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Clint Francis Barton’s earliest memories are not pretty. He remembers broken beer bottles, and fights and tears and days that begged to end. He remembers hiding everywhere he could, curling into corners with his daemon because maybe if he was quiet enough his dad wouldn’t notice him. Funny how that never worked. He remembers his mother, the one shining spot in his life. Her warm smiles and gentle words as she cradled him, as if she could shield him from the terror that they were submerged in. He remembers his brother’s silhouette, standing defiant against their father, a snarling Caracal hissing at the much larger Siberian Tiger. No, father wasn’t the right word. Fuck, that person wasn’t someone anyone would ever consider any sort of model, or any kind of figure to be loved.
He remembers the day Fradharc finally settled on a form, a red-tailed hawk, and how he had yelled and screamed and thrown beer bottles because no son of his would ever have something as weak as a bird for a daemon, and Barney had dragged him out of the house and they slept on the streets for a week before being caught by the police. He comes back to his house with the news that both his parents died in a car crash. He wonders if there’s something wrong with him when he can’t bring himself to care. He and Barney landed in an orphanage run by Donald, a plump man with big hands who who was only too happy to take Clint and Fradharc in.
He remembers shivering in cold sweat from every touch of the man on Fradharc, holding her down beneath meaty palms that slithered into his soul and left foul marks that stayed. He remembers learning to hide then, learning to be quiet and sneaky so no one notices you. He remembers spending days on the roof, or in the rafters of a barn, of up in the trees around the orphanage, not moving until Barney came to get him. Funny how it worked that time. In retrospect, the Bonobo ape daemon was a huge tip-off. They have a bad track record with intimacy by most standards.
In short, Clint’s childhood was the textbook definition of shitty.
Not that he really thought about it anymore, mind. After that he and Barney ran off to the circus, and he got to have a few years of general happiness. He remembers sitting by the campfire, his head resting on Barney’s shoulder as Old Baba, the resident ‘magician’, spun woven words out of nothing, enrapturing Clint with old tales. He remembers her taking care of him when he got struck by a particularly bad fever, gently spoon-feeding him medicine as he lay, utterly miserable in bed. “Rest, diet’a,” she would say. "You will rise to do great things tomorrow.”
He remembers that fateful day when Trickshot realised that Clint was good for more than just fixing broken carriages, and gave him his first bow. He remembers Baba’s kind smile as she took it from him with patient hands, blessing it in the tongue of her people. Whatever Carson’s was, it was home. A chance for Clint to remember what love and happiness felt like. At least, until Barney left him bleeding in the dirt, hatred etched into his face while Clint wondered what the hell he ever did wrong for Barney to leave. When he woke up, he could only stare at Fradharc, wondering whether he was just born to be unloved as he slowly strokes the hawk’s mussed feathers.
After that the years kind of blur together. He leaves Carsons, leaves Baba, and takes off to make his own way. He uses his Hawkeye act and turns it into an urban myth that shakes the criminal underworld. He travels across the world, wading into a world that wants to kill him and leave him bleeding on the ground, and then sell the remains on the black market. After Barney, becoming a contract assassin is a goddamn cakewalk. The irony is not lost on him. He learns to sleep with a knife under his pillow. He learns to stalk silently after his prey. He learns to make a kill shot and never miss. He learns that daemons are arrow-proof, or actually anything-proof; apparently, the only thing that can injure daemons are other daemons, or weapons specially made to incapacitate daemons. The only problem is that by ‘specially made’, people mean ‘Vibranium’, so good luck getting a hold of anything that can remotely injure one of them. Sure, falls from heights and electrocution can hurt, but will never kill, and any damage to the daemon is felt by their bonded, but any daemon worth their salt could probably murder you before you even started trying. One man had once gotten locked inside a bunker while his Opossum daemon was left outside during an air strike raid during World War II. The Opossum was later found shivering in fear under the wreckage of London, otherwise unharmed.
Funnily enough, there seems to be an odd stigma against using daemons for anything. One would have thought that people with horse daemon would have it a lot easier getting from place to place, or that big daemons like Polar Bears would make great load bearers, but no. Literally no one ever thinks to use their daemons practically, which is a very costly oversight. This makes Fradharc great for gaining intel, as no one really expects him to be looking. It's also downright hilarious when Fradharc swoops down on unsuspecting people, because he's a daemon! Daemon don't attack people, they say. Clint's never good at following rules. He makes it a point never to touch someone else’s daemon though, even in combat, because he remembers how it felt to be touched like that. He remembers the wrong sliding down his throat, pooling and coagulating in his belly like a vile contamination. He may be an assassin cum mercenary, but there are limits to what he’s willing to do. Thankfully, Fradharc agrees.
Most of all though, he learns that Clint Barton does not get the luxury of happiness, ever. Happiness is for the weak. Being happy means you’re being vulnerable, and being vulnerable leads nowhere but a shallow grave. Happiness is for the normal folks, the folks that don’t kill people for a living.
So Clint waits.
Enter Phillip Coulson, a nondescript man in a nondescript suit and an expression so bland that Clint could have sworn that he was some kind of killer android. A Siberian Husky marches at his heels, most likely his daemon. The agent tracks him down no less than five times over the span of five years. The first time is after a successful contract in Berlin, Germany, where he puts an arrow through a politician’s eye to prove a point. The guy was dealing in human trafficking, so Clint doesn’t feel too shaken up about it. Besides, he had a Honey Badger daemon. That’s basically screaming shoot me I’m evil. Those things eat cobras for breakfast, which is seriously freakier than it should be. He’s stalking the alleyways back to his shady motel so he can get a move on but oh hey look the Men in Black are after him. The agent makes his offer, and Clint tells him to fuck off and disappears. He doesn't notice the speculative look that flashes across the man's face.
Beijing, China (1998)
The second time, Clint’s trying to assassinate a rival opium smuggler when the agent somehow finds him while he’s trying to scope out a potential perch as he walks through the streets. It’s summer and even Clint’s just wearing a tanktop in the heat. The thrice-damned agent somehow still manages to wear a full suit, and his goddamn husky still has a full coat. Clint meanwhile, is sweating buckets.
“Good morning, I am a representative from the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division.” He says pleasantly. His husky fixes Clint with an unblinking stare. It’s unnerving and sets Clint on edge.
Clint tells him to fuck off on principle, and promptly tries to lose him in the crowd. He’s not entirely sure whether he succeeds, because by the time he gets to his mark, she’s already dead of unknown causes and Clint has to escape from the agent by boarding a cargo flight to Indonesia. Clint silently curses secret government divisions.
Wakanda, Africa (1999)
The third time, Clint’s trying to patch himself up from a contract gone bad, and he’s snuck into Wakanda because isolationist governments make great places to hide and lick your wounds. The agent finds him anyway.
“Good evening, I am a representative from the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division.” He says pleasantly, his inflection a complete copy of the previous time they had met. Clint’s seriously considering the android option except they don’t exist. He hopes. If they do, Skynet is a lot closer than he’d like to think.
Clint tells him to fuck off while trying to splint his ankle, and then jumps off a roof for good measure.
