Chapter Text
The chase was familiar. The hunger in his veins, how his pupils widen and shift to allow the smallest ounce of light to penetrate, how his toes arch and spread to offer a better grip and soundless steps. It was his element, his world.
Phil Coulson doesn't let an ounce of his emotions enter his face. Besides the slightest widening of his stance, he may as well be back in his office, doing the paperwork for the current mission. But, no. He is not back in his air conditioned office because of the man currently racing across rooftops, putting some of Shields best agents in the dust. Clint Barton, if they have finally found the end to the trail of false identities the archer has laid. The man is young, fit, but so far ahead of the agents that it's a miracle Shield has managed to come this close. That, in part, is thanks to his own prowess, though he knows his own Alpha nature is partly to blame for the rush of pleasure he has at the thought. All that's left now is to catch the man, catch him and pin him and taste him--
No.
Phil pulls back harshly on the errant thoughts. He is not some freshly presented child, slave to his instincts. He is one of the top agents of a secret organization, one of the few people Director Fury trusted, and rumored to be the best prospect for brokering world peace; if the nations only fell in line to avoid his copious amounts of paperwork. One man, no matter how damnably attractive, will not change that. Phil almost wishes it would though, is relieved that previous agents set after the man failed badly enough that he is now allowed down there. To hunt. To-- recruit. This was not the middle ages, there were laws and regulations. Guidelines for claiming. Consent is important.
He keeps telling himself that, even as his legs spread a little more. Fierce and Alpha and wanting, as Barton leaps off a building and down an alley, trying to lose the pack of agents on his tail. Good. It's all going to plan.
Below, right where they were supposed to, the group of junior agents, puppies basically, stop chasing the man. He, surprised and wary, turns and that's when Phil jumps. It's a decent leap, even for his frankly impressive physique, and the other man's eyes widened. Phil knows his scent is practically screaming his nature, and expects it when two of the puppies at his back flinch away from him. Agents Rodriguez and Smithson. It will go into their files, a reminder to schedule them for a personal tongue lashing later. Being surprised in the field is one thing, allowing it to affect their actions is another. Still. The rumors of his orientation will be put to rest, at this base at least. He doesn't mind, not so much.
His thoughts are background noise. At best, a mildly annoying distraction from the man in front of him, how green-blue eyes widen and his nostrils flare. He doesn't respond in kind however, his scent wrapped up firmly under his gear. Unknown to most, with the quality and availability of suppressants, aisles of them nestled between deodorant and mouthwash; scent was not difficult to hide on one's own power. It took skill, concentration, but the man in front of him had it. Apparently. Because all was getting off the man, off Clint Barton, the target, was the expected: oil and rosin-- from his bow-- metal-- Arrows?-- leather and salty sweat. Nothing past that, no identifying notes in that sweat, no deeper tang. Phil hates it, lips curling into a low snarl, half parted from drawing deep lungfuls of the disgusting city air, silent anger he cannot control, though he does try. It surprises him, this lack of control, though not as completely as it might have once. He has, after all, felt it before. With other Alphas, evenly matched-- a rarity,-- with disobedient beta agents-- less rare but still few and far between-- or when Omegas are in distress or heat-- a disgustingly common occurrence, given his line of work-- when his instincts roar to the forefront of his consciousness, demanding he throw aside such useless social niceties and fight, punish, rescue.
Why here, why now, he's feeling it, however is a mystery. Something has been off about this op since the moment it began, and Phil is not far enough into the instinct driven haze to miss that. He's become adept at ignoring his baser urges, become something of a legend for it on every Shield base he steps onto, so when he opens his mouth, well rehearsed Shield recruitment pitch heavy on his tongue, and instead out thrums a growl, low and challenging, he’s surprised as the rest of the agents. This time he doesn’t bother recording who runs and the two that shift into their second forms. The growl of an Alpha, particularly one as strong as he himself is, is no easy feat to ignore. The Target does. He’s tense, but not overly so, lips curling back at Phil and his own nostrils flaring to take in Phil’s scent flooding the alley. But he doesn’t run. He doesn't flinch, doesn’t shift and flee. Is he Alpha then? Phil doesn't think so, can't place why he doesn't think so, but he knows it as well as he knows the thin brushing of hair over his shoulders and down his spine is stiffening under the suit he wears. Barton isn't an Alpha…
It’d be too much a waste. Shield rarely hires Alphas, too headstrong, too much fighting for position and power within the organisation, where promotions come rarely and with too much loss of limb for most Alphas to content themselves with. Betas… Which the target probably is not, make up just a small portion of active agents or handlers. The bulk, the main majority of any army or paramilitary force, is and has always been Omegas. They’re smart, loyal to a fault, willing and able to take orders. If confined to a restricted area, say an army camp, the omegas form a pack. Near unbreakable, those packs have won wars. There is nothing stronger than an omega pack, all that protective instinct, that drive to defend and provide… It was a heady mix, especially because with the right training, Omegas could be swayed to think of an entire country as their pack, as their charge, and even the firecrest snarl Alpha will not sway them. But… unless Barton has a pack secreted away, and he doesn’t, Shield is through, he’s not an Omega. Beta, then. Well trained. It will have to be enough. Shield will take him, because Phil says so. And Phil says so because…
His thoughts, such as they were, flashing and changing direction, contradicting each other with every breath; cease with violent suddenness. Because the target. Clinton Francis Barton is moving.
