For all his years of training and all his experience in the field, Phil could not open a car door with his foot. Not for lack of trying. Some stubborn part of him always insisted it was possible. Perhaps the best time to test his theory was not when he was juggling two bags of groceries and trying not to break the eggs or drop the milk. Sighing, he set down the heavier bag and opened the car door with his hand like a normal person. He probably looked rather foolish flailing his foot in the dark trying to get the toe of his shoe under the flap of metal.

Lola: 1, Phil: 0

For now.

He paused in his mental assessment of the situation when something flickered in his peripheral. Training kicked in as he nestled the groceries in the backseat and closed the door soundlessly. He held his keys between his fingers just in case he needed to defend himself quickly.

A shadow moved between the cars of the grocery store, low and skittering. Based on the shape and size, Phil figured it as a kid, early teenage years. He was probably looking for a car to steal and he wasn't being particularly subtle. The shadow settled on a silver Lincoln just out of the glow of the streetlight. Phil watched as he shrugged a large bag off his shoulder and pulled a long, thin object out. It took him a second to wiggle the object in a gap in the window. Phil crept nearer, trying to look casual and not draw attention to himself.

Fortunately, the kid was too deep in concentration on his work to notice him. Or so he thought. As he drew nearer, he heard the kid humming something. Phil chuckled. He was listening to a Walkman. Phil could faintly hear the snarling guitar of Nirvana blaring from the headphones. He couldn't hear anyone coming if he wanted to. Rookie mistake.

He stood just out of sight, watching the kid at work. He had messy sandy blond hair and gangly limbs. Hands and feet were too big in proportion to the rest of him. He was growing into his body but right now he was out of proportion. He wore a brace on his right wrist and there were yellowing bruises up and down his arms. It took Phil a second to realize it, but the kid was using an arrow to try to pop open the car door lock.

Points for obscure creativity.

What's more, it worked. The kid smirked, opening the car door and digging around inside. He didn't appear to be interested in stealing the car, more like looking through the cushions for loose change. He appeared to be rewarded for his efforts when he pulled out a small box of something and a handful of green bills. He tucked the money in his back pocket and the box in a large duffle bag.

Phil was close enough now, he could probably cut the kid off if he decided to bolt. He flirted with the idea of calling the cops but by the time a patrol car got here he kid could be in the next county over. It would be better to neutralize the threat quickly and easily. Chances were the kid was just looking for kicks and would crumble the instant he got caught.

"Hey!" Phil announced his presence loudly.

The boy jumped about a half mile into the air, a curse spilling from his lips as hazel - gray eyes locked with Phil's. The boy glanced left, then right, then left again before he did something Phil did not anticipate.

He strafed left and vaulted himself over the hood of the car, snagging the black duffle bag as he went. Phil didn't have time to analyze this strategy. He took off in pursuit, matching the kid's erratic zigzag patterns. The thought occurred to him that he was not a strong distance runner. He was much better over short distances, quick bursts of energy. If he didn't engage soon, he would fall behind and the kid could easily lose him in the labyrinth of dumpsters and delivery vehicles behind the Walmart. He needed a plan. Now.

It occurred to him there was a small wooded area just to the left back side of the lot. It was likely the kid would try to lose him in the dark trees and then make his way out to the highway.

Cut him off.

Phil veered left, falling back to follow the line of the fence while the kid wore himself out navigating the back lot of the store. Sure enough, as Phil jogged in front of a large semi truck backed up to the loading dock, he could hear the kid scampering through puddles. It rained earlier in the day so the air was wet and heavy. Everything had a film of rainwater on it.

Phil poked his head out as the puddle splashing grew louder. His chest heaved from running but there was too much adrenaline coursing through his veins to care right at the moment. He reached out to grab the kid but was shocked by the harsh rush of air flowing just past his nose. He instinctively ducked.

Was that a bullet which just grazed his nose? It felt like a near miss. It wouldn't be his first time dodging a bullet with his name on it. But there was no sound of a gunshot. As he stood, a thin line of filament ran at eye level, glinting in the low light.

Kid tried to clothesline him.

It was a clever idea.

If it worked.

"Heard you running!" taunted the kid, "You breathe heavy old man!"

Old man?

Well, that was just plain uncalled for! The games were over. Time to show his hand.

He whipped out his SHIELD badge from his inside pocket, holding it up around the box before stepping out.

