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The first time Phil picked up one of Clint's bows with intent, it was absolutely necessary and he managed to render it effectively useless.
"Research will be designing you another," Phil told Clint the next day, happily not at all sounding as worried as he felt about Clint not being awake to give him a thousand kinds of shit for this. "They've promised it will be ready when you're up and around."
Clint continued to lie still in the infirmary bed. The splints holding rigid the two primary fingers of his right hand (no one could claim the Chilean mob were brilliant) and the bruises over his ribs that the gown hid from view would probably take a week or more to disappear. He had far fewer machines hooked into him than usual, though, just the line in his arm ensuring his hydration stayed where it should be. And Phil knew the fact that there wasn't more for the doctors to fix was thanks to him shoving one end of Clint's bow through the boss' throat, the curve digging into wood and snapping, pinning the man to the wall of the hut despite his jerking. Phil hadn't bothered to watch him die.
"I've instructed them to find a...more resilient metal," Phil said, but that also got no smirking response.
It made him feel better, anyway.
**
In the field, once the waiting was over and Clint went from observing to watching, mostly Phil was aware of the pace of Clint's breathing. It went down, evened out, as the action picked up, and that was all Phil could hear over the radio. He never let it distract him from the twelve or more other things he needed to be doing at any point in time, but it was always there, a constant feed that he had to admit more kept him steady than once.
At least it did until the times when Clint had to get down from his chosen perch and actively mix with the action. Then Phil usually found himself having to consciously regulate his own breathing, even though he knew Clint couldn't hear him unless Phil activated his end of the connection.
Watching Clint on the range, though, was always strangely calming. It worked better in person, Phil found, but even watching from his office via the security cams, the certainty that filled every draw, shoulder, arm, fingers, release...it could be hypnotic if Clint was set on nothing except putting more arrows on target than anyone believed could be done.
"Should I start charging you for this?" Clint asked one day, almost two weeks after he woke up in the infirmary. Phil pretended he had to pull his attention from the paperwork he'd brought with him to watch Clint land another perfect shot without breaking the narrow-eyed look he had pinned on Phil.
"For what, Barton?" Phil asked, eyebrows high and voice even. "I'm pretty sure we're already paying you to make those shots."
Clint's mouth quirked up as he lowered his bow. "Right."
"You're no longer favoring your grip hand," Phil noted. He finished writing Active Status: Approved on the form, and capped the pen before standing.
Clint's right hand flexed around the bow—just slightly, but enough for Phil to see. "Been making my shots for over a week, sir," was all he said.
"And today it wasn't just because you're a stubborn bastard."
The huff of laughter from Clint surprised them both, Phil thought. Clint shook his head. "Point, pot."
Phil nodded in acknowledgement before picking up the rest of his paperwork and turning to leave. Another thwick thwack barely broke the silence behind him as the range door slid shut.
**
Phil had lost track two years ago how often he found himself standing with folded arms looking at Clint.
"I don't see why it's a problem," Clint said, standing not quite at parade rest. "They should know by now."
Phil raised an eyebrow at Clint, then looked all the way down the room at the other end of the course to watch the medic kneeling by the trainee in order to wrap a bandage around the man's hand.
"Know what, exactly?" he asked, honestly curious what answer he'd get.
"That I'm going to hit the target."
"His hand?"
Now Clint made a face. "Hill wanted a demonstration. I told them to pick anything in the room." He waved at the trainee. "That one stood over there, held up his hand, and said, 'How about this?'"
Phil bit his tongue to keep back a laugh. "You do realize," he said instead, "that you force us to write new lines in the handbook every time we get a new batch."
"Hey," Clint protested. "Not my fault you keep going out and picking skeptical recruits. Maybe next time you can be the one out here showing them what we can do. Or convince Hill to give each of them paint guns and see who comes out on top, leave me out of it until you've knocked some sense into the three of them that are worth keeping."
Ignoring Clint's belief that Phil was as good with a rifle as he was, Phil narrowed his eyes and examined the group huddled by their downed comrade. There were indeed three, he noticed, two men and a woman, who were keeping together and who had placed themselves between Clint and the rest, watching. Everyone was holding still like they were trying not to be noticed, but when Phil nodded, they were jolted into motion by the medic. She stood immediately and started herding everyone toward the door that led to the infirmary. They were almost there when Sitwell appeared and neatly culled those three from the pack to lead them through another door.
Hearing a muffled sound of surprise from Clint, Phil leaned in closer and said, "You're usually gone by now, but yes, Hill brings you in at this point because she is nothing if not expedient."
