back then, so broken, Phil had stepped into the role of protector without hesitation and along the way it had become part of who he was.
"But I'm not eighteen anymore. I don't you need to protect me from everything."
But that didn't mean Phil didn't want to try.
Phil took in the sight of the 21 year old sitting across from him. Exhaustion lined his features – he'd been awake for too many hours – but even so his eyes were still sharp and intense and they still said so much without Clint having to say a word. His posture, though relaxed and equally exhausted, still nearly hummed with unspent energy. Some things hadn't changed in the last three years.
But some things had. Back then, Clint's eyes would have held a darkness – a hopelessness. They would have looked lost. Maybe that darkness was still there – Phil could see it now – but that hopelessness was gone, and so was the look of being lost. Clint had found his way – his purpose – at SHIELD, with Phil.
So Phil acknowledged that Clint may have a point – his agent had come a very long way in three years. He wasn't a kid anymore. Hell, maybe he never really had been.
"And you don't corner the market on worrying."
The kid was really hitting hard today – wasn't pulling any punches. But then again, Phil couldn't remember a time Clint had ever pulled any punches.
"I'm only asking you to do what you always ask me to do – be honest. To trust me."
That was so far from what this was about and Phil knew he needed to explain himself – because the hurt he could hear in his agent's voice hurt him. This wasn't about trust.
"I trust you, Clint. But I also know you." Phil sighed and pushed his hand through his hair. "You're going to take this to heart and you're going to carry it around. I don't want you to have to do that."
Clint fell silent his gaze growing contemplative. Phil knew a moment before Clint spoke – when those eyes flashed with a familiar fire – that he wasn't going to win this fight.
"You've been telling me for years now that I'm not alone anymore – that I don't have to carry all my shit by myself." Clint paused, fixing Phil with a heavy look. "That goes both ways."
Phil dipped his head slightly in agreement and the motion turned into nod.
"Okay."
Clint nodded in return and blew out a breath.
"So," he raised his eyebrows expectantly, "wanna tell me about it?"
Phil sighed deeply and looked down at his coffee.
"It started after the Andes."
He raised his eyes again to meet Clint's surprised gaze.
"That long ago?"
Phil nodded.
"What do you remember? About that night after I pulled you from that cell?"
Clint shrugged his right shoulder.
"About that night – not much – not anything really."
"Yeah, well, you were pretty far gone." Phil paused, and met Clint's eyes again. "I remember thinking I was watching you die – slowly and painfully – and not being able to stop it." He watched Clint's eyes darken as he went on. "I remember praying to anybody that would listen that you would just make it through the night. Watching you hallucinate that your brother was trying to stab you." Phil sighed and shook his head. "It pretty much started there."
Clint waited, sensing there was more to come.
"Sometimes you die right there in front of me and sometimes I'm not fast enough – and you die alone in that cell," Phil frowned slightly. "I think that one's worse."
Clint swallowed, taking a moment to process everything. Then a thought – more like a memory – hit him.
"Cairo."
Phil's eyes flashed with pain just at the mention of that mission.
"You thought I was dead."
"Your comms going out after an explosion and then a body matching your description being found in the rubble made it pretty hard to deny."
"But I wasn't dead – I got away from those assholes and you were there when I broke into the safe house in the middle of the night."
"That doesn't stop me from dreaming that it was you they pulled out of the blast wreckage. That I had to take you home and bury you. Or worse, that you never escaped from them and I never even knew you needed my help."
Clint chewed hard on the inside of his lip and looked away, blinking away moisture he would never let fall. How had he never realized what all those close calls had done to Phil?
He turned his eyes back to his handler.
"I'm sorry."
"Clint…" Phil shook his head.
"No." Clint refused to be absolved. "I'm sorry. For never noticing what it did to you."
"It's not your job to..."
"Stop – just stop." Clint held up a hand. "Cut it out with this 'it's not your job to worry about me' shit." He leaned forward and pinned Phil under a gaze that demanded full attention. "This is a two-way street. We look out for each other. We worry about each other. That's the way it's supposed to be, you got that?"
Phil blinked and then nodded. Even ground – he could handle that.
That's when it hit him – the memory of a conversation not so long ago on a rooftop in Vienna where he'd walked away believing that Clint finally saw himself on even ground with Phil and the rest of the world. And now it turned out that it was Phil that hadn't learned the lesson he should have – and it had taken the stubborn tenacity of his hard-headed 21 year old to hammer the very same message home.
Clint just watched him for a long moment and then nodded in return, swallowing another gulp of coffee. Then almost as if on cue, the archer's stomach growled.
"God, I'm hungry."
Phil smiled. Clint and his food. Some things would never change.
"It's three o'clock in the morning," Phil pointed out even as he stood to retrieve his shoes.
Clint smirked.
"I know a great 24-hour pastry place."
End of Chapter 3
Shout out to Kylen for suggesting I actually SHOW Phil's nightmare for once :) You can thank her for it actually appearing in the story!
You all know by now how I feel about reviews :)
Here's your preview :)
Long, flowing wavy red hair was cascading down the nearly-bare back of a slender woman in a deep green dress. Clint cocked his head slightly to the left, unable to help but enjoy the view. He heard her laugh, watched her lightly touch the man she was talking to on the arm, and then turn and start casually in their direction.
Clint froze mid-chew.
No fucking way.