Ethiopia, Africa (2000)
The fourth time, Clint just knows that God fucking hates him because the agent has the brass balls to approach him while he’s in a literal war zone, trying to infiltrate and assassinate the leader of a rebel splinter cell. It sandy, and hot, and Clint is covered in grit and he has to blink sand out of his eyes just to see. Clint is sure he’ll have to empty his boots and underwear later, but the agent looks completely untouched and unruffled by even a smidgen of sand.
“Good afternoon, I am a representative from the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division.” He says pleasantly. Okay, at this point it’s getting really really creepy, and the dog is not helping because blank stare. Jesus christ on a stick, someone save him.
Clint tells him to fuck off as he dodges a hail of gunfire and Fradharc calls that a second wave of enemy reinforcements is in-bound. He thankfully doesn’t have to escape this time, since by the time he’s turned back to the agent, he’s disappeared.
Singapore, Asia (2001)
He finally caves in Singapore, after a contract gone bad has left him on the run from no less than 4 different assholes who want him dead. Funny how contracts keep going bad in this business, he really should have just become a florist. He’s almost glad when the agent approaches him in a quiet bar where he’s trying to get piss drunk. Fradharc keeps a general look out for him, and will probably nip his ear if he drinks too much to be able to react in an emergency, so he’s not overly worried. He’s got 4 knives and a gun hidden under his clothes anyway. It’s a nice bar, cosy and warm, and Clint does not appreciate it one bit (lies) when Fradharc’s whispered “He’s here,” alerts him to the man slipping into the seat on the bar beside him.
“Good evening, I am a representati-”
“Yeah yeah, you’re from some shady government agency, you want to hire me to do the nasty for you. Tell me something new.” Clint spits. He’s going to accept, because it’s either that or get hunted down and shot in the asscrack of nowhere by some very pissed off people, but he’s not about to let the man sitting beside him know that. Fradharc shifts her balance slightly, the only tell their shared anxiety.
It’s clearly picked up by the agent, who gains the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You interested, or are you insistent on getting drunk and telling me to ‘fuck off’?” He calmly responds. Clint scoffs at the guy, because that’s the only departure he’s seen so far from the agent’s ridiculously composed demeanour and it beats glaring at his beer. He eyes the Siberian husky at the agent’s side. It is common knowledge that a daemon’s form reflects the personality of the bonded, but most people lack the know-how to make anything beyond the most general of observations. Clint doesn’t have that limitation. At the orphanage, he learnt very quickly that observing a person’s daemon was essentially to differentiate friend from foe. Or scout his targets.
Siberian Husky. Canine, so social to an extent, but unpredictable due to mixed wolf and dog genetics. It doesn't help that due to the wolf DNA, that fuzzy adorable exterior can give way to some very scary things. They're loners by nature, but form very strong bonds with their mates or keepers. Clint's eyebrows raise. The tailored suit hides a very dangerous man, one that is unpredictable, but loyal to a fault. Makes sense given that Agent Mystery somehow managed to find Clint in a fucking warzone. Fradharc gives a soft warning screech.
“That didn’t work the first four times, and I try not to give repeat performances. Now give me something to actually care about or fuck off.” He growls into his drink, trying not to let on that he’s feeling pretty woozy, which is strange because he didn’t drink that mu-
Fucking bastard.
The next time Clint wakes up he’s on a plane to New York, the agent smiling pleasantly at him like he hadn’t just drugged a contract assassin and shoved him onto a plane. Fradharc is still knocked out, perched on his shoulder like a very drowsy sentinel. He officially hates his life. He contemplates snapping the agent’s neck, but shelves it in favour of accidentally spilling coffee over his desk when he actually finds out where his desk is. Besides, the Husky is staring at him blankly, without blinking. It’s frankly unnerving. Upon landing, Clint is whisked off the runway to meet with what is possibly the scariest man Clint has ever seen. Look, literally no one except a pirate should be able to pull of the one-eye look, but somehow Nick Fury does, and that is terrifying. Clint suspects the other half of the fear-factor is the Fossa that is draped around his shoulders.
Fossae are very fond of stalking their prey through the trees, remaining unseen until they capture their prey, which might go anywhere from minutes to hours. They also have a bad habit of leaving their mates and young if the situation calls for it. By extension, their bonded are patient, long-term planners who have zero problem throwing you under a bus. In other words, either the best or worst person to lead an organisation to exist on this good earth. Clint’s rapidly reassessing the wisdom of joining SHIELD.
“So you’re Hawkeye. Don’t look like much.” Nick Fury runs an assessing eye at him, and Clint’s about to tell Nick Fury where he can shove it, eyepatch or no, but he stops as Coulson’s barely raised eyebrow of disapproval. He glances down at the Husky; blank stare. Fine, he’ll play nice. He also ignores that he’s known Coulson for all of 3 hours but already defers to his orders. He’ll chalk that up to survival instinct because Fossae dear god.
“Well, we’ll see where you land after training. Don’t disappoint me, Barton. Dismissed.” Fury sweeps away with a dramatic flourish of leather and a soft growl from the Fossa. Phil gives Clint a placid smile and the Husky just stares and Clint really wants to go home now. Except SHIELD is apparently home now. Fuck.
He still throws himself into SHIELD training though, because it’s either that or being out on the streets and if Clint knows anything it’s that he’ll take what he can get. He gets his GED under the eye of SHIELD tutors, he watches Fradharc somehow learns to avoid bullet fire, on the off chance that someone gets vibranium bullets, gracefully arcing away from the shots before diving down at the guns themselves, and he himself makes it a point to break every marksmanship record SHIELD has ever had, blitzing through training like a man on a mission. It's just that the mission happens to be 'don't get thrown out on the streets again'. That doesn’t stop him from screwing with everyone in the SHIELD compound. He gets Fradharc to leave itching powder in shoes, he steals knives, guns, and other assorted equipment under the guise of ‘testing the efficiency of my fellow agents, sir’, and he hides out in air vents because it’s a nice and quiet nest for Fradharc and they can both do what they do best. He becomes one of the youngest agents in the organisation’s history at the tender age of 19, and he doesn’t miss that the morning after his promotion the mysterious ‘agent’, who he now knows is Phillip Coulson, the man who once took down an entire Hydra base with a feather duster, is standing outside his door. That damn Husky is still staring blankly at Clint, like he’s some interesting species of fern, but he’ll let that go because apparently that look is part of the Coulson package.
“Good morning Agent Barton, I trust you slept well?” Clint grunts and flips him off. Look, he’s 19 and it’s 8:00am. He’s allowed to have some attitude. Fradharc just glares.
“I will be assigned as your handler now that you qualify as an agent,” Agent Coulson continues on like Clint hadn’t said anything. “You’ll report to me for everything, including medical wound, missions, and equipment. In return, I will not leave you without a foot to stand on. Are we clear?” He asks, gesturing for Clint to follow.
Clint does.
That is the start of a beautiful partnership that will leave a trail of burning buildings, corpses of some real assholes, and quite a few trips to the med bay in its wake. Agents Coulson and Barton become infamous, taking on operations that nobody else can and coming out unscathed. Clint learns more about Coulson, he learns that Coulson is a machine that lives and dies by paperwork, and that when Coulson betrays any kind of emotion it is cause for very serious concern. He learns that Coulson is a ridiculous Captain America fanboy, for reason hitherto unknown to mankind. He learns that Coulson actually listens to his input, which is a welcome departure from the assholes he usually has to deal with, and that Coulson has a very high tolerance for his bullshit. This is great because when they’re both on comms during an op Clint refuses to stop talking.