**
Nick Fury wasn't the only person with the power to draw every active SHIELD agent on the helicarrier to one place. The thing about Clint and Natasha was they usually got everyone to gather not on the flight deck but at the range, and the sight of them trading turns at shredding targets 300 and 30 meters out, respectively, was usually enough to create at least a dozen impromptu betting pools.
Phil knew better than to get in on any of them.
These were regularly irregular sessions. Held whenever the pieces were in place and the mood struck. Then came the two straight weeks Natasha spent in the infirmary. None of the doctors knew why she was reacting the way she was to the poison Tumbuka had slipped her, why she couldn't shake it, why it left her weak and gray. Whispers of the Red Room started up again and Fury himself had to shut down the talk. Clint returned ten days in, once she was apparently on the mend. He was silent through Phil's unofficial briefing, but from that point on, he was all but attached to Natasha—never hovering, always there when it was necessary to distract her from leaving too soon.
It was a relief to all in the infirmary, Phil suspected, when she was cleared to her own quarters. And maybe the entire helicarrier would start breathing again once she was given the green light for active duty. In the meantime, she and Clint were holding their competitions almost every other day. Phil usually managed to get by to observe part of each. There was no reason to, but that didn't stop anyone on board.
The third time, though, he noticed that clean targets had been set up at 150 and 15 meters, almost framed by the tattered paper still out at the usual distance, and Clint and Natasha were scanning the crowd.
"Hill," Natasha called, and Maria made an irritated noise beside Phil by the door, but she didn't hesitate to step through the murmuring sea of agents between her and the line where two of their best were standing.
Natasha's mouth stretched into something close to an honest smile as Clint immediately started waving his hands. Phil couldn't hear how Natasha answered as she handed Maria her knife, but it made Clint snarl, and then Clint's head was up again and his eyes were locked on Phil's.
Phil blinked, startled. Clint raised his eyebrows and Phil had no idea what was being asked of him—he'd only just arrived to find Maria laughing, and then she had responded to Natasha's call. Clint was cocking his head now, though, eyes still steady but there was something expectant in them and Phil couldn't, wouldn't leave him there on his own.
The noise from the crowd grew as he moved through it. When he finally stood next to Clint, Phil quietly said the only thing he could think to. "Situation?"
Natasha's soft scoff didn't drown out Clint's just as quiet answer: "Need you to hit this target, sir."
Phil looked at the bulls eye 150 yards down range, more than twice the distance that he knew Olympic archers were expected to handle. Then he looked over at Maria, realizing what her half of this performance was going to be.
Her right shoulder twitched, as close to a shrug as he was going to get with this audience.
It wasn't nerves, precisely, that tightened Phil's own shoulders. He glanced at Clint again and saw the expectation still there, easy to read if you'd seen that particular little smirk before and knew it was an imperfect cover for a childlike grin.
"Three throws, or shots," Natasha added, nodding at Phil, her voice pitched to carry now. "First to the bulls eye, wins."
The air of anticipation in the room ratcheted higher, the unstated belief that there would be a bulls eye clearly escaping no-one.
After a whispered conversation with Natasha, Maria stepped up to the line with every indication of calm certainty. Her smooth overhand of the first knife was practically textbook, and she came closer than Phil would have expected with a solid landing in the nine ring that drew an appreciative murmur from the crowd. Phil was sure he and Clint were the only ones with enough experience to know that both Maria and Natasha relaxed after the knife hit home. And he knew that he himself had to relax if he were going to match or best that.
He had handled a bow more than once. But other than acquainting himself with the particulars after Clint had been assigned to him, he hadn't actually sought out training on how to shoot one until after Chile. Whether Clint knew this or was only guessing, hoping, Phil really had no idea. They'd never discussed it. He was competent with one now, but Clint's bows were not standard, Phil was well aware that "competent" didn't begin to match what was being asked of him on this stage, and yes, now nerves were beginning to creep in.
"It's a little heavier on the draw, but it will hold true better than anything they could have given you."
Clint's voice was so soft it was almost unintelligible. If Phil didn't know better, he'd think it was in his ear like they were in the field. He turned his head slightly to see Clint standing up close on his left, eyes steady on Phil's fingers around the fletching of the arrow.
"Looser. Don't grip it, just hold it."
Phil drew in a deep breath and went with Clint's guidance, tossing out everything he had spent months drilling into his muscle memory. It felt unnatural to relax his fingers even as he locked his left arm and sighted down to the target, but then he pulled the string back until it kissed his nose and mouth.
"Nice form."
There was enough amusement in that short comment to startle Phil into wanting to laugh, and that—not any conscious decision—was what made him let go.