"Federal agent, kid," he said, stepping out into the open, "How about we have a quick talk about what you were doing back at that car and maybe we can ignore the fact that you fired on a law enforcement officer."

It was the first time he really got a good look at the kid in proper lighting. He looked even younger than Phil originally thought as his shoulders slumped and an expression torn between fear and exasperation settled onto his face. But the oddest thing about him was the bow in his hand, perfectly nocked with a fresh arrow.

Well you don't see that every day. Fair to say, that was the last thing he expected.

"Aw, hell," said the blond-haired boy, lowering his bow. "I'm..."

"Save it," ordered Phil, "Let's start by putting back what you stole. Maybe the owner hasn't noticed his personal items are gone yet."

The kid begrudgingly returned the cash and the box, which turned out held loose change, probably for the parking meters. The kid ran the risk of getting arrested for a whole twelve dollars and fifty cents. He didn't even try to take the car, which was much more valuable. Phil sat him down in Lola for his interrogation.

"Is there anything else you stole in the bag?"

"No, sir."

"Are you lying?"

"No, sir," he repeated, his voice quieter than before. Phil wondered if that was all the response he could eke out of the kid.

"What's your name?"

No response.

Phil waited.

Silence.

"Look," sighed Phil, feeling defeat creep in, "I don't want to call the cops on you. I have to get home and sitting around in the station filing a report does not sound like a good evening."

He was fibbing, of course. Stealing was wrong and it should not go without consequences. If the kid hadn't impressed him with the arrow thing, the police would already be here. He had a hunch. People don't steal a lousy twelve and a half bucks for no reason. There was much more at play here.

Nick wouldn't approve of the gears turning in his head, but the boy had some cleverness and talent. He also had just enough of a nose for trouble that he could be a fine agent. He needed training, discipline, and direction. He also needed to learn to keep his mouth shut and not get cocky. But that was exactly what academy was for. It was all he could do to hold back and investigate before making a job offer. Phil pulled out his big block of a cell phone and tossed it over to the kid sulking in the back seat of the car.

"Call someone to pick you up," he ordered. He could just run the kid home but he was curious who he would call. Home life and background were the sort of things he needed to know before attempting to recruit.

"Is this my one phone call or something?" he sassed.

"Just get someone here to pick you up. The sooner the better."

The kid sullenly took the phone and punched a number into the glowing buttons. The phone nearly rang out but was caught on the last ring.

"Hey, Barney, I'm…"

The kid rolled his eyes.

"I'm not at the police station."

"Yet" was the implicit ending to that sentence.

"I'm at the Walmart and I need you to come and pick me up." Phil shot him a glare, eyes boring into the kid. He frowned and the next words were almost a whisper. "I got caught stealing from a car by a… I dunno… FBI agent or something."

The kid held the phone a good nine inches away from his ear as a loud rush of noise emitted from the speaker, raspy through the speaker. The kid's face twisted into a pained expression: eyes squeezed shut and mouth turned down into an exaggerated wince. When the noise finally stopped on the other end of the line, he tentatively returned the phone to his ear.

"I'm not in trouble, Barn, I just need to… I need to get home now," he paused, "Yeah, five minutes is fine. Yeah, I know we'll talk. I know. I know we will talk."

He hung up the phone and handed it back to Phil. A pout settled across his face as he slumped back onto the leather seats. He kept his grubby Converse sneakers outside the car so Phil was relieved he wouldn't have to clean the muck off of the interiors. Not that it was a big deal, he had been intending to get Lola cleaned for some time.

"So, where are you from?"

Silence.

"Anywhere around here?"

Silence.

"I ask because you strike me as an out-of-towner."

Silence.

Phil gave up. It wasn't terribly important he knew the kid's life story just yet. The kid also probably bought into the "code of the streets." You don't snitch to law enforcement and nobody gets hurt. If that was the case, getting him to open up was going to be tricky. But, like shucking an oyster, everyone had some point where they began to open up.

A dumpy old ivory pickup with plenty of rust on the bumpers rattled into the parking lot. The tires were extremely low and the engine sounded like a belt in the engine was coughing out its last breaths. A young man stepped out of the cab. Phil guessed he was eighteen to twenty. He was blond, but a darker, dirtier blond than the kid, and a lot broader in the chest and shoulders. But their faces were similar, family resemblance ran strong.