“Barton, eyes on target.” Coulson huffs over Clint’s ear piece. They’re in Seoul, and Clint’s been sitting in the same spot on top of a building for the past 3 hours waiting for his mark. Apparently this time he’s after a woman, which just makes evil an equal opportunity market.
“I’m just saying sir, I’m pretty sure that Gandalf is objectively better than Dumbledore.”
“Clint, I will say again; A petty conjuror with a magical sword is not even comparable to a man that orchestrated a decades-long scheme to take down Magical-Hitler.” Fradharc objects, puffing her feathers slightly.
“What part of the term ‘Maiar’ do you not get?”
"The part where Dumbledore is clearly a better planner."
"Yeah, no. Gandalf had a plan that lasted centuries, slowly manipulating Middle Earth to be in the best position to fight Sauron as it could at the time. That beats Dumbledore, who was just like 'yeah let's place all our hopes on a 11 year old boy. It'll be fine'." Clint snipes back. This has been a long-standing debate, ever since Fradharc got into the Harry Potter movies and he into the entire Lord of the Rings universe. He's almost certain that half of the reason why Fradharc likes Harry Potter so much is Fawkes.
“Is this mission relevant?” Clint can tell he’s amused now, in fact he’s pretty sure he’s making Agent Coulson smile, given that the Husky just huffed. Oh Clint knows he has a name, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get Coulson to let it slip first. It’s become a game, really.
“Well, no, but it strengthens my analytical skills sir,” Clint has a shit-eating grin on his face, which abruptly slips away when he catches sight of his target, dressed in a ridiculously opulent fur coat. Scratch that, it’s actually a Mongoose daemon. “Target sighted sir, permission to take the shot.”
It’s show time.
“Copy that Hawkeye, take the shot.”
Slowly, he and Coulson develop an easy rapport. It’s all over the place, with Clint having no sense of propriety or boundaries, and Coulson being his ridiculously professional self, but it works. They chatter and banter and Coulson snipes at Clint and Clint slings back and they share morning coffees while still half-awake from yesterday’s op. Fradharc takes to perching on The Husky’s head, which he doesn’t seem to mind, and Clint and Coulson just share an amused laugh about it. Somewhere along the line Clint realises that he may actually care for Coulson, but that thought’s very neatly shoved into Clint’s ‘never touch that’ box. That box means vulnerability, and vulnerability means shallow grave.
“You’re really going to ignore it.” Fradharc questions one day as Clint shoots arrow after arrow at the moving targets down at the range. It’s 3:12 in the morning, so they have the place to themselves. The repetitive thump of arrows finding their mark is oddly soothing, since both of them know sleep isn’t on the agenda tonight. It’s the most fucked up version of PTSD that Clint has ever seen, but he’ll be damned if he lets the shrinks know that.
“Yep.” Bullseye. Bullseye. Bullseye.
“You do realise running’s never worked out for us, yes?” She presses, his hackles raising slightly in agitation. Sometimes Clint wishes Fradharc knew when to drop things. Or wasn’t so formal. Or wasn’t a Hawk. Sometimes Clint wishes Fradharc wasn’t a lot of things, which says something about himself that he’d rather not think about.
“We’re alive, so no, I haven’t.” Bullseye. Breathe, notch, fire. Bullseye. Breath, notch, fire. Bullseye.
“We’re only alive because of Coulson you idiot, not your impeccable abilities at trying to kill both of us.” Fradharc’s barb hits its mark, and Clint’s arrow lands a couple of millimetres off the centre.
“We’re not having this conversation. Ever.” He grits, and that’s the end of it. Fradharc and him don’t speak for days afterwards. Coulson only raises an eyebrow and elects to ignore it.
He learns that Coulson is every bit as fearsome as the office gossip says, after a particular incident in Bali where he bulldozes through an AIM compound to get Clint out of enemy hands. There is no exaggeration, Coulson actually managed to acquire an actual bulldozer and broke through the walls of the compound. Apparently, he caused more than a couple of explosions on his way out, which is strange because Clint didn’t remember seeing any kind of explosives at the safe house. When asked, Coulson reportedly called it a ‘happy coincidence’.
“Sir, did you actually storm a compound of over 200 men for little ol’ me?” Clint flutters his eyelashes as he lies on a bed in the medical ward. He’ll sneak out after lights out. Fradharc flat out snorts from her perch, where she’s slowly nursing a broken wing from her fall.
“No, I was retrieving a valuable asset. Somehow I ended up with you instead.” Coulson’s mouth visibly spasms then, and Clint knows he’s covering up relief. He’ll let Coulson have that. What trips him up is The Husky, who’s eyeing him through half-lidded eyes from where he’s lying on the floor. Whatever the hell he’s doing, it sure isn’t the blank stare Clint’s used to.
“So, I hear you used a bulldozer to get past the front gates.” Clint teases, watching Coulson stare enigmatically at him while subtly signalling for Fradharc to watch The Husky.
“I have no idea what you mean Barton. I simply was using the environment to my advantage.” He replies pleasantly, his eyes glimmering with-holy shit is that mischief? Clint thinks this might be love.
When Coulson leaves, late at night, Fradharc and Clint share intel.
“His body posture and pupil dilation indicated elevated interest, concern, and some level of attachment,” she reports, “Clint, we need to re-evaluate this.”
Clint just sighs and leans back into the bedsheets, which Fradharc knows means he’s won this one.
Once he’s released, he makes it a point to watch The Husky even closer than before. Where he previously strictly followed a pace behind Coulson, Clint noticed that he’d taken to following Clint as well. When Clint gets up from the canteen table to get seconds, The Husky follows him. It’s disconcerting, but sweet. Yet when Coulson walks into his office and sees him lounging on the chair, bouncing a tennis ball off the walls in boredom, and tells him to kindly get out of his office with a carefully blank expression that’s only betrayed by the twitch at the corner of his mouth, Clint figures it’s as close to content as he’ll get. The next time Clint steps into Coulson’s office, there’s a couch there that’s rustic orange facing the desk. He tries not to be too touched.
“Chulainn.” Coulson says one day, while Clint’s sprawled on the ridiculously comfortable couch reading a book while The Husky lounges by its foot, idly watching Clint as if Clint doesn’t notice.
“Sorry, what?”
“My daemon. H-is name is Chulainn. You’ve been paying a prodigious amount of attention to him, so I assumed you were curious.” Coulson actually stutters, minutely, and Clint is now mildly concerned because Phillip Coulson does not simply stutter. Given the fact that the agent in question had literally ducked his head back into his field reports, he definitely knows that too. Clint glances down at Chulainn, who just raises an eyebrow (how does he even-?), and for the life of him Clint can’t come up with an appropriate response. He can feel Fradharc’s eyes boring into the back of his head, but he ignores it in favour of submerging himself back in his book. Time for Katniss to take on bland dystopian evil government #273.