None of his arrows made it into the bulls eye and Maria's first throw was her best. So in the end, neither of them won. But Phil walked away buoyed high, he had to admit to himself, by Clint's quiet approval. Agents jostled to get into hastily formed lines for the two near targets, and Phil slipped away when Clint turned to shout for someone to bring an old practice bow from the armory.
The next day he returned to his office to see target flattened out on the desk with his name scrawled at the top and the three holes sliced in the eight ring circled. None of the other holes scattered across the paper came close.
**
New Mexico was a learning experience on many levels. The one constant—and Phil was silently grateful to him—was the voice from on high.
Phil hadn't worked directly with many of the scientists assigned to figure out the hammer and for some reason, despite knowing that "wormhole" couldn't mean anything easy, Fury had given him an almost generic set of field personnel. So he'd been more than a little relieved when Clint walked in.
When more than one set of eyebrows went up at the "I'm starting to root for this guy," comment, Phil didn't do anything. But he did note who he'd seen, and there was no doubt in his mind that he wouldn't have to deal with them on another operation.
Once the shouting was over, looking down at the man curled over himself and the hammer still sticking stubbornly in the mud, Phil knew what Clint had seen. It made no sense, but he'd also been half hoping to see something worth rooting for.
**
Natasha was out of bullets, but that didn't stop her from keeping five men at more than arm's length. They'd seen her drop three of their gang of eight with quick kicks and a well-placed jab to one unfortunate man's right eye, and unfortunately seemed to have the sense to learn from that demonstration.
Clint, meanwhile, had somehow managed to twist himself enough that his hands were in front of him instead of behind. But no amount of contortion was going to let him separate then more than the five inches the cuffs around his wrists allowed.
Phil crouched beside him, hidden only somewhat successfully behind a number of potted trees, and said, "No."
Instead of wheedling, Clint gritted his teeth and just pressed his bow back into Phil's right hand. "Since you've lost the expensive jacket, I know you don't have another gun. And I also know—"
"Just how hard it is for me to draw this thing with two good hands? And what will likely happen when I have only one?" Phil asked, holding up his left, which currently had a sleeve from his jacket wrapped around it. The charcoal gray fabric was nearing black after absorbing a significant amount of Phil's blood, and he knew the slash across the pad of his thumb had managed to miss the tendon—he could move his thumb, after all—but that didn't keep it from throbbing like a sonofabitch with every heartbeat. He had practically no gripping strength.
And evaluating a situation was his specialty, but usually Clint was better at it than this. "I'd do more damage using this one as a spear, too."
Clint dropped his head, but not before Phil caught a flash of...concern? Phil frowned as Clint carefully laid his bow on the floor against the wall and started sorting through the arrows Phil had brought into the mansion when he realized just how far sideways this op had gone.
Clint babied his bows. Everyone knew that, but only Phil seemed to realize it only happened when Clint had the leeway. He had four bows in rotation, none of them the same, and he knew just what each could do and how much they could take. Sure, it had been a solid week before he forgave Phil for breaking that one in Chile, but Phil had put that on R&D not getting a new one to Clint before he'd escaped the infirmary and it wasn't like Clint hadn't used more than one for more than its primary purpose over the years. Clint had gotten a new one, a better one, each time one failed, and he had to know Phil would make the tech guys deliver on that record again.
Just then Clint pushed half of the arrows toward Phil. The other half he kept in his right hand while he twirled one in his left. The movement became smoother in seconds, and it didn't break when Clint somehow swapped that one for another from the bunch in his other hand. Or when he finally looked back up with a smirk.
"Pointy end first, sir," he suggested.
**
While alarms blared and the helicarrier tilted, Phil couldn't help thinking, He is the best. Pride warred with fear, and he did his best to push both away. It shouldn't have been hard, since he'd been doing it since the Fury called them together with the lab still a smoking crater in the ground.
Now Phil pulled the weapon out of the rack that only a handful of people knew existed and hoped it could do something even half as impressive as what he'd seen in New Mexico. For all he knew, though, maybe it would just blow up. But at least that would probably be impressive enough to take Loki with it.
**
The first Phil knew of Clint's recovery was a briefing from Maria about how the team assembled and actually managed to save the world.
"Fury wants me to relay only the high-level," she warned him when he tried to press for details and found himself coughing, gasping. And then, no doubt in response to his glare, "And that's what I'm sticking to for today. You show us you can stay awake for more than twenty minutes at a time, I'll take a swing at convincing him you can worry about some of the smaller details. But for now...really, Phil..."