Clint moves, a tiny step to the side, pupils widening in his face. There's a bandaid over the bridge of his nose, and Phil wants, eyes tracking as his prey takes another step to the side. The timber of his growl changes, deeper. Rougher. He shouldn’t be acting like this, he can’t--
But he is. Because the Target, Clint Barton, is baring his fangs, long thick. A predator shift then. But what kind. And, with those sharp white teeth, comes an intoxicating wave of scent. It rolls over the alley, thick and choking enough the rest of the puppies behind them scramble. It's a scent that holds too many contradictions to be true, but at the same time can’t be anything but. AlphaOmega. Less than one percent of the population, abused, neglected children that become more. Omega, in that they need pack bonds to not turn feral, but Alpha in they will not accept any orders they do not decide to. They’re everything an army could ever ask for yet their creation… Despicable. Phil knows, with sudden vivid clarity that just bypasses his sudden need, that the Target is two seconds from feral. Unless Phil can prove himself to be better than the man… he’ll be lost. To Shield. To Phil. To humanity in total.
Said man seems to catch onto Phil’s sudden clarity, baring his teeth further and turning, running up the side of a building with light feet that may as well have wings.
Phil grins, a slash of lips and teeth that would completely destroy whatever slim reputation had survived thus far, had the puppies stayed. He lunges after tanned skin and intoxicating scent, destroying the space between them. But every step, every leap, and Barton is just ahead of him…
Phil catches up. He doesn’t know exactly when or how, but Clint is falling, rolling onto the roof and coming up snarling. There’s a bloodstain on his tight dark pants, blood. Put there now or before? Phil couldn’t say. He struggles with his base self, forces words and not snarls past his teeth, keeps his shift locked down.
“Clint. Barton.” He snarls,teeth longer and sharper than they should be, but he can put it together. He can… “I am from the Strategic Homeland--”
A fist flies towards his face. Fast, calloused. He dodges, growls and punches back. He can not win. Barton is too fast. Not one on one. But Phil is smart. He can use more than fist and fang. If only he can remember-- He has to dodge more. Barton is a snarling, snapping thing. No human consciousness is inside those eyes, nothing but anger and challenge and animalistic rage. It’s easy to respond so, so easy. Almost too easy, and he nearly misses the foot to his gut. Nearly, because he doesn’t miss much. And, when he slams his hand down, twists back around to slam shined shoes into Barton’s stomach, pushing up and throwing the man half a rooftop away, his hand glances on something metal. Something familiar. His gun.
Before he can think, before he can so much as breathe, there's a sharp retort and Barton is snarling, but on the ground. One of his legs will no longer support his weight. He’s downed.
Instinct demands he cover the smaller form, smaller only because of malnourishment, there’s good bones under thin, stringy muscles. Barton is still growling, a high pitched note that grates like nails across a chalkboard. Phil pays him no heed, hands on either side of his face, snarling down into clear wide green eyes.
“Submit!” He demands, a direwolf’s growl contained in too small a body, forced out around the edges like gravel in a blender. It doesn’t seem to matter, because Clint is still a writhing ball of muscle and rage under him, and doesn’t respond to his words, unless trying to bite his nose off counts as a response. Phil doesn't think so. He snarls, struggling against this man, and his own instincts. Clint snaps back, desperation in his scent, in his eyes.
Teeth shouldn’t be a surprise, because Clint doesn’t even balk at cock shots, Phil knows that intimately now, but it somehow still is. Especially when the teeth dig past skin and into muscle, a forced pack bond blooming into Phil’s chest and skull. He can’t stop it, doesn't want to, and knows. Oh he knows. It'd be easy now, to push his fangs into the side of Clint's neck, mark him mated and claimed and Phil's. He wants. Phil wants. With every breath and every minute shift of warm hot beneath him, it's harder to ignore how badly he wants to sink into this man, wrap him up in Phil's scent and in his bond.
Clint is even expecting it, growling furiously, even as his head turns, so much lean tanned skin for Phil to take. He wants. He wants more than anything, and he growls a little lower, bristling and barely resisting. He could take Clint, could make him his and--
Clint yowls, feline and furious, when Phil's teeth clamp down. Not, as both of them half suspected, on his bonding gland. But rather, higher up, the cartilage of his left ear. He punches clean through, the blood a wash of pack against his senses, and past that, can fully feel the man's surprise. He wasn't expecting that, now was he? It's a mash of confusion, fear, anger, and the brilliant hard edge of intelligence slowly coming back from the brink of extinction. Barton's soul against his own makes Phil hard pressed to restrain a full body shiver, gleeful and triumphant when he speaks again.