Belgravia, London (2004)
“Sir, did you ever realise that daemons are really, really useful for covert ops?” Clint comments, sipping a cup of morning coffee as the sun rises. Not that it’s a pretty sight, given that it’s in the middle of winter and everything is fucking freezing. They’re in the safe house, which is basically a shitty apartment. It has central heating though, so at least they’re warm. Chulainn and Fradharc are making full use of the heater, with Fradharc nestled against Chulainn who is turn wrapped around the heater itself. It’s ridiculously adorable.
“Pray tell, Barton.” Coulson comments, idly stirring his tea. Apparently Coulson detests coffee, which is honestly blasphemy to all good, hardworking Americans everywhere but the last time an agent commented on it Coulson apparently nailed him to the wall with a coat hanger. No one knows where he even got it from. Still, Clint has something that vaguely resembles a self-preservation instinct (blatant lie, Fradharc says) so he won’t ever ask.
“Yeah, I mean, let’s say Moscow. You remember the mark from Moscow?” Clint asks, moving over to the table wearing Coulson is sitting.
“You mean Irena Djokovic, the one with the Sun Bear daemon? What about her?” Coulson recalls, bringing the tea to his lips to take a gentle sip. Clint doesn’t stare.
“Yeah, that one. So here’s the thing, most people assume Grizzly bears are the most dangerous species of bear ‘cause they’re the biggest, but that’s not true.” Clint rattles, because he has spent years researching on animal species and he’s got this.
“See, Grizzly bears are actually pretty gentle, as far as bears go. You leave them alone; they’ll leave you alone. No harm no foul. But Sun Bears, jeez, those guys are nasty.” Clint’s on a roll now, and Coulson is actually listening intently, leaning forward on his arms and staring at Clint with laser focus.
“Sun Bears, the fuckers, will attack you for no goddamn reason at all. That’s not all though, Sun Bears are also loners, mostly, and they really, really don’t like being disturbed. Put that into a person and you’ll get someone that generally relies on themselves and has no problems killing you, like that lady. So you want to take her out, you capitalise on her loner tendencies.” Coulson’s actually nodding now, and Clint can’t help but feel absurdly pleased. SHIELD does not make a habit of valuing his intelligence, but here and now Agent Coulson, arguably the smartest man in SHIELD next to Fury, is staring at Clint like he’s just spouted out a new equation for life itself.
“I... was not aware of that, Barton.” He says, his brows now furrowing in thought.
“What about Chulainn then?” He asks, his azure blue eyes brightening in curiosity. Clint just grins.
“That’s a trade secret, boss, I can’t tell you that.” He says, waving a mocking finger at Coulson, who actually smiles then, and if Clint is feeling warm, it’s because of the heating system.
“What I can tell you though, is some of the old stories I used to hear about daemons back in the carnie.” Clint offers, and he has no clue why he’s saying this. He’s never talked about Carson’s to anyone, he shouldn’t be talking about Carson’s to anyone. Instead of pulling back, he flips a chair backwards and sits on it, his arms crossed and head resting on the top rail.
Coulson’s eyes are off the tea now, staring at Clint with an intense curiosity that makes Clint’s toes curl. Just a bit. “Oh?” He asks, leaning forward.
“Well, yeah. Old Baba used to tell us about the old days. Apparently, way back when, daemons weren’t just animals, but were capable of some pretty cool stuff.” Clint continues. Coulson’s eyes are wide now; he’s clearly enraptured by Clint’s story. Clint modulates his voice, mimicking the low murmur of Old Baba as best as he can, as remembering the dying embers of a fire as she weaved palaces out of paragraphs before their eyes.
“In the old times, daemons were so much more venerated. They were not just common animals, they were gifts from the gods, made to be guides for the human soul. They were made so that our young race could understand ourselves on our quest for enlightenment.” Clint intones.
“It was said, that when the hearts of daemon and their bonded beat as one, they would accomplish miraculous feats. They would be able to move mountains, summon typhoons, bring nations to their knees. It was said that these legendary men and women became the foundation of myth, and as the eons passed, mankind grew more distant, and the number of these extraordinary people dwindled, until none believed of their existence. Erased from time and history, they now only live in the stories we tell, brave heroes that fought demons to save humanity. Well, that’s what I was told, anyway.” Clint finishes with a shrug, before he catches Coulson’s eyes. He sucks in a gasp. Coulson’s navy blue eyes were sparkling with wonder and unabashed awe, all focused at Clint. Clint could feel his throat tighten, and Chulainn’s cough brought Coulson back to reality. His agent persona was back, and Clint dumbly wonders if, just for that second, Clint had been allowed to see Phil.
Barring strangely intimate encounters with his reporting officer, Clint slowly heals as well. In between missions and time down at the range firing arrows, Clint slowly moves past most of his trauma, which is about fucking time to be honest. He’s 25 now for god’s sake. Not that he’ll ever admit it to any shrink, but Coulson’s presence at his side is grounding. It stops him from falling adrift in his own darkness and anger, and Clint’s man enough to admit that Coulson basically saved his life. If he hadn’t walked into that bar, Clint would have bled out somewhere a long time ago. Fradharc just snorts because yes, it took Clint 6 years to come to that conclusion. What he doesn’t admit is that he’s now desperate to catch a glimpse of Phil again, instead of Coulson. Now that he knows where to look, he can see exactly how much of the Agent’s persona is just that, a persona.
Through it all, Clinton Francis Barton is nowhere near happy, or satisfied, or any of those poster card terms that normal people use to describe themselves. He stopped being normal a long time ago anyway. Maybe when the only three people who ever loved him had either died or walked away after sliding a knife between his ribs. Happiness is vulnerability, and vulnerability is a shallow grave. That's a risk Clint cannot take.
So Clint waits.
Estonia, Europe (2005)
“What about Fradharc?” Coulson asks as they walk through the streets of the city. They’re here as a security detail to one of the World Security Council members as she attends a UN meeting, tasked with guarding her with their lives. Just another day in the life of SHIELD.
“What about her?” Clint questions, noting potential sniper spots around the designated meeting location that could potentially endanger their mission.
“What does she say about you?” Coulson presses, and Clint knows that it’s an innocuous question, but he can’t help freezing, I will not tolerate this weakness in the Barton household echoing through his head. Guess he hasn’t moved past all of it yet.
“Clint?” Coulson’s forehead is creasing slightly, and okay Clint time to dial back the trauma a bit. He rearranges his face into a flippant smile.
“Nah, nothing boss. I never bothered to check.” He quips, hoping it’s enough to satisfy Coulson. It seems to work, because the pinched look fades.
“We could, after this.” Coulson’s offer hangs awkwardly in the air for a second, before Clint forces himself to smile and nod. With Coulson, he might not actually mind.
Then Natasha Romanov happens and it’s a complete clusterfuck because Clint has her. He has her right in her sights and she looks at him like she knows it’s the end of the line. She looks at him like she wants him to take the shot. Her Blue Jay looks at him like he wants him to take the shot. Clint doesn’t take the shot, and SHIELD gets its best asset since Hawkeye. It costs Clint all of Coulson’s good will. Whenever Clint gets within 3 feet of Coulson, the agent somehow manages to slip away. Whenever they have to interact on missions, it’s professional and clipped. The only thing that give Clint any sort of the comfort is that Fradharc is still allowed to rest on Chulainn’s head, albeit only when Coulson’s out of sight. The agent’s previous affection has clearly receded into cold distance that makes Clint want to squirm, but he refuses to budge. He knows somewhere that he and Romanov are cut from the same cloth, the same ledger. She needs the second chance as much as he does. Coulson will get over it. Then Coulson starts handing Clint off to other handlers.
