"You went through your first heat without an alpha?" Clint looked aghast. Tony nodded, smiling without humor.

"Sure did. Jarvis would have made a fabulous alpha, too bad he died before he could try."

"These films are indeed misleading to the point of being pure fiction," said Thor. "I am deeply distressed at your experience, Man of Iron. Are all such omega 'heats' of this type?"

"Pretty universal," agreed Clint, "unless you have an alpha to take the edge off."

"I find myself unwilling to make any assumptions based on the content I have already seen," said Thor. "Would you explain what an alpha truly is?"

"An alpha's only an alpha because an omega's an omega," said Tony, putting up his feet.

"Real helpful, Tony," said Clint. To Thor, he said, "Alphas are no different than anyone else. That's just a name we give to the people who help us out during heat. The need for touch, the need to feel like someone cares about us, if someone's there, filling those needs, that person's our alpha."

"You speak in the first person," said Thor, frowning. "Are you, too, an omega, Hawk Eyed One?"

"Yeah," Clint nodded. "My first heat wasn't as bad as Tony's, though. I did have an alpha, and she knew what was going on."

"Hang on—were you already in the circus?" asked Tony.

"Yeah, and it's lucky I was, really," said Clint.

"Clint," called Madame Bovary. Clint unwillingly raised his head and met her eyes.

"Are you all right, dear boy? You've never asked for a day off before in your whole time here. Are you sure you don't need the hospital?"

If you have a circus act, you don't go asking for time off unless you're going to endanger someone by going on. Living off the circus without paying your keep gets you fired, thought Clint. Of course he wasn't going to endanger his chances, especially because he was so young, and Ringmaster Grott had been reluctant to believe that a mere boy could keep up, running a decent act and living—if not rough, then not smooth, either—on the go for an extended period of time. Clint had won himself a trial run with a Robin Hood-style demonstration of his ability with a bow, and he'd worked as hard as any of the adults ever since. For the last couple days, he'd been feeling off, lonely like he hadn't been since the beginning. But today…he'd known from the moment he woke up if he tried to go on, he'd shoot someone by accident if he could even find the strength to draw the string. He'd told Ringmaster Grott he wasn't feeling well, and he'd spent most of the day in his sleeping bag. Madame Bovary had clucked and brought him his meals, which he'd eaten, out of a lingering desire not to hurt her feelings. Most of his emotions, though, felt like they'd just filtered out of him along with his willpower. Madame Bovary had a point, though—Clint had gone on with a sore throat, even a mild fever, so drawing the line at this…exhaustion was not the right word, but Clint didn't have a better one, was odd for him. He didn't think it warranted a hospital visit, though. He was probably just a little burnt out. He'd be fine tomorrow. Maybe.

"I've just been so…distracted," he admitted, the words feeling heavy and hard to form, first in his brain and then in his mouth. "I feel…heavy." Madame Bovary knelt down beside him and put a hand to his forehead. She was a big woman, well, she'd have to be, she was the lion tamer and lions don't have any respect for short people. But she was all tenderness with Clint whenever he was just the slightest bit sick or overtired. She finished with his forehead, performed a cursory check of his face, pulled on his chin and glanced inside his mouth. She shot him a concerned look.

"Clint, would it be all right with you if I slept beside you tonight?"

"Madame Bovary, I'm fine, really," Clint forced out.

"It would make me more comfortable, dear, so do answer the question."

"Sure." He trusted her not to molest him in his sleep or anything weird, and if she wanted to act like the mother he didn't have, he didn't have the energy to talk her out of it.

Clint woke up with what ought to have been a sense of foreboding. If he hated the idea of taking one day of leave, what was he supposed to do with two? Ringmaster Grott might let him stay based on good behavior, but it still didn't look good. What was more noticeable than not feeling any better, though, was the fact that he couldn't bring himself to care. What should have been a near-panicky worry was just a vague throb at the back of his mind. All he wanted to do was lie in bed. Maybe go back to sleep. And…scratch. It wasn't an itch like mosquito bites, or poison ivy, it felt like one of the deeper layers of skin itched, like he had to get the top layer off first. Hardly thinking about it, he raked his nails down his triceps, and, when that only exacerbated it, reached unthinkingly for his quiver.

