12. Chapter 12

He mostly slept for the next couple of days, helped by the pain meds they gave him. The only interruptions were for meals and an actual physical therapist who unmercifully worked on his leg while a guard in full tac gear and holding a semi-automatic rifle stood next to the bed, which only made Clint feel smug. Finally, though, Sitwell came and got him again.

"I don't need the wheelchair anymore," Clint snarled, standing crookedly because his leg did hurt, even if he could get around on it.

"Bullshit. And also, we're going across the whole damn building. If you fall down I'm leaving you where you land and letting people step on you."

Clint got in the chair and this time, Sitwell pushed the chair himself. There were no other guards. An elevator ride and endless hallways later, they were at another unmarked door. Sitwell knocked. When the door slid open, he shoved Clint through it into the office beyond then left.

Phil looked up from his paperwork as Clint's chair rolled to a stop. "Recovering?"

"Who are you people?" Clint locked the chair, pulled himself up out of it and then collapsed into one of the nice upholstered chairs facing the desk.

"The question is, who are you?" Phil picked up a folder, thick and worn. "This? This is the hard copy print out of your file that I started two years ago."

Clint's gut dropped but he tried not to show any reaction.

Phil put the folder down. "Oddly enough, when I went to check on your file in our records the other day, there was nothing there." He focused on Clint. "In fact, there was nothing, anywhere. Not in our database, not in the IRS database, not in local business records for the city you owned a garage in. Not anywhere. Clint Barton had ceased to exist. The only proof I have of who you are is here, in this file I started putting together for my own reference two years ago and keep locked in my desk. I'm quite certain that if I had not done so, then every single piece of identifying information about you would be gone."

"Weird, huh?" Clint settled back, folding his hands across his stomach and giving Phil a self-confidant smirk that Clint did not feel at all.

"Very weird. In fact, outright bizarre. Impossible, even." Phil tapped the folder with his fingers. "There are only three people who have the skill set to make that happen, and you, Clint Francis Barton, are not on that list."

"Hmmm." Clint nodded.

Phil stared at him and Clint tried to keep staring back. Finally Phil sighed. "Tony bargained a discount for services rendered in exchange for deleting you, didn't he?"

"You should probably ask him that."

"I have. He's oddly protective of you, and somewhat obsessed with putting that car back together."

"Don't know what you want me to say, then. Phil."

That stopped Phil for a second. "That is my name, actually. Phil Coulson. Agent Phil Coulson."

Clint nodded again, letting the silence sit between them for a moment. "So tell me, Phil, why you give a fuck. Huh? Why? A garage mechanic on the run from the Russian mob: I had a short shelf life. AIM or Fed, you weren't going to get much of a return on me." He paused, leaning back in his chair to set his target. "The sex wasn't that good."

Phil didn't even blink, or blush, or twitch. "I'm not sure we could describe that as sex, technically."

Clint sat forward. "Why the hell am I here?"

Phil calmly opened the file, looking it over. He held up a small piece of paper, faded purple with crude art on it. "Hawkeye, the Amazing Boy Wonder," Phil said, then put it down.

"How the hell did you find one of those old fliers?" Clint asked, although he had meant to demand access to a taxi or something. He snapped his mouth shut.

Phil flipped through more paper, including what Clint thought was his old mug shot from when he was 15 and got hauled in for graffiti (he'd actually been lookout while Barney stripped a Mercedes, but he played innocent, scared kid until Barney picked up the next morning). Finally Phil looked up at him. "Honestly? I was putting this all together in order to suggest to my boss that we recruit you. If you were still alive, which I was beginning to doubt." Phil frowned, and he looked so sincere that Clint actually felt like an asshole.

"I had to run. You know that." He slumped down in the chair again, crossing his arms.

"Given what Natasha led you to believe, yes, I do know that. I was not expecting you to run quite so…effectively." He chose the word with obvious care.

Clint drummed his fingers on his bicep for a moment. "She really your wife?"

"Who?"

"Natasha. Is she your wife?"

"I'm gay, Clint. That was just a cover." Phil sighed and closed the folder, staring at it for a long time. "You impressed me. Your history of killing Trickshot was legend among Grigory's men, so overblown that I didn't even believe it until I saw your collection of bows at the shop; but instead of following that up with a career as an assassin-for-hire you opened an auto garage which turned a profit its first year. You nailed the AIM operation just by watching traffic and listening to gossip. You saved my life with a paleolithic weapon making shots that should have been nearly impossible, given factors of where you were and how fast you shot; and that was after gaining access to the building without alerting anyone, including me. Then you completely fell off the face of the earth." Phil finally looked up at him again. "You're good at what you do, no matter what you decide to do. That's a skill set we could use."

Clint chewed on that for a moment. "So, nothing personal is what you're saying?"

"Absolutely." Phil nodded, cool and professional.

"You shot me, asshole." Clint pulled himself up and slammed his fist onto the desk, leaning over it. "That's personal. You could have had me trailed out of Stark tower. You know who Francis Booker is now, and you found a fucking circus flier from when I was twelve years old so don't tell me you don't already have the numbers for my primary Swiss bank account. But you pulled the fucking trigger and took me down." Clint pushed himself until he was inches from Phil's face. "Maybe the sex was that damn good." He smirked.