It takes 6 months of shit missions, sitting on his ass, and being stone-walled by Coulson before he’s had just about it with the silent treatment. After a mission goes pear-shaped because Agent Williams is not fit for any kind of op, let alone being a handler in a covert black ops assassination, Clint is done. His debrief ends very, very quickly because there is not a single agent in SHIELD save Fury that would dare detain a pissed off Clint Barton. He gives his report, swivels out of the room, and marches straight to Coulson’s office, Fradharc desperately trying to keep up beside him. He takes some vindictive pleasure in the frightened faces of the junior agents as they scatter before him, but it pales before the hot anger that sinks deep into his belly as his stands before Coulson’s office.
The next 10 minutes are a solid disaster.
“What the hell is your problem?” Clint questions, slamming the door behind him. Fradharc flutters to Chulainn, who moves discreetly out of sight. Somehow, that pisses Clint off even more.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about Agent, and mind your tone.” Coulson’s voice is level as he looks up from his desk, but Clint can hear the tightly reined in anger. Oh, he wants to play coy? Fucking fine.
“Oh I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware that handing me off to shit handlers and trying to get me killed was part of your grand scheme!” Clint fires, taking two strides to the desk. Coulson’s on his feet now, his gaze hard.
“Agent, I repeat, do not take that tone with me.” He’s slowly moving out from behind the desk, and Clint is two steps away from losing it at Coulson’s outward calm.
“For fuck’s sake, give me a goddamn straight answer for once in your life. What the hell is your problem?!” He growls, hands clenched into tight fists.
“My problem is that I don’t have the time or effort to waste on your insubordination, agent.” Coulson’s arms are folded, tension forming a rigid line on his shoulders. Chulainn’s whimpering in the corner, which speaks to how utterly fucked up this is, but Clint can’t see beyond the red-hot blaze behind his eyes, and how he wants to make everything burn.
“Oh fuck off Coulson. We both know this isn’t about your bullshit regulations.” Clint’s voice is somehow still at acceptable levels of volume, which he counts as a point to self-control.
“Do tell.” There’s warning in those two words, which Clint blatantly ignores as he growls.
“Yeah, this is because I didn’t follow your call, boss.” Clint snidely fires. This is what he does. People think he’s just good for his aim, or that he’s just dumb muscle, but that’s bullshit. Clint’s strength is that he sees what most people can’t, and can translate the information into useful intel. This skill extends to tearing Coulson’s ‘professional agent’ image apart, and he takes cold joy in getting under Coulson’s armour.
He knows he’s succeeding, because Coulson’s face isn’t bland anymore. His eyes widen fractionally, and Clint has a momentary flash of Phil, before his expression smooths and his face become stone. “That’s fucking insubordination, unless your time in the carnival’s made you incapable of telling.” He replies, and Clint feels the words like a physical blow.
“Ooh, low blow. Any more pot shots you want to throw at me? Cause if you want we can talk about the fact that the unflappable Coulson’s just pissy because I didn’t trust him!” Clint is well aware that he sounds like his father. He doesn’t care.
“Agent, you’re toeing a dangerous line.”
“Oh am I? Does it fucking sting? Does it hurt that widdle Clint didn’t come running back to you for advice?” Clint goes for the jugular.
Coulson actually flinches at that, before regaining his stiff posture. Clint feels a jab of guilt, but he pushes it away. Coulson deserves this. Then Coulson’s eyes narrow and Clint knows he’s overstepped.
“Barton, I’m well aware that you do not trust me. It’s understandable, given the fact that your own brother left you to die. Trust issues after that, would be completely understandable.” Coulson’s voice is still fucking level, but every word is precise, calculated to hit Clint under every hurt he’s ever had.
That’s when Clint snaps, throwing a left hook at Coulson, who ducks under it.
“You fucking son of a bitch!” Clint yells, as Coulson elbows him, but Clint twists away and behind Coulson, only to be caught by Coulson’s foot which sends him stumbling backwards towards the desk.
“Sloppy. I wasn’t aware that your competency was this low,” and Clint can hear the disdain. Just like Barney. I never needed you. You’re worthless to me, Clint.
Now just do something for me for once and just stay there and die.
“Let’s not fucking pretend my competency’s on the line here you needy shitbag!” Clint roars, surging to his feet as he catches Coulson in the stomach, pinning him against the wall with his arm catching Coulson by the throat.
“I could care less what you think, agent.” Coulson snaps, his breath coming in short huffs. Their bodies are pressed together against the wall, and Clint notices for the first time that Coulson looks haggard. There are dark bags under his eyes, and his tie is loose around his colour with two buttons undone. The realisation unsettles him as much as the sliver of skin showing does.
“Oh? Is that what you told yourself? Cause Chulainn sure doesn’t look like he’s not caring.” Clint rallies, and Coulson’s eyes flick over to the Husky, who’s curled protectively in a corner around Fradharc, who looks like he’s trying to be as small as possible. Old habits die hard.
“I repeat. You are in danger of being fired and deported, agent. Watch your tone.” His voice is ice.
“Back to that? You know what, you pretentious fuck; I don’t even know why I bothered thinking that you were anything close to a friend. You’re just like Barney, aren’t you.” Clint’s voice stills, goes flat. He can feel Coulson’s gasp, and pretends that he actually still feels joy from that, instead of overwhelming guilt.
“Astute. Now get out of my office.” Is Coulson’s sharp response, and Clint steps back. He can’t handle this. He can’t handle Coulson’s voice, or tone, or eyes or the way he’s desperately trying to keep it together just like Clint is and Clint wants nothing more than to pin Coulson to the wall again an-
He roars, ripping a knife from its sheath on his thigh and flings it wildly. It embeds itself on the wall millimetres from Coulson’s head. They spend a few seconds staring, Coulson’s eyes open in wide surprise, and Clint’s desperately trying to shutter out any and all emotion. Without a word, he turns on his heel and walks out the door, ignoring the fact that Fradharc was still inside the office. He knows Fradharc will follow anyway. He walks down the corridor, down the stairs, through the mess hall, and into the gym. He can see a couple of agents sparring on the mats, with a small crowd watching the display. He smiles a feral smile, and he spends the next two hours beating the shit out of any agent that dared to face him.
He’s panting by the time Romanov smoothly steps onto the mat, her Blue Jay, Pustoy, flying off her shoulder to join Fradharc up on the rafters. She stares at him enigmatically, and nods. Clint launches himself at her, sparring till he doesn’t have the energy to get up from the mat. Romanov silently carries him back to his room, and leaves as quietly as she came. After that he calls her Nat. She doesn’t seem to mind, since his head’s still attached to his shoulders.
So it’s just about par for course that Coulson abruptly disappears on what’s supposed to be a milk run mission in Singapore, and he is presumed captured or dead. Irony, thou art a bitch. Clint’s called in to meet Fury that morning.
“This is not an on-record meeting.” Fury says without preamble, sweeping into the room in a flurry of black leather. Clint has gone from finding that intimidating straight into finding that hilarious. If his sense of humour still existed underneath all the tightly repressed worry, he’d laugh. He places a folder on the table, which is stamped with a big red “CLASSIFIED”. Subtle.
