Chapter Text
There were countless reasons it could happen and Clint had googled every last one.
His volite childhood, his job, the high stakes and hell, everything. Clint tried all the fixes, short of telling anyone about it. He was so careful, set reminders when he could, purposely dehydrating himself whenever he could without jeopardizing his efficiency.
It was supposed to improve, he was supposed to get better. For the first time in his life he was following the guidelines and every rule to a point. But things weren’t improving. In fact they were getting worse.
It wasn’t so bad at the Barracks, he had more privacy and even on missions when he was a nest he had time to recover, to hide the evidence or at the very least an excuse should he get caught. But now he was frozen, mouth hanging open slightly as his brain refused to kick into gear and come up with any reason he and Phil were covered in piss.
“Clint?” Phil said urgently once more, the agent looked ruffled and focused and perhaps a bit agitated. “Are you alright?”
He reached toward him and Clint had a flashback to massive hands knocking against his face when he was little. Back then his age was probably an excuse but the foster mother wasn’t one for patience and she didn’t care about his excuses. There was no clout to the side to the ear, just the back of Phil’s hand resting on his burning cheeks, then forehead and then his neck.
Clint exhaled raggedly, the urine starting cool against his skin. It was uncomfortable and he needed to wash it off but God, he’d gotten it on Phil and in the next room was the rest of the team and they would see… They could probably smell it. “You don’t have a fever,” Phil said softly, “It’s alright Barton. Get up.”
It was fucking freezing because it was Detroit in January and everything was ice and slush and snow and it sucked. So they were bedding down in doubles in the safe house, waiting for the weather to cooperate. Clint was with his handler because it made the most sense.
He heard the order, knew what he needed to do, but his entire body was still stuck. “Clint.” Phil got up and the archer could only stare at the darkened splotch on the agent’s shirt and pants. He wanted to puke and maybe just combust on the spot. “It’s alright Clint, it happens to everyone at some point.”
Sure, if you’re a kid or a senior citizen. Clint thought feeling a bit dazed. He blinked down at himself. There was no washer here, no bagging of items to push down a laundry shoot and forget about. “Agent Barton, I need your status.”
“Embarrassed sir.” He managed to choke out. That was it, what was needed to snap him into gear. He shook his head a bit: damage control. “Fuck, shit, I’m sorry Coulson I uh… Fuck!”
“It’s okay,” Phil said. “You go get cleaned up and I’ll see what I can do about this, okay?”
Clint’s vision was blurry as he stood. His pants clung to him, shame plastering to his skin. He scrubbed a hand over his face because he knew if he cried then it would be even worse. That his handler would know how pathetic he really was. “I’m sorry Sir.” He uttered in defeat.
“Just go get cleaned up.” Phil was frowning down at the wet mats.
Clint fought back more tears as he grabbed his bag and as quietly as he could. He tiptoed around the sleeping bodies, lying close for warmth. It was cold in here, the rapidly cooling piss felt itchy and irritating. He knew Phil must have woken up quickly — god, what if he included it on the mission report?
He locked the safehouse bathroom door and yanked off his pants. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He almost wished that old witch was there to smack him around. He should be punished for this weakness in some way. A tear ran down his cheek as he turned on faucet. He wanted a shower but the water heater was busted and the sound of it would wake up everyone. He ran a rag under the cold water and carefully wiped away the traces of piss from his skin.
He had been so careful… What would he tell Phil? That he wasn’t feeling well or that it was a one-time thing. Phil has said it happened to everyone on occasion. Clint could chuckle and pretend it was his one time. He lingered as long as he could before got into dry clothing and looked miserably at his reflection. You fucking moron.
He would grovel if he had to. Coulson was fair, the best handler he had so maybe he wouldn’t hang him out to dry over this. The irony of the phrase did not escape him as he shuffled soberly to the room they were sharing. The smell of piss hung there, potent and still sharply fresh. They were a splotch darkness on the unfinished rough grain flooring and a new bed mats set up on the other side of the room. It would be colder but dry. Phil had a low lamp on, re-dressed in what appeared to be the same outfit but dry. Clint knew better: Phil was a man who knew the value of several sets of everything.
Clint stood there dejectedly, wringing his hands together anxiously. “I’m sorry.” He said again quietly. “I don’t know what happened.”