"Hi," said the older boy, "Are you the guy who caught my brother stealing?"

"Depends," Phil turned to where the kid was sitting in the back seat of the car, "Is that him?"

The young man's face sank upon seeing the skinny kid. "Yeah, that's him."

"And you are?"

"I'm Barney. His older brother."

"Phil," he introduced, offering a hand to shake. The young man took it.

"Phil. Look, I'm sorry about all this," began Barney, "I honestly wouldn't have blamed you for calling the cops on him."

Phil cut him off, "Don't worry. I have to be getting home and this is all just easier."

"May I have a quick moment to speak with him? In private?"

"Of course," nodded Phil, "I have a phone call I need to make anyway."

Barney walked over to the car. Phil punched buttons in on his phone and pretended to be making a call as he stepped away. Meanwhile, his phone tapped into a recording system on the car so he could listen in on the conversation between the brothers.

"Again, Clint? Really?"

"Shut up, Barney," grumbled the boy. Phil now knew his name was Clint.

"This is the fourth time I've had to bail your sorry ass out. We can't keep doing this."

"I said, drop it," Clint retorted, his voice weaker than before.

"What would Mom say?"

Silence.

"Look, you gotta stop. You are better than this. You are capable of much more than this. And you know it. That's what's sad." The boy groaned and there was a shuffle of the seats as he slumped down lower. Barney continued, "Mom believed that. I believe that."

"Well, Mom ain't here. Mom hasn't been here for a while. So I don't see why her opinion matters any."

"You don't really think that," insisted Barney, but his voice was quieter than before, less sure. Clint didn't respond, a sullen pout threatening to overtake his lips. Finally the older boy sighed, "C'mon. Let's get you back. Jaques is gonna be pissed at the both of us."

"Yeah, yeah," Clint's shoulders slumped. He wiped his dirty hands on his tee and adjusted the brace on his arm.

Phil turned away and pretended to be finishing up a call when he saw the two walk back over to him.

"Look, again, I'm sorry about my brother," said Barney, "He's… he's sort of fallen in with a bad crowd and making some dumb choices. I'm gonna be working with him, though. I promise it won't happen again."

Phil nodded. He heard this sort of thing before with parents or guardians of various recruits. You could practically compose a song around the lyrics: please don't mind my son, they've made some mistakes, running with a bad group of kids, I don't understand how this could happen, we're a good family and gave them nothing but the best, again we apologize for our son's criminal record. The melody played like a broken record.

"Just keep an eye on him," said Phil, trying not to betray his professional interest in the kid just yet. At the same time, he didn't want to be too hard on him. "I'm sure it will be fine."

Barney nodded, "I know it's not much of a thank you for your trouble but here are a couple of free tickets to the show we're putting on this weekend."

Phil thanked him and watched the older brother drag Clint out by the scruff of his neck out to their truck. The agent stood with pen and paper waiting so he could jot down the license plate number on their car. He had a bit of research to do.

The car was registered to Barney Barton. A few quick searches called up a criminal record for Clinton Barton. Phil read through the slew of petty crimes: shoplifting, breaking and entering, and theft. Nothing violent, thank God. That bow and arrow must have been a one-time thing. All his discipline went through the juvenile system. The earliest of these occurred when he was eleven, five years ago.

He seemed more content to take what he could and run rather than risk putting himself in danger for a few dollars more. Judging on the state of their truck, he couldn't help but wonder if poverty may be a contributing factor. If they worked for the circus, they couldn't be all that wealthy.

He ran a search for the circus tickets Barney gave him. Touring group, based out of some small town outside of Des Moines. They did feature a trick arrow performance but the feature photo didn't look anything like the kid. Maybe he was archer-in-training? He was good enough to lead the act if that little trick in the parking lot was any indication. He closed his laptop to see Evelyn slouched across the couch, writing dutifully in her diary.

"Evelyn, how do you feel about going to the circus?"

"Uh," she looked, tucking the notebook under the couch pillow so Phil couldn't see the pages clearly. "It could be fun. Why do you ask?"

"Long story short, I got some tickets for tomorrow night. The circus doesn't come around often so it you want to go, you have a rare chance."

"Sure," she shrugged one shoulder, "so, what's the long story? Something with work? Recruiting the acrobats?"