“I don’t suppose that’s for light reading.” Clint says, raising an eyebrow. Ah, it’s still there after all, good to know. Fury narrows his eyes, and his Fossae looks vaguely amused.
“Save the jokes for when Coulson’s home and safe, agent. Now get out of my office and don’t fuck this up.” That’s about as ringing an endorsement as Clint will ever get, so he gives a sharp nod and marches out of the room. He'll have to reevaluate the whole 'willing to throw people under a bus' thing. He isn’t surprised that Natasha is waiting outside, or that she just follows him as he goes to borrow (steal) a car.
“We will need to be careful, Singapore is too populated for a clean escape.” She comments, matching his pace evenly. Junior agents duck out of the way of the Black Widow and Hawkeye, and Clint is briefly reminded of Old Baba telling him about Moses parting the red sea, before he turns to face Natasha.
“Natasha, I can’t ask you to do this. You’re risked your place at-” Clint starts, and then is stopped by Natasha’s glare, “-nowhere. I meant to say nowhere and please come along and don’t kill me.” Natasha’s glare subsides, which should not make Clint as relieved as it does.
“Good boy.” She says mockingly, patting his cheek as she walks towards the hangar bay. Clint huffs an impressed chuckle. Who knew that the deadly Black Widow had a sense of humour too?
On the cargo plane en route to Singapore, Clint and Natasha go over their intelligence.
“Fury’s file is useful, but I’m still going to tap a couple of contacts on the ground. You?” Clint asks, staring at the HYDRA compound that’s disguised as a military training site in the middle of a park forest. Of course it’s HYDRA, it’s always fucking HYDRA.
Natasha nods. “I’ll see who I can contact as well, but we have to be careful. We cannot alert HYDRA to our presence, or we’d be better off slitting our throats.” She says, rising gracefully to check on her gear. It’ll be a long 12 hours to get from New York to Singapore. He just hopes that Coulson’s still alive when they get there.
Once they land, they immediately fall into their cover stories as a recently married couple on their honeymoon. Somehow no one seems to question that story, ever. They book a hotel, and drop their bags and unpack. Clint sets up while Natasha makes a couple of calls, trying to triangulate Coulson’s location within the compound itself from the scraps of information they have about the compound’s layout. They spend the evening scoping out the general area around the park, which is in fact a tourist site centred around a Reservoir. Natasha grips his arm like the doting wife she’s playing as they scout out the park itself.
“Oh Jeremy! Would you look at that bird! It is so stunning!” She exclaims in heavily accented English, using the opportunity to point out the discretely hidden security cameras in the trees. Clint smiles and nods, tapping her waist lightly to signal the ‘park rangers’ that patrol the area. From Natasha’s expression, he can tell she’s noticed too. On the outskirts of the compound alone, he can already pick out approximately ten men and women. Who knows how many more would be inside the base?
Meanwhile, Fradharc and Pustoy perfectly play the parts of being daemon that are madly in love, twittering and chirping at each other as they fly aimlessly around the park in some romantic airborne dance, while giving Clint and Natasha a bird's-eye view of the park and its layout.
Later that night, they head back to the hotel, and begin planning their strategy.
“Alright, thanks to our contacts, we have a pretty clear idea of the layout of the compound. Now we just need an entrance.” Clint says, his eyes flicking between topographical and blueprints, trying to find a plausible way to get in and out while staying alive.
“We can’t get in during the day, the risk of civilian casualties is too high then,” Natasha notes, glaring at the map spread out on the table like it’s personally offended her. To be fair, given their odds, glaring at the map is a perfectly reasonable option
“But at night, the visibility levels will be extremely low. If the base is worth its salt, it’ll have infra-red scanning tech on top of its cameras.” Clint says, sighing in frustration. The location of the base is extremely well planned. It’s in the middle of a tourist area, and Singapore’s precedent for military compounds in forests makes the idea of another one in the Reservoir plausible enough that no one would question it. The forest itself limits the visibility and number of entrances, with the security cameras placing any intruder at an immediate disadvantage. That’s not even counting the hundreds of personnel on site, given the size of the compound. At this rate, it’d be a suicide mission to storm the base alone.
“My, is the famous Hawkeye doubting his eyesight?” Natasha teases lightly, smiling slightly at his amused snort.
“I’m not doubting my eyesight Nat, I’m doubting the fact that we’ll be welcomed with party hats and streamers.” He retorts dryly, watching her lips curve upwards. Making her smile had become something of a pastime in the six months they've known each other, and it distracts him from the absolute shithole they’re about to tackle.
His attention is diverted by Pustoy’s light chirp, as he taps a part of the forest with his clawed feet.
“This is the part of the forest that’s easiest to navigate. It’s the least dense.” He says, and Clint is suddenly very grateful for bird daemons and their intel-gathering skills. Later that night, Fradharc flutters over to her perch on his shoulder.
“Clint, you need to be prepared. What if he’s dead? You know you can’t afford to be compromised in there.” She whispers worriedly to him, and Clint just smiles. “You know what I’m going to do.” He growls.
“I’m going to burn the fucking place to the ground.”
Singapore, The Next Day
“Places everybody, we don’t want to be late for the show.” Clint mutters, perched silent in a tree, Fradharc and Pustoy watching his 6. Natasha gives a faint huff over their comms system as she crawls through the undergrowth. Their cover is precarious, with one false step alerting an entire compound of over 200 personnel to their presence. It’s dangerous, bordering on suicidal really.
No wonder Clint loves it.
The twilight sun sends shifting shadows flying across the forest floor, providing the perfect camouflage for wraiths like Natasha. Evading detection with all the grace of a ballerina, she makes her way to the electrified gate, giving a slight glance back at Clint, her hair blazing like fire. Black Widow indeed, Clint muses as he nods. She then, very purposefully, nudges a small branch near her feet, sending it rolling minutely into the view of the security camera. She’s surrounded by men in seconds, pressing her to her knees with the muzzles of their guns pointed to her head.
“Hey boys, don’t suppose you could help a dame out?” She purrs, as they hoist her to her feet and bring her inside the compound. Clint starts the timer. 3 minutes. That’s the maximum time they gave themselves before they forced Natasha into a position she couldn’t free herself from. Beside him he can feel Pustoy tensing. If Natasha becomes threatened by any immediate danger, he’ll know.
Three minutes.
Two minutes.
One minute.
Clint lets his arrow fly. It latches on to the gate, causing a power surge that sends a blackout throughout the whole compound. Everything, from the security systems to the external cameras, should have gone offline. The only thing left would have been the internal security feed, which runs on a different circuit. He sees the lights flicker and go down, and launches himself off the tree branch, using his momentum to swing across another branch up and over the gate. He lands on the pads of his feet, his presence unnoticed for now. He can hear the sounds of confusion from the guards as he edges towards the entrance. He can see 10 guards, and only one with a key card dangling from his belt. He spies Fradharc and Pustoy in the trees, eyeing him intently and gives the signal. They screech as one and descend on the unsuspecting guards. It’s funny, Clint thinks. Soldiers and Agents are trained for all sorts of emergencies. Bombs, Artillery, Nuclear Warheads; and yet in all this time, no one has ever been able to successfully counter an angry raptor. Especially when both raptors are hyper-intelligent, and are nigh invulnerable to weapons, and are specially trained to avoid them mid-flight anyway.