Phil looked up from the phone and smiled wearily. “It happens. Let’s see if we can get some sleep before we go back into the field.”
Clint nodded and shuffled over to the mat. Still side by side — it was fucking cold! — his chest tightened in fear. “Clint?” Phil was lying down. “What’s wrong?”
“I just…”
“Did you go before you came back in here?” Phil asked callously and Clint wanted to cry. No, he hadn’t even remembered too he was so distraught by all this, “I’m sorry you’re so upset by this Clint. I know it must be unpleasant to be in your situation but I assure you, no one else needs to know it happened.”
Clint thanked his lucky stars that Clint was such a good handler. “Thank you,” he breathed. “It won’t happen again, I swear.”
“It better not.” Phil’s voice was teasingly. “I’m freezing here Barton. A little help?”
It was anxiety inducing to lie beside a man he had just pissed on but it was made worse by the fact he really liked Phil and he thought, or was beginning to think, maybe Coulson felt the same way. Now however he wouldn’t even be shocked if he signed him over to another handler. He flinched instinctively as a hand ran over his arm, fighting the urge to kick Phil away as a threat. It was comforting and he wanted to melt against him but instead he whispered an apology just as lame as the first one. “I’m so sorry Phil… I don’t understand why.”
“Hush and get some sleep, Barton. We’re out in the field and you need to be ready.” Phil carded his fingers through his hair, blunt manicured nails barely scraping against his scalp. It felt...amazing and he shivered a bit, sliding closer for warmth and also hoping Phil would do it again. He did and continued to do so until the agent finally stopped off to sleep.
[ oOoOo ]
It was easy to lose himself in the mission. Sniping was a full-focus job, even on the roof of a car garage with full elemental exposure.
It was easy until the seventh hour stretched on and the need came on, sudden and sharp. Clint’s breath caught as his bladder demanded release that fucking second and in his comm receiver Phil asked if he was okay. “Fine, just — adjusting my scope.”
Clint was a great liar, you had to be if you wanted to be a good agent. But Phil was a good handler, and he knew when Clint lied to him. He was back in the safehouse, eyes on a monitor set up watching the same angle Clint himself had. The streets were finally getting plowed down and people were slowly creeping out from the woodworks. A bus slowly made its way down the street. He heard Clint’s sharp grunt and immediately grew concerned. The cam was on Clint’s jacket so whenever he moved the image would shift a bit. He was moving now which was highly unusual.
“Clint.” This was their chance and whatever was hindering the agent needed to be dealt with immediately. “What’s your status?”
“Fine, Phil. Just trying to get a better angle.” Clint stilled immediately and there was a wounded edge to his voice, like Phil’s line of questioning had hurt or defeated him.
Phil presses his lips together but stayed well out of it. Four hours later the shot was made and Phil already knew it was confirmed. “I’m heading out to pick you up.” Phil informed Clint, switching off the monitor after he contacted the clean up crew.
“Don’t.” Clint said, far too quickly. “I mean — I’m feeling a little stiff so I could use the walk to warm up.”
Phil checked the temperature. 30 degrees with a twelve mile wind chill dropped it down far lower than he was comfortable Clint walking in. “Remain in position, Agent.” He said instead. “That’s an order.”
He had left the window in the safehouse room propped open a sliver because the smell of old stale pee still hung around the room. The mark was fading as it slowly dried out but it unpleasant. Phil has been doing his best to ignore it but between Clint’s strange behavior lately, he wondered what more could be going on.
An injury, most likely — Clint would avoid medical until Phil ordered him there. But it didn’t stop the way Clint had winced last night from picking at his brain, begging for an answer. The team was starting to park up, nodding respectively as he passed by.
The rental car smelled of old fast food and a cheap ‘new car’ smell but the heat worked well. He made sure it was well warmed by the time he pulled to stop. Barton was in civvies, a bag with his disassembled rifle slung across his chest. He looked agitated and took his time approaching the car door. He stood outside it, eyes flicking around the purposely empty streets. Phil rolled down the window, not at all appreciating the cold air. “Barton, what’s wrong?”
“I, uh,” Clint cleated his throat thickly and looked away from him. “I really oughta walk Sir. Please.”
Phil grappled with it a moment before he realized why the back was slung in front of him. “Oh Clint.” He regretted saying it the second it came out, breathy and a bit annoyed but also confused.