"Nothing like that," he shrugged as he retreated into the kitchen to pull out leftovers for dinner. "You know we could always do something not work related. I mean, it wouldn't be as much fun but it is always an option."

No it wasn't.

He was lying.

To be fair, that was not his intention going in. He promised himself he was going to go and just observe and enjoy the show with his daughter. If he could do a bit of data gathering, all the better. He saw the kid as they walked in from the parking lot. He was leaned up against an old camper with a flirty smile directed at a circus girl dressed mostly in sequins and feathers.

Oh, to be sixteen again.

Phil didn't draw attention to himself. Instead, he ushered Evelyn into the tent, keeping his head low. He bought her cotton candy, pinching a few tufts of pink fluff off for himself. He couldn't eat too much or he became giddy. Evelyn's teenage metabolism consumed everything quickly and with no ill effect. Phil had to shake his head every time. Eventually there would come a day when that youthful metabolism faltered and the inevitable panic of aging would set in.

But not too soon.

The first couple of acts were pretty impressive acrobatics and trapeze performances. The limber athletes flew through the air. It was all quite daring and remarkable. The elephants started to parade out when Phil felt the call of nature and excused himself to find a restroom. A friendly usher pointed him toward the restroom under the bleachers.

After finishing nature's business, Phil tried to navigate his way back through the wooden scaffolding under the bleachers. Somewhere high above, a scratching noise caught his attention. He looked up. Clinging to the scaffolding was the blond haired boy, Clint, reaching up between the seats. His legs wrapped around the posts, holding him up. His hands were busy, reaching through the gap in the bleachers and relieving distracted persons of their wallets.

Phil chuckled to himself and then spoke up, "You know, we keep meeting under the most peculiar circumstances."

The boy froze, closing his eyes and sighing darkly. Busted.

"You following me, old man?"

"Okay, enough with the 'old man' stuff," insisted Phil, "I'm forty-two, not dead."

"Whatever!"

Silence descended between them. The air only punctuated by the gasps and applause of the audience above them. Phil waited to see what the kid was going to do and when it became apparent that he was satisfied to wait it out until Phil went away, he spoke up.

"You going to put those back or do I have to do something about that?"

"What are you going to do?" he scoffed.

"I could go up there and make you."

The kid puffed out his chest in confidence, "I would love to see you try."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," replied the kid, daring Phil to go on.

Phil walked around the scaffolding. It was made of a dark hardwood, maybe a bit worn from age but obviously sturdy enough to hold the entire audience. The metal brackets holding the crossbeams seemed in good condition. This would be easy, like running the obstacle course back in training camp. He grasped the lowest beam and pulled himself up. From there it was a simple matter of building up momentum and keeping an eye on where your feet landed. He smirked as he drew up level with the blond boy. His wide eyes tried to process the fact that a middle-aged man scaled the beams just as easily as he could. Phil smirked.

"So, are you going to put those back or not?"

Begrudgingly, he slipped the wallets back into their proper pockets and allowed himself to be summoned back down to ground level. A grumpy pout was becoming permanently emblazoned on his face, eyebrows drawing in at the unfairness of it all.

"You have a name, kid?"

The boy continued to stare down at his old shoes.

"Look, I don't want to keep calling you 'kid.' You aren't a kid," Phil noticed the boy perk up a bit at that. "So give me something to call you."

He continued to stare down the dirt for a second before sighing, "Clint. Clint Barton."

Phil already knew this but he also wanted Clint to have a sense of agency in his life. If Phil played his cards right, Clint was about to make a big decision. He needed to feel in control now more than ever. Perhaps, he mused, this was the first time in a while Clint had any sort of control over his life. But that was a discussion for a later time.

"Look, you are reaching the end of your options," said Phil as he folded his arms together, "You are reaching the end of the time when you'll be tried as a juvenile. Soon you will be tried as an adult and they won't be quite as nice to you. We're talking real jail time here."

The boy squirmed a bit, looking down at his hands for a moment before looking back up, the thin mask of bravado cracking under strain, "Are you trying to scare me?"

"Yes. I am trying to scare you but more importantly, I am telling the truth," said Phil, smiling warmly, "And I want to give you an opportunity."

"School?" Clint's nose wrinkled a bit.

"Not exactly," said Phil, beginning to feel as though he was onto something, "It is… specialized training."