She trailed off, eyes falling to the mess of tubes and lines that fed into Phil's body.
He felt like an elephant was shoving hot pokers into his chest, so he didn't really feel up to pressing the point. At least it wasn't a mountain sitting on him anymore.
As far as Phil could tell, it took three days after that before the first of the team showed up. Natasha, with Stark as backup, amazingly enough.
Natasha followed his gaze and said, "There was security." Nothing else, but Phil saw her hands clench and knew he was going to have to talk with her once it didn't hurt to get out more than a few sentences at a time.
"Lots of security, because Fury's not stupid, but that still not going to get him out of getting his ass kicked," Stark said, and he waved off Phil's frown. "You look like shit," he added bluntly. "Pepper's going to kill you."
Phil didn't want to laugh, but he did. It hurt like hell.
**
The Avengers stayed together. Half by accident, it seemed, half by design.
There were times when they were scattered by need and their own desire, but they came back to Stark's tower time and again, and they had each other's backs. No one but Phil seemed surprised that he was a part of them. He had no idea whether that was because of Natasha and Clint and the half-official presence of SHIELD, or because Stark and Rogers (Captain America, oh my god, Phil's mind would sometimes sputter) had adopted him, and Banner probably said, "Sure, why not?" in that way he had of treating the world like it was something that happened around him.
In the field, then, he still had Clint in his ear and Natasha at his fingertips. He also had Stark's chatter and brilliance, Rogers' surety and experience, Banner's distance and analysis, and at times Thor's enthusiasm and perspective. They all circled around him for assistance and protection, and it was both comforting and infuriating. He understood both sides too well to upset what was working. That didn't stop him from sometimes chafing at the new lines that had been drawn.
"If you want a nanny, Stark, reprogram one of your robots."
"Not Dummy," Clint said from his crouch at the edge of the roof where he was scanning the movement below them.
"Of course not Dummy," Stark scoffed. "I'm not actually actively suicidal. Which is why I—"
"I'm not coming with you," Phil said again. It was feeling more and more like arguing against his nieces. "It is, in fact, my job to not come with you."
"Please, the paper can push itself," Stark said, waving off the approximately five hours a night it took Phil to ensure that the Avengers hadn't irreplaceably broken some part of the world they just saved. Again. Phil reminded himself for maybe the hundredth time that the satisfaction of hitting the armor would not be worth the broken bones.
"Come," Thor boomed behind him, "We welcome your addition to our force in this battle against the ape-bear beings, as we have always before."
"Guys," Clint suddenly said, standing and drawing his bow in one smooth movement.
"They're three blocks out and closing fast."
Phil didn't jump; he turned to look at Natasha and allowed one part of his brain to marvel again at how utterly silent she could be when she wasn't making people scream. And he said, "Then I'd better get down to the command center."
Her head cocked, but she didn't stop him when he stepped past her and headed for the door. Just as he put his hand out to push it open, a rubble-filled crash and angry roar pulled his attention back in time to see Clint launch two arrows in quick succession—and then himself, of course—off the roof. Thor and Natasha weren't far behind, and neither was Stark, once he glared at Phil and growled, "Fine," and snapped the faceplate down, still in no danger of learning to take "no" graciously.
Phil took the stairs two at a time. He could hear Rogers over the comms directing each Avenger to where they could have the most impact. Then, "And Coulson..." Rogers said.
"Are there still civilians in the area?" Phil asked quickly.
The pause wasn't to count them, he knew. But Rogers was almost as good as he was at knowing how to assess and accept a situation.
"The office building at the north corner of the plaza," Rogers finally said. "Hulk took out the entrance when he got thrown into it."
"On it," Phil said. And then he went to do his job while he and the world counted on the team to do theirs.
**
What he didn't have any more, it took him several months to realize, was an old outlet to unwind.
There were still quarters on the helicarrier for both Clint and Natasha, but it hadn't taken long for them to migrate to the tower. Phil was sure Fury's deception over his condition was no small part of that decision. That meant, though, that they were both training and keeping up their skills elsewhere. From what Natasha said, Stark had the facilities ready for them by the time they moved in.
However, despite his role as their liaison—and then their coordinator, once he was cleared for duty again—the tower wasn't a place where Phil had any real authority or place. Stark told him in no uncertain terms that he was being an idiot, and Natasha one day just kept talking with him until they were on the range and she was going through her exercises. But until Clint personally extended an invitation, Phil knew there was a line he couldn't cross.
**
Phil blinked up at the sky. Then he blinked again when he realized he was on his back.