The agent flushed deeper, his lips looking a bit blue and also wobbly. “I’m sorry.”
“Get in the car,” Phil ordered. “It’s a rental.”
Clint flinched and got into the cab and Phil was immediately assaulted with the smell of piss once more. Clint kept the bag over his lap and looked stubbornly out the window. “What’s going on, Barton?” Phil finally asked, driving past the safehouse. Clint gaped at it and the fidgeted. “That’s an order, Agent.”
“It was an accident.”
“You didn’t request to relieve yourself.” Phil shot back.
Sometimes situations like this arose for snipers but they were able to hold it longer for eighteen hours per Shield standards. He wasn’t anger per say, he just needed to understand. “I didn’t… It was too late to.” Clint mumbled. “I’m sorry sir. It’s… It doesn’t happen often.”
Phil took the next turn, buying time while he tried to come up with a response to that promise. The same one made last night when he had gotten him wet, which was unpleasant in its own regard. But Clint’s eyes looked a little to wet and the ‘it doesn’t happen often’ was rushed enough that Phil suspected it was a lie.
Protocol was clear: any medical issues had to be reported immediately and until the source was found the agent was off duty. Coulson followed rules — hell, he’d written half of them. “Your later ck of honesty makes me less willing to work with you on this.” Phil traded in his sympathy for frankness wondering if he could gain more of a response.
Clint exhaled, a muffled sob. “I’m sorry.” He said again, earnestly. “I just… I really don’t know what happened.”
“But it’s happened before.” Phil wanted to soothe him but right now it felt inappropriate. He was trying to discipline and mixing up reward and a scoldings wouldn’t help.
“Yes,” Clint’s voice was small.
“And you’ve neglected to tell anyone.” Clint was back to fidgeting and Phil knew why. “I understand you’re embarrassed Barton but there could be something seriously wrong with your bladder.”
Clint cringed and Phil’s jaw slacked in a slight ‘oh’. “So it’s not…” Clint folded into himself and Phil fixed his eyes, understandably mortified for the man beside him. “How long?”
“Not a lot,” Clint said quickly. “I mean, the other thing doesn’t happen a lot. It just…”
Clint was going to hyperventilate if Phil didn’t soothe him but the hand resting on his arm felt nice, even though Clint was deeply ashamed, head bent forward. “It’ll be okay,” Phil assured him and despite everything, Clint felt a bit better though still wet and cold and mortified.
[ oOoOo ]
In retrospect the fact that Clint Barton had never been Classified was a huge issue.
When Phil recruited him, it was easy to look beyond the oddities as he was a young man who grew up in a circus turned criminal. He was undeniably talented and an asset — or, failing recruitment, an active threat that Coulson would have had to take care of. But, thankfully, the young man made the life change and proved himself to be the best sniper of the century.
But he had his share of issues. It seemed weekly (daily in the case of Rodriguez’s time handling codename: Hawkeye) that incident reports appeared. Agent Barton was late, Agent Barton is uncooperative, Agent Barton has not been regulation compliant. Tacking on the accidents while in the field certainly raised red flags Phil couldn’t ignore.
Not long after their return to base, Phil making the executive decision not to disclose what had happened until he found the best way to proceed, Coulson received an IM from Nick himself.
DIRECTOR FURY: Agent Barton is becoming a pain in my ass
Phil sat back and rubbed his forehead wearily. He opened his email, well aware of what awaited him, and yes, Davidson was requesting an immediate asset transfer because Barton had stormed out of a lecture on why he needed to follow his set training schedule. Some agents didn’t adjust to authority well; it was a hindrance but not a death sentence. Hill was a shining example: a sub with an attitude working below a Dom that was not hers but she had to listen to. She had been a true nightmare when he was a new recruit and now she was as invaluable as ever.
For the first time Phil wondered about Barton’s classification. It was one of those things that were either very obvious or very subtle. Typically this was HRs area of expertise but seeing as Phil needed to find a new handler he thought finding someone with a similar class would work. So far he’s been partnered up with three Doms, two subs, and four Neutrals. None of which had worked out.
Phil waited for the files to load and reached for his mug of tea — then frowned.
“What the hell?”
