Clint Barton had always had excellent eyesight and could see far beyond the normal human. Occasionally, he felt the odd cold spot here or there, he'd hear warnings when no one was around, he'd see a grey specter from the corner of his eye; he felt out of place and caught between two different things, though what he had no idea. When he had to, when money was hard to come by or regular, plain old normal human food seemed disgusting, he'd eat what appealed most-be they bugs or rotten fruits and meats-and despite everything he never got sick off of them. He made sure no one ever saw him eat those types of things; he wasn't sure how to explain it.
His older brother Barney felt the cold too, but not much else; never did he feel like there was a part of him aching to get out, he never said anything about feeling like all he had to do was jump off something just the right height and then he'd be truly free and not tied to the ground. Never did he have an appetite for the gross or strange.
Clint had always felt like being on the ground was just wrong, his bones were too heavy and he couldn't get enough air in his lungs, like they wouldn't expand enough and the air sometimes seemed too thick to breathe easy.
Learning to be a master archer, acrobat, fencer, knife thrower, and so many other skills while he was under first, Duquesne's and then Chrisholm's tutelage helped. It let him climb to heights he was more comfortable with, despite the lack of safety nets or harnesses and the worry other members of the circus had claimed for him as he kept finding places higher and higher to 'nest'. Having a stage name of Hawkeye seemed damn near perfect, having it follow him into first mercenary work and then using it as his call-sign in SHEILD was comforting.
The jabs about him nesting in high places never disappeared, they just turned into whispered rumors he learned about as he skulked around in the vents of SHEILD HQ; he was a wildcard, a rogue agent they didn't know what to do with, but kept anyway because they knew he'd get out if they tried to contain him. Then they partnered him Natasha, the Black Widow, and they said he became more manageable; truth was he'd just stopped stalking the agents and being where he wasn't supposed more often because he had someone who kind of understood.
Then their jobs were being handled by Fury himself because they drove their first three handlers nuts trying to keep track of them.
Then Fury gave them to Coulson.
Phillip Coulson didn't look like much and both he and Widow figured he'd wash out in two weeks, if not days, he was so unimpressive.
But then he surprised them. He always knew where they were. He always knew their plans. The man was never surprised, no matter if they'd taken the greatest care to hide. His tone never changed; an easy going flat tone that rarely sounded like anything beyond bland amusement. It was four months before the really saw him in action.
Their mission was compromised. Widow was cornered and Hawkeye couldn't reach her; Coulson did.
His movements were smooth and he moved no more than he had too, there was a gun at his hip but a knife flashed just as deadly in his hand as the Widow's, as Hawkeye's. They took all of the enemies down and they got out of there almost completely fine despite the hiccup.
They never doubted Phillip Coulson's ability as their handler again.
Clint never did find the right time to ask why he always felt that bone deep chill around Coulson, despite their line of work, he'd disillusioned himself into thinking he had all the time in the world.
After waking from Loki's control and hearing about all of the death his body had helped create, about Phil's death, there was an empty hollow where that comforting chill had once taken up space.
Now it was a barren hunk of ice he didn't think would melt any time soon.