The guards dive for cover from the two very angry birds, but rally quickly, firing at the birds in a vain attempt to gain some distance. Those with avian daemons launch them at the duo like speeding missiles. Pustoy and Fradharc can run interference for about a minute or so, given that they’re now contending with two Bald Eagles and a Peregrine Falcon. SHIELD has better training than HYDRA though, so Pustoy brings down the Bald Eagles, her claws raking through their wings, and Fradharc outdistances the Peregrine Falcon to swoop down on it, sending it hurtling towards the ground. Clint has roughly 10 minutes before systems come back online. More than enough time.
He snatches the key card off the guard, and lets himself into the pitch dark hallway. Both he and Natasha had taken great pains to memorise the entire layout of the compound by heart. He ducks into a security closet on his left, and slips into the air ducts. From there his climbs by rote. Right, left, right, right left. He stops before the vent, listening acutely for any disturbances. He hears the faintest rustle of hair, the scuff of a shoe against the wall, and several low murmurs. There are five people in the control room he’s about to drop into. The poor suckers. Just because he has hearing aids doesn’t mean he’s deaf.
Slowly, he knocks three arrows, and listens again. One’s sitting in his station, another one watching the feed over his back. The other two are guarding the door, and the last one is pacing around the room like a trapped dog. Given the soft sounds of panting, there might actually be a dog daemon in there. He lets three arrows fly, and smirks when he hears the soft thump of three bodies hitting the floor, the dying burst of gold dust of their daemons briefly illuminating the room in an eerie glow. The other two drop before they can even make a sound of alarm. He slides the vent cover, and lands of the floor. Now for the hardest part of the mission.
“Hawkeye, are you in the control room?” Natasha whispers over the comms.
“Affirmative. I’m triangulating Coulson’s position and will move in for retrieval. Keep running interference, Black Widow.” Clint responds, his eyes flicking over the security cameras for a glimpse of the Agent. He spies him under the feed labelled “Basement-Two”, and he has to hold back a wave of burning anger. Coulson doesn’t look good. His eyes are closed, but his laboured breathing speaks for internal injuries. He’s hung up by chains attached to his wrists, and his tailored suit is riddled with bullet holes and cuts. Chulainn’s curled up under Coulson’s feet, whimpering softly, and if the blood pooling beneath him means anything, it means Clint has to move fast. “Widow, Coulson is in Basement-Two. I repeat, Basement-Two. I am moving there now.” Clint calls into the comms, hearing Natasha’s grunt of reply.
Time for the Hawkeye to begin his hunt.
He runs out of the control room on the pads of his feet, his bow nocked and ready. Along the way, he comes across no less than thirty trained personnel with guns. By the time he reaches the basement, now worse for wear, he has a kill count of thirty-six. That’s the great advantage that assassins have over soldiers; they don’t need eyes to kill people. He stops before the final corridor to the torture room where Coulson lies chained to do a status-check. He took 5 minutes to get from the control room to the basement, if his calculations are right, Natasha should be joining him within the next minute or so. The soft patter of wings is his only indicator before Fradharc settles on his shoulder, and he recognises Natasha’s warm presence at his side.
“Sit-rep.” She orders, taking advantage of the brief lull in action.
“I have thirty-four arrows left. No injuries,” Clint whispers back, smiling grimly. “You?”
“I have eight shots left in either gun, no injuries.” Her voice is level, but he can hear her pleased smirk. He checks his timer. They have roughly 6 more minutes before the lights come back on. It’ll take at least another 10 to get Coulson and make it to the front door. That’s not counting the full squad that he just knows is stationed in front of the door.
“On Three.” He suggests.
“One.” Natasha whispers and they rush the platoon. Before the first shot is fired, Clint’s dropped three men, and Natasha’s dropped another four with her guns. Five more to go. Clint feels Fradharc launch of his shoulder, diving down on the hapless Pit Viper daemon and reducing it to fine dust. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees another woman go down, Pustoy pecking viciously at her eyes. He ducks under the returning fire of the remaining 3 soldiers, embedding his knife in one man’s heart. He sees another goes down with the handle of a knife sticking out between her eyes. The last soldier desperately drops his gun and unsheathes a knife. Clint allows a flicker of amusement before placing his hands on the man’s shoulder, flipping over his wild swing. He lands just as Natasha hurls herself at the man, her legs wrapping around his neck and bringing him down with her body weight and snapping his neck.
By the time Natasha’s picked herself on the ground and takes point, Clint has barged through the room, momentarily grateful for the fact that it’s empty, and begun to work on the chains holding unconscious Coulson up. Chulainn’s lifted a wary eye to stare at the intruder, only widen in recognition.
“You came.” Chulainn breathes, and Clint is shocked at hearing the Husky talk for the first time. His voice isn’t low, like Clint would have expected, but a soft tenor that warms Clint to his core.
“Did you expect me not to?” He fires back, shoving that train of thought away, and searches for a set of keys in the pitch darkness. They’re running out of time.
“No. Phil did, but even he was beginning to lose hope. The things they did, Clint, the things they did to us.” Chulainn’s shivering now, and Clint has to spend a precious ten seconds trying to calm the Husky down.
“Look, I know they did some pretty shitty things, but if you don’t pull yourself together we’re all going to die. Start by telling me where the keys are.” Clint says, risking a soft touch on Chulainn’s flank. He shudders, but visibly regroups.
“The keys are on the table.” He supplies, and Clint frantically manages to find a set hidden a stack of instruments that he refuses to think about. He manages to get Coulson out of the chains, hoisting the unconscious man over his shoulder.
“Nat, I’ve got him!” He calls, adjusting Coulson and sliding his side-arm out of its holster. Just in case.
“Good, then let’s go.” Natasha answers, her voice clipped. Clint can hear the unspoken before it’s too late, and hurries out of the room, Chulainn trailing silently behind him. They make their way up the stairs, Natasha smoothly taking down anyone in their way. When she runs out of bullets, Clint tosses her his Glock.
They almost make it. In fact, they actually make it to the goddamn entrance of the Compound building before the lights flicker back on. Between them and the entrance door, stands a platoon of men. Clint curses, and barely hears the “Open fire!” as he drops Coulson, curling himself around the body of the prone man. He closes his eyes, waiting for sensation of bullets tearing through him, but it never comes. What he hears is a loud screech of anger, and Natasha’s surprised gasp. Clint waits a couple more seconds before he dares to open his eyes.
He stares.
<STAY AWAY FROM OUR COULSON> Fradharc intones, her voice ringing and clear like a bolt of divine judgement. She’s hovering in position before him, her wings beating furiously, but that’s not what’s surprising. What breaks Clint’s sense of reality is the gale forces that whip out from every beat of the Hawk’s wings. Hurricanes of force explode down the corridor, throwing men off their feet and sending them flying. Clint can almost see the churning winds, whipping at the men like vengeful spirits, but that’s not all. When he tears his eyes from the devastation (miracle, just like Old Baba said) to look at Fradharc, he realises Fradharc is quite literally on fire. Her crimson plumage has given way to spouts of flame, curling around her like a phoenix. She no longer resembles the Hawk that Clint knows and loves, but now borders on something ancient, something eldritch that had arisen from the sands of time to protect and defend on Clint’s behalf.