Classifications were kept between the criminal record and above aliases in the database. But all he had there was grayed out box that read: INCOMPLETE. He picked up his phone to get the Human Resources Director on the line to verify this wasn’t an error. She expressed her own confusion and assured she was checking into it. He read the incident report and justification for transfer while waiting for the paperwork error to be righted.
Agent Clint Barton, codename: HAWKEYE displayed inappropriate behaviors during handler’s attempt at correction. Barton routinely falls behind in scheduling (mess, training, meetings). Barton is disruptive and impossible to work with but remains a truly excellent marksman. When attempting to convey concerns Barton got aggravated and walked out. For this I am requesting another handler work with Agent Barton.
Note: he’s a great kid, Phil and I’m sorry I can’t make it work. He’s good at what he does but he’s too damn immature to be here.
Phil felt a headache creeping up. Immature was an adjective used often when it came to Clint and Phil was inclined to agree. While he was almost always perfect in the field, on base he was significantly less well behaved. He shot an email to Davidson and thanked him for his feedback and assured him he would find a new handler for Barton.
Clint was talented and handlers should have been fighting over each other to add him to their team but instead Phil was looking for some poor sap who was going to beg not have Barton placed. His phone rang and he grabbed the receiver.
“This is Agent Coulson.”
“There is no Classification tests on file. I don’t understand how this could have happened — they should have been immediately pulled from the database.”
Phil was a fucking idiot. Classifications were done in high school — Clint hadn’t gone past the fifth grade. He could hardly read or write his way out of a paper bag. “Have a proctor come in. I want Barton’s classification on my desk today.”
“Should he speak with him first Sir? Perhaps he knows — ”
“No. In fact, don’t tell him what the test is.”
Phil knew Clint well enough to know he would say he was a Dom because was a class that tended to gauge the most respect. Nowadays equality in class has come a long way but it was still some remaining discrimination that Clint would be hyper aware of. SHIELD had its own issues to sort through while they were rising on the up-and-up on new age ideals. There were still the minority classes that many felt would not fit.
“Right away Sir.”
Phil sent an email to Fury outlining the discovery.
You’re starting to slack Cheese. I expected better. You always do your homework.
Phil tutted a moment and reminded Fury he was doing everyone’s homework lately. A knock on his door around three relieved him of the temporarily stress of knowing he had an asset answering to no one, wandering about base and probably pissing people off.
“Special delivery.”
The redhead was an ex-Soviet assassin, codename: Black Widow. A foe turned ally, turned valued member of SHIELD and Phil’s remaining asset. Barton has taken her down himself, in fact. His position did not afford him much time and with so many handlers answering to him having assets do it as well made things too chaotic. The neutral was wearing her suit, preparing to head to Denver to tackle a cartel. Phil never worried about her missions. She completed her ops, did her own clean up and had reports across his desk on time.
“Doubling as a messenger now are you?”
“The walls have ears,” she strode across the room and laid the envelope down. “What do you plan to do?”
Phil sighed, minutely concerned on what he’d find. If Human Resources was buzzing this much it was rare class. “Depends on what it is.” Phil wasn’t going to open it in front of her, though he could see the curiosity burning in her gaze. “Thank you, Agent Romanoff.”
She quirked her lips a bit, blood red and left as swiftly as she had appeared, closing the door behind her. Phil broke the seal and ran down the copy. Once and then twice just in case he had misread.
He opened the IM he hated so much and wrote to Fury: Barton has now become a pain in my ass.
[ oOoOo ]
He called the agent in. He arrived ten minutes later and greeted him cheerfully, kicking back in the chair in front of Coulson’s desk.
“Hello.” Phil greeted. He couldn’t help but watch him closely, trying to see the classification in action.
“Hey.” Clint was as distracted as ever, toying with his hearing aids and looking around the office.
“Agent Davidson is requesting a transfer.”
Clint’s face grew stony as he shrugged, obviously trying to appear unaffected, attention turning back to Phil. “Okay.”
Even his eyes were shuttered as he gazed across the desk at Phil. He was good at pretending he didn’t care but not so good at avoiding his thumb from pressing against his bottom lip. Phil had assumed it was a nervous tic, not a suppressed urge.
Phil wondered how long he’d been suppressing the urge and how long he’d been looking after himself. He took the file and slid it across the desk toward Clint who frowned down at it. “What’s this?”