"Military?" He perked up a bit at the idea, although it could be the bravado coming back more than anything else. Although, anything was progress at this point.

"I represent an organization called SHIELD. We are an organization that safeguards against global threats."

"Like… terrorists and stuff?"

"Yes. Different types of terrorism…"

"So, you are like CIA?"

"We are more top secret than CIA," smiled Phil, "We can't afford to be well known. If you join, and only if you want to, you will become a part of something bigger. You will do something with a deeper purpose. It's a brand new life."

Clint looked stunned, surprised. Part of him seemed to be surprised that this conversation was going on at all. Silence hung in the air like fog on a spring morning. Clint finally spoke up, "Why do you want me?"

"You are pretty damn good with a bow," smiled Phil, "Better than anyone we've seen up to this point. That's a skill we want on our side."

"Really," the boy scratched his fluffy hair, "You want a guy who deals with medieval weapons on your side?"

"You're also very clever about using that bow. You have some strategy under your belt."

"Well… yeah," admitted Clint, "Sure."

"We can also train you in other arenas: medicine, flight training, infiltration, languages, technology, engineering… whatever you want. Your life from this point forward is whatever you want it to be."

The boy sat in silence for a few long moments. Pressure wasn't good for getting recruits and Phil was more than willing to wait as long as it took for the boy to make up his mind. It had taken him nearly a week to come to his decision.

"What about the circus?"

"What about it?"

Clint blinked and started again, "Won't they miss me?"

"What do you think?" shrugged Phil, "Do you want to stay? Do you think your life will be any better than it is now?"

The boy was staring at his hands, "Not really. You know, it's fun but… You said I can learn to fly a plane?"

"Plane, helicopter, supersonic jet," smiled Phil, "Whatever you want. We need people with all kinds of skills, Clint, and if you are willing to offer something, we are willing to take it."

"Then… I guess… I'll do it."

"Good," smiled Phil as he stood, dusting straw off his pants, "Do you have your things nearby?"

"At my trailer."

"Let's go and get your things. We will begin your training first thing tomorrow."

"Right away?" the boy stood and followed him from the room, "Why?"

Phil opened the door into the outside world, "Why not? The world waits for nobody. We need people to respond right away."

"Makes sense," he rubbed his eyes tiredly and hurried off down the hall after Phil, "What would have happened if I said no?"

"We would let you go. I wouldn't hold you against your will," said Phil with a smile as he led Clint to his future.

"Really?"

"Sure. Although," Phil smirked, "We typically don't offer a spot unless we are fairly confident that our recruit will say yes."

"What about my brother?"

"What about him?"

"Will I see him again?"

Phil smiled fondly, "Going into SHIELD is not a death sentence. Many agents have families and keep in contact with them. If you want to talk to your brother and make sure he is okay with-"

"No," Clint interrupted, "I mean, I will, but I think he will be okay with things."

Phil considered him carefully for a long moment as the kid stood and brushed a fine layer of dust off of his shins. There was more to that story but he wasn't sure if he should press just yet. "If you're sure. We're not going to keep you from speaking with-"

"I'm sure," he looked up, smiled but there was no mirth in his eyes, "I'll explain things. He'll get it."

A few phone calls later and Phil was helping Clint load all of his worldly possessions into a SHIELD station wagon Maria drove over from HQ.

He stood back and watched as Clint and Barney spoke to each other. He couldn't hear the words but the older boy ruffled his brother's hair and then pulled him into a smothering hug. Clint struggled for a second and then allowed himself to be embraced. He hurriedly fixed his hair and jogged back over to Phil.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Clint said, "He's proud of me and blah blah blah… can we go now?"

"Grab your quiver and get in the van. I'll be there in a second. Need to discuss something with Agent Hill."

"Fine."

"Don't steal anything," Phil called after him as Clint scrambled off, "I'll know."

"You don't think I learned the first two times?"

"Nope." Phil held back a laugh as he walked over to Maria. She shook her head at him as he drew near. Phil just shrugged.

"You really do know how to pick 'em, don't you?" Noted Maria with a slight air of disapproval wafting in the evening air.

"If the kid doesn't have some kind of intervention, his best prospects for the future were jail or working as a carnie. Can you blame me for wanting to help and not sitting around while his talent go to waste?"

"First Evelyn, now this?"