"Clint!" Madame Bovary was hurrying back to her sleeping bag still beside his. Clint froze with the tip of an arrow poised above his right arm. She must have woken up early and gone to get breakfast while he was still asleep.

"If you damage any of your tendons, you won't be able to hold the bow for months," she told him. Her tone implied this was important. Clint knew this should be important. His bow was his livelihood. He knew that. Why didn't he care? Madame Bovary knelt beside him, and with surprising decisiveness, plucked the arrow from his hand, tossed it gently in the direction of the quiver, and pulled Clint into her lap. He couldn't help a gasp. He hadn't even known he wanted someone to hold him, but he desperately wanted her to hold him tighter, to never let him go. Madame Bovary seemed to understand this. She adjusted her position so she had her back to the wall and wrapped her arms tightly around him.

"It's going to be all right, Clint. This won't last. You're a wonderfully talented boy and you're going to make a real life for yourself. You're the best archer I've seen in my entire life, and I've seen some good archers. There's a future for that. Maybe not a conventional one, but a future. You have people here who care about you. Ringmaster Grott will understand, I'll tell him what's going on, and you'll be fine tomorrow, and you couldn't be in a better place for it. And you'll find more of them. A boy with a heart as big as yours won't ever be lonely for long."

And he was crying, trying desperately to hide his tears in her massive bosom, because he was too old for this dammit and her large hands were stroking his back, and how did she know when Clint didn't know, exactly what he needed to hear?

"How are you doing that?" he forced out at last, and his voice didn't crack too badly. "How do you know…"

"Exactly what you need to hear?" she finished. He nodded. She didn't let go, but she didn't say anything, either, for a minute.

"Because, a long time ago, I knew a tightrope walker in exactly the same position as you. And I was frantic, trying to figure out what he needed, because he didn't have the words to tell me, not then, and I was so scared, I thought he was going to kill himself and I didn't understand why. And then it ended, as though it had never happened, and I made him relive it, made him tell me exactly what was happening inside his head, so I wouldn't have to force it out of anybody else, because it's so hard for people like you and my tightrope walker even to say what they need, when they need it."

"What are we?" he managed to ask, because it still hurt, but he was able to focus, because she was holding him, holding him together it felt like, and she was telling him that she had forced another man to tell her how to help him, even before she knew him, so she cared, she must care.

"You're an omega, Clint," she answered softly. He looked at her, for that. Half-remembered stories flashed through his mind and didn't add up to a picture.

"What?"

"This will happen to you, for the rest of your life, every five to six months. Don't listen when people tell you every month. The early days are your warning. You will be lonelier than usual, crave company and touch more than usual. The first true day is your last warning. You lose your ability to care what's happening to you, so much so that you won't want to eat or drink or call anyone to help. But you must call them, Clint. You must find someone you trust, and explain to them what happens, before then, and you find the energy to call them, no matter what it takes.

"That lasts about a day. Sometimes less, sometimes more. The second day is the bad day. If you don't have anyone, your worst thoughts will come to mind, convincing you that the worst possible future is yours, that you aren't worthy of whatever you want most. It will hurt, inside." She released Clint with one arm, just long enough to tap her temple.

"You will want to hurt yourself. You will crave touch, someone to care for you, to hold you like I am doing, to tell you over and over again that the things your mind is telling you aren't true, to focus on you and make you know you are wanted, you are loved. If you have no one to do these things for you, you will want to kill yourself."

Clint looked at her, horrified. He had no words. Madame Bovary looked immeasurably sad.

"If you don't kill yourself, that stage lasts about a day, too, sometimes less, sometimes more. And then it goes away. Until next time. If you do have someone, you call them on the first day, because the more touch, the more kindness you get, and the earlier you get it, the easier it will be.

"You are old enough to know, Clint, that if you have someone you trust, sex is one of the most helpful things you can do. But not meaningless sex. The kind of sex where your partner is worshiping you, because then it is the best kind of touch and the best kind of feeling wanted there is. Be careful with this decision, Clint. Some friends can help you this way. Some lovers cannot. Choose wisely. It is never necessary."