“You had a Classification done today.” Clint’s jaw fell slack. “I didn’t realize. If I had — ”
“I wouldn’t be here.” Clint exhaled sharply. He jutted his chin out. “Look, I’m quite capable, thanks. It’s illegal to fire someone because of their Class.”
Phil rose his brow. “Who said anything about dismissing you?”
The man floundered a moment. “Well… Why did you check it anyway?”
“Because you’re not working well with anyone you’ve been placed with.” Clint dunked his head. “You’re good at keeping things at bay, Hawkeye but you need time to let yourself relax too. I can’t imagine how difficult these past months have been for someone with your needs.”
“I don’t need anything.” Clint said immediately but his eyes were glassy. “I’ll be better Coulson. I promise.”
I promise. The tenor of his voice changed, frightened and a bit loss. Clint heard the lapse and cleared his throat.
“It’s rare but it exists,” Phil said gently. “In fact I can swipe a lot of these complaints off your record because of this.”
“I don’t want special treatment. I’m a grown ass man, okay?”
“Language.” Phil couldn’t suppress the need to scold and correct and Clint blinked in surprise.
“Wait are you — ” Clint shook his head, “No fuckin’ way, you’re just thay-saying this so I won’t be mad.”
The lisp was adorable and clearly worked hard against. “I don’t care what your class is, I don’t need that kind of language in this office.” Phil had to be fair about this, couldn’t push his way into Clint’s trust.
If Clint knew his class, or at least suspected it, he had gone twenty two years repressing it. Long term, it was detrimental to his mental health and no doubt, the reason for all the trouble. Barton was immature because that was within his nature; because he never got the time to be a child which for someone like him, wasn’t okay.
“What happens now?” Clint’s teeth were practically bared at this point, clearly defensive. “If you’re not going to fire me.”
“Well, that’s what I was hoping you could help me with.” Phil was pleased to have caught the archer by surprise — the scowl lessened a bit.
It was easy for Phil, maybe too much so, to appease a Little. He knew how to speak to him, even though he’d yet to have one of his own and his limited experience made him question his own abilities.
“Help how?” Clint looked suspicious, but more than that, curious.
“Help me come up with a plan. How can we balance what you need,” Clint glared at him. “with what we need for you to be here successfully.”
“I’m the best sniper.” Clint said in desperate arrogance. “I can’t be...y’know a Little. They’re useless.”
“That’s not very nice at all Clint,” Phil used the best ‘disappointed’ tone he could and was pleased to see the young man draw back a bit looking apologetic before he caught himself and rolled his eyes to the window. “I don’t think you’re useless. You’re right, you are the best sniper and we’re so happy to have you.”
“Look — you’re already talking to me like I’m…” he flushed and looked down. “It’s not fair Phil. I’ll be better just don’t put it on my file.”
“It’s already in,” Clint gaped at him seeming utterly crushed. “It’s okay Clint. Honestly, I’m not all that surprised.”
“So is my new assignment going to be to find a caretaker now because I won’t do it, Coulson, and you can’t make me.”
Nick chose that moment to barge in, completely uninvited. “Actually, Barton, I am.”
[ oOoOo ]
Maybe when Clint got upset, mind got all jumbled and his words didn’t want to come out.
Sometimes he wanted to just flop to the ground and cry because he was pissed off and couldn’t properly, eloquently, explain why. Sure, most of his sheets had mysteriously vanished because of stains he didn’t wish to explain. But he wasn’t a little. No way.
No part of him wanted to be held and rocked and soothes and shown attention. He didn’t want to be tucked in and kissed goodnight. Clint was a grown ass man who didn’t need that kind of shit. And yet here he was, in Coulson’s too nice apartment because Nick goddamn Fury said he was a liability without a proper caretaker and since Phil recruited him, he would have to pick up said role until a suitable replacement was found.
Clint found a little pleasure in the alarm on Phil’s face as he pulled Fury outside to explain that he wasn’t sure if that was the best course of action.
“He’s a Little, you’re a Caretaker — the only one we have, in fact. It should work out just fine.”
It felt like a punishment but he was determined to take it in stride, prove them wrong by showing he was an adult all the time, thank you very much. Biology be damned, Clint had lived his life Big — there was no way there was even a Little part of him anymore.