"Speaking of Evelyn," Phil pulled the keys to Lola from his pocket, "can you drive her home when she is done here? I'll get Clint settled into a dorm and be right home. The nitty-gritty can wait to tomorrow, I think."

"She's not going to be happy with you," Maris noted. She accepted the keys anyway. She was not about to pass up a chance to drive Lola, the most perfect car ever to exist.

"I know," Phil frowned, "I feel awful about it. I'll talk to her, try to make it up somehow."

"You better be prepared to give her a puppy to make up for this," threatened Maria as she took her leave and went into the tent to find the girl.

It wasn't difficult. She was sitting alone in the upper deck. An abandoned cotton candy bag rested at her feet. Her face sank when Maria scrunched in next to her.

"Is Dad off recruiting?"

"Yup," Maria nodded, shrugging one shoulder.

"He said he wasn't." She rested her head on Maria's shoulder. "Can you stay with me and finish watching the show?"

"Sure thing," Maria said, sitting on the bench next to her and throwing an arm over her shoulder. She kept her head resting on Maria's shoulder, feeling the soft wool sweater brush against her cheek, watching the acts parade through.

The next day, Phil took Evelyn into work. She spent the majority of summer break at the SHIELD field office. Not only could she make use of the workout gear in the gym and hide away in the impressive library, it was time spent with her dad before she had to leave for Xavier's School for Special Youngsters. The date of her departure drew near, far faster than any of them anticipated. But rather than spending time together, Phil had to spent time with the new recruit.

And first impressions did not serve him well.

"That is a sweet little bit of ass right there. Are all the gals in SHIELD like that?" asked the boy in an undertone that was about as subtle as a tire iron to the kneecaps. Maria and Phil exchanged a glance before directing a disapproving stare at him.

"Maybe," said Phil indignantly turning to look him in the eyes, "But that's my daughter."

Clint paled to sheet white. His mouth flopped open and closed like a fish but nothing came out. Words escaped him but Phil wasn't taking any excuses. Evelyn heard him clearly. Determination burned in her pits of her eyes as she strode across the room to glare at him. Clint continued to flap his lips, looking for something to say right up to the moment when her fist slammed against his nose with a crack. He dropped like a rock, curling into a ball on the floor. Phil's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline before he turned to look back over at his daughter who stared him directly in the eye. There was a smear of blood on her knuckles.

"Sorry."

"Well," reasoned Phil, "Not entirely."

Half of him was proud that she stood up for herself, the other half was disappointed he didn't get a crack at Clint for that remark. It wasn't her fault, despite being a thirteen year old girl, her body had developed rapidly over the last few months, making her appear a bit older than she was. She walked away, seething with steam around her ears, disappearing into a nearby hallway to do her school reading in peace. Clint sat up after a moment, blood seeping down his face to his chin.

"Aw, shit… I think she broke my nose…"

Phil looked down at where the sixteen year old was still trying to regain his footing after having the daylights knocked out of him. "If you apologize, she might fix it for you."

"Fix it? What?"

"It's either that or explain to the infirmary how you got beat up by a little girl."

"How would she fix it? I need a doctor, not a cutie."

"She's both."

"What?" Clint felt dumbstruck for the second time in about as many minutes as he tried to staunch the blood flow using his t-shirt. A large patch of maroon stained the purple fabric. Now it was a matter of which course of action did less to hurt what little dignity he had left.

Eventually, he just began walking so as to get out of the way of Phil and the stern fatherly glare safeguarding his daughter's virtue. Not that the girl particularly needed it. She could defend herself just fine. Entering the hallway Clint saw the redhead. She was reading, the book propped up against her knees. With her free hands, she braided her hair. He tentatively stepped toward her, like a man in the middle of a minefield. "Your... your dad says you can fix my nose."

She looked up from her book darkly, "Maybe."

He closed his eyes, tears threatening to leak from the sides from the crackling pain across his face, "Can you fix my nose?"

She finished the braid and looked back down at her book, "No."

"No?"

"I didn't hear the magic word."

Clint sighed, "Please?"

"Not gonna cut it."

He tried to sigh in exasperation but all that caused was a cascade of blood to flow down his nose and onto his upper lip, "What else can I do for you so you will fix my nose? Please?"

She closed her book with a snap and looked up with a sharp edge to her eyes, "Get on your knees."