Phil flicked a hand as if dismissing the accusation, his eyes darting the same direction. Clint realized he was still off his game because he followed the motion like a trained monkey, but that realization was not fast enough to stop Phil from using his other hand to pull Clint off balance and flip him over the desk. Clint twisted as he went down with all the paperwork and half the crap on the desk so that he landed on his undamaged leg, but the impact still jarred his injury. He bit down on a yelp, going limp as Phil rolled him onto his stomach because getting even more injured was not on his agenda. He was pretty sure Phil wasn't going to kill him.

"You're getting on my last nerve, Barton." Phil sat on his hips, twisting one arm sharply up behind him and pressing the heel of his palm into Clint's other shoulder, pinning him to the floor.

"Asshole." Clint snapped back, because it was pretty much all he had left.

"Clint Barton doesn't exist, you took care of that on your own; Francis Booker is being held indefinitely in a six by eight cell by a quasi-government agency that most people don't think actually exists. Your accounts were seized three days ago. Thank you for your donation." Phil twisted Clint's arm hard enough to twinge the elbow but not break it. "I'm giving you a chance, here. Don't blow it."

"Do I have to blow you? Is that what this about? You want some fucking 'appreciation' for a job well done?" Clint tried squirming but his injury screamed at him so he stopped.

Phil went still behind him. "No."

"Seems that way to me. You've ruined my fucking life here twice, pal, so if you want gratitude then go to hell."

Phil let go of Clint's arm but kept his other hand pressed against his shoulder. "You didn't have to warn me about Barney's plans, or AIM. I'm grateful for that, it saved us a hell of a lot of trouble and possibly a few lives. I don't need your gratitude; I'm trying to pay you back."

"Again, nothing personal?" Clint laughed, the sound cold even to him. Phil let go of his shoulder and Clint rotated onto his back, still straddled by Phil who had sat back on his heels, his expression blank.

They stared at each other for a moment before Phil spoke. "It's definitely personal." He broke, his expression slumping into a tired, frustrated grimace. He rubbed his mouth, then tipped off his heels to gracefully roll to the side, off of Clint, and sat there with his legs crossed. "Is that what you wanted to know?"

Clint took a moment to gingerly pull himself up so he was sitting with his back to the desk, his injured leg sprawled out between them. "Yeah, I guess."

Phil glanced up at him. "You guess?"

Clint closed his eyes and tipped his head back to thump against the desk. "You said it: I've got nothing left. I can't be Clint Barton, and Francis Booker has a long life ahead of him as a 'detainee.' I'd escape, eventually, but what then? Start all over? Why? For who? Barney's off the radar if he isn't dead, and I've looked. My plan was to go to Thailand, adopt some kids or something. Do something good for a fucking change. Start an orphanage, I don't know. I can't do that, you probably bought a fucking helicopter with my retirement." He sighed, but did not hear Phil moving. "All for god damn nothing."

"It was never going to happen that way," Phil said, and his voice sounded genuinely regretful. Clint looked over at him.

"Why?"

"AIM is still looking for you, as well. We know they put feelers out for Clint Barton, and trust me, you might think you can disappear in a tropical paradise and start an orphanage and learn how to surf, but they would find you."

"The only reason you found me was because I made a stupid decision to take a job for Tony Stark."

"Admittedly, that was a stupid decision. But eventually, someone would have stumbled over you. It just happened to be me." Phil leaned forward, putting one hand on the floor between them, moving very slowly as he brought his other hand up to cup Clint's face. "So make a better one this time: don't run, and work for us. You can do good work here. You can still make a difference. With me."

Clint held still while Phil kept coming closer until their lips were touching. Clint's heart stopped for a moment, the twisting feeling in his gut disappearing as his breath left him. He brought his hands up and grabbed at Phil's suit, dragging him closer until he was straddling Clint again, practically sitting his lap but holding himself up off of Clint's legs. Their kissed deepened when Clint tipped his head and opened his mouth, Phil pushing into it with tongue and air and strength.
Clint pulled back for breath. "You don't know me."

"I trust you," Phil answered quietly, moving his hands to frame Clint's face.

Clint's stomach twisted up again, but this time with a feeling he barely remembered. He thought of that day long ago when Trickshot gave him $25 and Barney told him 'good job' and he shuddered, his emotions tumbling through need and want and fear and desperation. He closed his eyes as Phil's lips moved over his cheek, down along his jaw. Taking a deep breath, he shook his head, forcing Phil back.

"You shouldn't—"

"I trust you," Phil repeated, holding Clint's face tightly in his hands so that Clint could not even move. It didn't feel dangerous, or risky; Clint felt the warm wash of safety flood him, that ephemeral holy grail of being in the right place, for the right reasons, for the right person. Hope warred with his fear, the thought that Phil would throw him aside as easily as Barney had bubbling up into his consciousness.

Phil tilted his head, studying Clint. "Trust me. I looked for you then and later, I looked for you and I would never have stopped until I found you. I will always come for you, I will never leave you behind. Not willingly."

Clint nodded, words fleeing him for a moment. Phil kissed him again and they breathed for each other for a while.

Phil smiled at him, his hand running up and down Clint's side under his shirt. "I'm making a call on this that other people disagree with, but I'm not wrong."

Clint smirked again. "So the sex really was that good, huh?"

"Shut up." Phil leaned down and took Clint's mouth with his, demanding and controlling, and Clint reached up to meet him.

##END##