He yells at Natasha over the raging winds, who rallies herself and strides over to Clint, hoisting Coulson over her shoulder and using her remaining hand to wordlessly gesture at Clint’s bow. Clint gets the hint, assembling his bow and firing without even bothering to take aim. The arrows fly past Fradharc, and, as if guided the winds themselves, find their mark. The soldiers drop like flies, unable to do anything but attempt to shield themselves against the furious wrath of nature. As they make their way down the corridor, Fradharc flies alongside them, the winds forming a protective cocoon that acts as a shield, spiralling around the trio like a living tornado. Behind them, Chulainn limps, his eyes wide in mute astonishment.
They exit into the now dark woods, the soldiers helpless to stop them. As soon as they pass beyond the borders of HYDRA’s reach, Fradharc looks at Clint with burning eyes, and an understanding reaches between them. Turning back to face the compound, Clint stretches out his palm.
“Burn.” Clint says, clenching his outstretched fist, and the entire building erupts into flames. Everything within the perimeter of gates is caught by the torrents of fire that consume the building, the burning heat reaching out like a yawning pillar to the sky. When he looks back, Chulainn and Natasha are staring at him, in what he could only describe as ‘slack jawed’.
Clint can only manage a grin and a “told you I’d burn it to the ground,” before his knees buckle and his vision goes dark.
New York, USA (2006)
Clint’s sitting on the rooftop of the SHIELD base. The access door was locked, which means may as well have been wide open to someone like Clint. For once, Fradharc isn’t perching on his shoulder, but standing on the ledge, silently watching Clint as he idly dangles his legs over the six-story drop. Stretching out his palm, he watches the faintest traces of flame dance across his fingers. He’s not remotely dressed, with nothing but a pair of cargo shorts on to shield him from the biting winds, but it doesn’t seem to affect him.
Fire and wind. Two diametrically opposed yet complimentary forces. Wind has the potential to easily quench fire, but is can also feed a flickering flame and fan it into a roaring bonfire. Fire is passionate, as dangerous to the enemy as to the user, moving wildly and erratically as it leaps from place to place. Wind is equally fickle, blowing this way and that across the four continents, and can be anything from a gentle breeze to a whirling maelstrom. Rather fitting, Clint muses. To his left, he can see the sun slowly descending below the horizon, casting a final spell as it sends jagged bursts of colour dancing across the sky.
Stay away from our Coulson
“Guess you were right, huh Baba. What would you say to that?” Clint mutters, clenching his fist to dissipate the flame.
Fradharc nuzzles his arm. “She would be proud. You know that.” She says, and Clint does smile at that, because it’s true. Even if he’s even more of a freak than he already was, she’d still be proud.
Clint doesn’t hear the door open, but he’s not surprised when Coulson settles besides him, swinging his legs to dangle off the ledge. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, sir?” He asks, more as a way of greeting than a genuine question.
“Needed a change of scenery.” Coulson replies easily, smiling wanly at Clint. Offhandedly, Clint notes that Coulson has completely dropped his Agent persona. Somehow, he’s not sure whether he has the energy to care. He doesn’t even want to see Coulson’s face, because he’s scared of the emotions bubbling inside him. He doesn’t want to recognise what they mean.
“I heard about what you did, from Natasha and Chulainn.” Coulson continues, his eyes fixed intently on Clint. Clint refuses to look back.
“We will be registering you as a known metahuman for now, and research is being conducted on the phenomenon by the R and D as we speak.” Coulson says, his tone as level as the day he hunted Clint down in Berlin. We need to take you in for testing, SHIELD has decided that you are a liability, I’m passing you off to another handler, passes through Clint’s mind. He sucks in a breath, starts mentally cutting ties, and waits for the other shoe to drop.
“Thank you.”
Clint almost gets whiplash from how fast he turns to face Coulson. His eyes are shining, reflecting the embers of the setting sun, raging fire surrounded by calm blue. The warm hues of red and gold frame Coulson’s face, and Clint’s heart fucking stops. Whatever he’s feeling isn’t bubbling anymore; it’s translated into a dull roar behind his ears, into fire in his stomach that he can feel plummeting through the six-story drop, into the heat that is suffusing his face that Clint is sure can’t be attributed to mysterious firebending powers.
“You launched an unsanctioned mission to save me. Not just that, but if Natasha hadn’t insisted, you would have gone alone.” Coulson, states, slowly shifting closer to Clint. He knows Coulson’s giving him time to move away, but he can’t speak without a torrent of something coming from his lips, so he remains silent.
“You tapped into a power long speculated to have been lost to the world, just to protect me.” Coulson continues. They’re now pressed shoulder to shoulder, Coulson’s pressed suit against Clint’s bare arm, and Clint is very aware of the heat rolling off Coulson’s body, seeping through Clint’s marrows and filling him with warmth.
“I owe you an apology. You were right,” Coulson says, leaning back on his hands to watch the bursts of colour that fade into night. Clint raises an eyebrow. Speaking right now is a no go.
“I was angry, because you didn’t trust me. I thought-I felt like you’d hurt me, somehow, but I couldn’t figure out why. That’s why I avoided you.” Clint’s heart is caught somewhere between his ribcage and his throat, but all he can focus on is the kindness sparkling behind Coulson’s eyes. He wants to bury into Coulson, he wants to memorise Coulson scent, he wants to see Coulson smile, committing that rare jewel to memory. Oh god, Clint wants so much.
“Did you-figure it out? In the end?” Clint chokes out. Coulson doesn’t respond, and gestures to Clint’s hand. Belatedly, Clint realises that he’d been stroking Chulainn, his fingers kneading and threading through his fur. Oh. Oh.
Fradharc flutters onto Coulson’s shoulder. “Red-tailed Hawks are largely solitary creatures,” he says softly, as Fradharc nuzzles his cheek, sending sparks of electricity jolting down Clint’s spine. He remembers Donald, and the vile sensation when he touched Fradharc, but this is nothing like that. This is warm comfort. This is hazy smiles in the morning over coffee. This is right. “They prefer to keep to themselves. They’re highly adaptable, overcoming vast circumstances and disadvantages just to survive. They’re loyal, introverted, efficient, and distrustful.”
Coulson’s arm wraps around the back of Clint’s head, slowly pressing their foreheads together. “-and guess what, Clint?” He shivers at Coulson-Phil’s use of his first name. He gives a tiny shake of his head as Fradharc croons.
“Red-tailed Hawks mate for life.”
It’s not passionate. It’s shy and tender and Clint did not expect this as far as first kisses go, but it's not bad. He doesn’t even bother resisting, he just melts into Coulson, slumping against him as decades’ worth of fight seep out of him. The fires and winds don’t last forever. Even they need a place to call home. He can feel Chulainn crawling onto his lap, settling there with a satisfied huff as Fradharc nestles in his fur. A thought occurs, that Clint can finally recognise the strange feeling that’s been bubbling inside him, that’s made him scared and confused because of just how foreign it felt; but here, with the dying sun casting silhouettes on them and the world sparking and celebrating beneath him, he can finally give a name to it-
For the first time in over a decade, Clint is happy.