"Oh, come on!"

"You took a shot at my dignity," snapped Evelyn, "You need a shot at yours. Quid pro quo."

"What does that even mean?"

She rolled her eyes and returned to her book. The pain was getting to him, corkscrewing right into the middle of his head. With a deep sigh, he dropped down to one knee and his head swam, vision fading in and out. There was enough blood seeping from his nose that he wobbled, about to pass out. He was looking at the ground, barely enough dignity or energy left to look at her.

"Will you please fix my nose? It really hurts now. I'm sorry for being mean."

"Alright," said Evelyn, "Come on up here. I'll fix it."

He partly crawled into the chair next to her, avoiding her eyes even as she grabbed his face to get a good look at his nose. He looked every bit the awkward teenage boy who just had his ass handed to him in the most humiliating way possible, right down to the watery red eyes.

"That was quite a hit," he said weakly, trying to lighten the mood, "Not bad for a girl."

"Don't talk," ordered Evelyn as she grabbed the nose firmly about the base, "I should warn you, this will probably hurt."

"What do you mean it will- OW! F-fuck!"

The broken portion of the nose snapped back into place quickly and suddenly with nothing to warn him but a sickly sucking crack. Clint whimpered pitifully as pain shot across his face for a second and then he saw a surge of white light. His sinuses filled with something warm.

"Ow," he whined miserably, "I suppose I deserved that…"

"Yeah, you did," grumbled Evelyn as she fiddled around with the nose some more. It felt hot and Clint wasn't sure if it was blood or snot. Like a light switch, her tone changed into something more conversational, "What brought you to SHIELD? What's your... superpower?"

"A-archery," he whimpered, "You?"

"Family," she replied bluntly, digging in her purse for something, "Take a look at your nose now."

She handed him a small compact mirror and he looked, expecting to see his nose bent completely out of shape. Instead he took a deep breath through fully healed, pain-free nasal passages. His sinuses seemed fuller than before but he could accept that. The reflection in the tiny mirror showed a mended, regular, curvy little nose.

"It's… healed," he breathed in deeply.

"Clean up," ordered Evelyn scrunching her nose, "You smell like blood."

He ran off to the bathroom, passing Phil and Maria who observed the whole thing.

"You should've not made it hurt." he said leaning against the frame of the door, addressing the way she healed his nose.

"Bone was out of place, if I healed it without moving it he would've look like Owen Wilson."

Maria laughed, a proud look on her face. Phil clearly amused grinned, "Next time you need to set the cartilage or bone try to not make it hurt. Even if they deserve it."

She smiled, "Yes Papa."

Phil turned to walk away and fill out Clint's paperwork. Maria lingered for a second before going back to work. She knew she shouldn't, but as she passed Evelyn, she whispered, "Good job."

Clint walked out of the bathroom a few minutes later. His t-shirt was damp from where he unsuccessfully tried to clean the blood off. His eyes were red but the mess on his face cleaned up nice. They sat side by side for a moment. Evelyn pretended to be engrossed in her book and far too busy to speak with him. But it didn't stop Clint from missing the point entirely.

"How do you do that?"

"I don't know," said Evelyn curtly

"Oh?"

She sighed, setting her book aside, "I am going away to find out."

"Where are you going?"

She looked warily at him, "Away."

"SHIELD Academy? It's cool. I'm going to be there too."

"No, uh," she muttered, looking down at the ground, "Don't… don't judge me. But… I'm going to Xavier's School."

He looked at her with a smile, "Are you a mutant?"

"I don't know. But I'm going to find out."

They sat for a long moment, looking at their shoes as the world continued around them. Clint finally looked up, "You know, it's okay if you are."

"Yeah."

"Look, I'm from a circus," he elaborated, "It doesn't matter to me what you are. I live with bearded ladies and contortionists. Mutants. Mutants are cool."

She smiled, "You don't have to justify yourself."

"I know. It's just a tough life. You shouldn't feel-"

"I get it. Thanks."

They continued to stare at anything but each other for a long moment. Clint still smelled strongly of blood. He poked at the drying spot to judge the severity of the stain. He glanced back over at Evelyn, who seemed very fascinated with her fingernails.

"Can we be friends?" he tentatively asked.

"Don't push it," she ordered, but she was smiling a teeny tiny bit. Clint took it as a 'yes.'