"I am. Phil Coulson. From the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division. I would like to talk to you about a job offer."
The man, and some of his adrenaline spiked scent is calming, soothing when Phil's tongue rasps wetly against the shell of the ear he mangled, laughs. It's a good sound, pleasant. If Phil didn't know better, fear that was not his own sour in his stomach, he would believe it. As it was, he sighs and shifts off his pack member, holding out a hand and letting Barton pull himself up using it.
"After medical care. For the bullet you put in me." He laughs, leaning in close and practically shoving his head under Phil's nose.
"Don't worry, it'll be covered by your insurance." The brief, fleeting contact of their minds ends. Pack bonds, particularly new ones, are not very strong. Unless they both make it an effort, they can pretend the other is nothing more than a coworker. Phil's chest aches at the thought.
They collect the scattered puppies, Barton unerringly finding where they ran and hid, calling out positions with an easy grace Phil can't help but grin at. Internally, of course. Externally, he just continues to bark orders, watching how wary the agents are now, nearly every eye shifted and distrusting as they glare at the new Alphaomega in their midst. It's likely their first time meeting one, Phil isn't surprised. He has only seen a bare handful himself, and he's seen a lot more than the junior agents likely ever will, with how they bolted for cover.
"You sent babies to come get me?" Barton's offended, blue green eyes sparkling, once all the babies are back on board.
It's on the tip of Phil's tongue to tease, to say how Barton wasn't all that impressive, and that Shield had better things to do than search for some half grown brat who probably didn't fit his own paws yet, but the man is half poised to flee, clearly pride more important than the fragile bond the two of them shared. Which, Phil supposed, was fine. If Barton took off now, he'd have maybe another year in him before being in danger of becoming feral, just from this brief contact. Still, the information wouldn't put anyone in harm no, so Phil has no reserves about answering.
"It was a trap. You've hesitated before, when Omega agents went after you, or when the younger agents did." Phil gestures to the junior agents. Two Omegas, one male one female, one Beta and one Alpha. "We were trying to trap you, without any more… firmly disabled agents."
That eased the man's sting pride, clearly, because he relaxes back into the quintet seat. His eyes, all bright wit and sharpened curiosity wielded like a knife, linger on the few spots Phil knows are weaknesses, and a few more besides. Clearly deciding where to attack, should Shield prove unfit to keep him, or, should they prove worthy, how to better protect.
"The kid, middle with the brown hair, has an injured ankle." He says, roughly five minutes into the ride. "I could scent his pain even past the rain, hid it well though."
Barton doesn't look but points easily at the lone Alpha of the group, the low growl not even warranting his attention. This one is going to sting his pride, Phil knows, it would have been easier if Barton had just been a highly trained Omega, the young Alpha could have convinced himself the other was saying it out of concern. However, the Alpha part of Clint's orientation was clearly reveling in a well earned triumph, if his smirk is anything to go by. Phil wants to excuse his smugness, does not allow himself the base pleasure. They may not be pack material, the fury in the junior agents' eyes promise that, but they are still coworkers.
"Barton." He starts, right before all hell breaks loose. The junior Alpha, and Phil is going to give him years of sensitivity training, snarls something obscene about Barton's parents. Something likely true, but stabbing at what's likely a sore point. And it's not Barton who reacts, still calm and relaxed next to Phil, though his hand tightens on the loose arrow he's holding. It's one of the other juniors, the female Omega, who lunges forward. Her teeth are longer than they should be, feline sharp ears flat against her sensibly restrained hair.
The Alpha, Smithson, flinches back. He has some sense at least, an angry Omega is not a threat to be taken lightly.
"Hey, hey. Kitten." And of course Barton isn't heeding the warning the agent, his age if not slightly older, is giving. One hand, the one not white knuckled around his arrow, deftly reaches forward. It's not the flash of movement Phil knows he's more than capable of, just an easy reach forward and he's scruffing the other Omega. One big hand, fingers strong for all they're fine boned, against the nape of her neck. Drawing her back to him, next to him. She goes, quietly and still tense, to sink onto the hard bench next to his. "Pretty sure fights for hierarchy aren't exactly encouraged, not in an alphabet soup kind of place. And, even if that was allowed, losing control of yourself enough to shift? Come on now."
The agent, Bobbi Morse, Phil thinks, does not respond. But her ears, a rather attractive dark grey spackling over deep brown, lift slightly from their pinned position when Clint tugs at one, then the other. And her eyes, still brown though the pupil is a bare slit in their center, remain narrowed suspiciously. From the way Barton continues to lightly soothe her, that single hand skimming lightly over her form, leaving a scent heavy with threat and possession behind, a lack of response is not going to be a problem.
How Phil, with his legendary control and quiet longing for a position of knowledgeable minion, ended up with an Alphaomega and how that Alphaomega had ended up forming the beginning of an omega harem in less than twenty minutes… Explaining that particular issue to Director Fury, however, would be a problem. His problem.