Explosion? He hadn't seen one. But as his eyes slid shut against the dull ache in his chest and the ringing in his ears, both were familiar enough, even if the ache was sharper than it would have been a year ago. Honestly, he was surprised it had taken this long for something to slip past the babysitters-slash-team.
Voices started filtering in, garbled but still identifiable. One was missing, but then hands were on him, running swiftly down his arms and across his chest, and he was suddenly more concerned about why Natasha was snapping, "They just dropped, Tony. I don't know."
"Well, that's always a comforting thing to hear from you." Stark's voice was clipped in that way that meant he was calculating twelve things at once. "Add that to all the bad guys pulling a Houdini, and we've got the makings of some real fun."
"Just do another pass, please." Rogers' patient request did a bad job of masking a layer of tension—one that Phil agreed with entirely, but he didn't trust himself to nod without becoming reacquainted with the coffee he'd had on the way out here. "Natasha and I will get them back to the tower and we'll debrief there."
"Another pass to see more nothing? Have Bruce take a look at them. I'll find Thor."
That, Phil wanted to say, was the smartest thing Stark had ever said. But Natasha was gently pulling him up and the ringing overwhelmed him again.
Somehow, they ended up on the helicarrier rather than at the tower. Phil suspected collusion between Natasha and Maria. The briefing, though, was hardly enlightening. Maria's arms crossed early on, but she stopped firing questions at the team when the answers started getting outright hostile, particularly from Stark. The closest thing they had to a possible answer as to why Clint and Phil had been the only ones affected was that they had both been touched by the tesseract, but that didn't fill the hole where information on the Ctutari sympathizers whereabouts should have been.
Clint didn't look much better than Phil felt. He'd spent the entire time slumped in a chair turned slightly away from everyone with Natasha essentially covering his back from the seat beside him. So it was actually a surprise to find him in the range three hours past when Phil knew the docs had directly ordered him to his quarters.
"Unless you're planning to explain why you're here..." Clint said with a hint of warning under the challenge.
Phil didn't say anything. He didn't know how to say, I was hoping to find a measure of the peace you always seem to get here.
He finally settled on an offering, because waiting for Clint to act had only gotten them here. "I can leave."
Clint paused long enough for Phil to hold his breath, then he shook his head. He did nothing but watch as Phil carefully sat down in his usual spot. Once Phil was settled, Clint raised his bow again.
His movements were more deliberate than Phil was used to, the moment between shots just a bit longer. It was a steady rhythm, though, and Phil waited until Clint moved a second time to bring up a target another 10 meters down before he swallowed his pride and reached out again.
"I've missed this."
He could see Clint's shoulders tighten and just caught the mutter, "Wouldn't know it," before Clint raised his bow again and another arrow went flying to its mark.
Phil was standing before he thought about it, as the next arrow landed point to point with the first. He wouldn't have heard that at all if Clint hadn't wanted him to. And since they were on the helicarrier and supposedly not surrounded by JARVIS' ever-monitoring eye, maybe Stark would never have to know that he was pretty smart about this, too.
"If it turns out we were both waiting for me to say 'I'm sorry,' I might owe Stark a drink."
That finally got Clint to turn around again. His face was blank, reminding Phil too much of the video from the desert facility, but his eyes were anything but empty.
"Sorry for what?" Clint asked, sounding like it was being pulled from him.
Phil had been thinking about that for a long time and knew what he had to address first. "Dying."
Clint didn't manage to completely hide his flinch. Phil took half a step forward before stopping himself. He folded his hands in front of him and continued with the rest of the thought that had been eating at him since well before New Mexico. "And for not asking years ago why you let me do this. Watch you."
The surprise on Clint's face spoke volumes. None of it prepared Phil for what he actually said, though.
"Are you kidding me?" Clint dropped his bow and closed the space still between them, saying, "I've been...it's been years and you haven't..." His mouth opened again, face twisting like he wasn't sure what words to use.
Phil looked at that confusion and suddenly remembered how often Clint was looking for him to be there—with backup, with assistance, with just himself—and he knew they both almost deserved this.
They were, however, on the range. So he only reached out and put his hand on Clint's shoulder, and smiled when Clint looked up, eyes searching.
"Do you think your head is clear enough to get us back to the tower?"
Clint's face cleared, a hesitant smile hitting Phil almost as hard as the "I think that could happen," that Clint offered.
**
They didn't do anything more than talk that first night. Moving too fast had seemed as ill-advised as all the time they'd spent hardly moving at all.
That didn't last long. Phil found he was more impatient than Clint on that. And for all their experience keeping information quiet, neither did the illusion that the rest of the team didn't know. But, Phil thought, that was part of what made them work.