Warnings: sexual child abuse (implied), sexual assault (not-graphic),

Part 3 teaser: "He's not telling us everything," Fury reached out and shut the projection off, "I'm not comfortable with this." Coulson didn't respond, didn't need to. "Let Rogers know I want Barton watched; he doesn't go anywhere alone until we understand exactly what's going on. I'm not losing him to some egotistical mind-fucking blade-dancer who has mentor issues and wants to take it out on our asset."

Phil nodded efficiently. He couldn't agree more.

Part 3

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The grins and sudden silences whenever Phil entered the room began just before oh-nine hundred on a Tuesday morning.

Phil noticed immediately. He pretended not to.

The quiet chuckles and looks of approval continued throughout the day. He might have become irritated by this time but there was no maliciousness evident whatsoever. He was curious about the phenomenon but willing to wait out the discovery of the source over asking about it directly.

When he walked into the cafeteria he found the answer with a group of agents clustered around the main bulletin board, or more specifically he found the answer in a worn looking piece of paper pinned front and center. When one of the agents spotted Phil he looked like he wasn't quite sure how to react, before shrugging slightly and grinning. Coulson cocked his head very slightly in response and the three agents stepped aside as he joined them at the bulletin. The first thought he had when he looked at the paper:

Barton was once again slandering his painstakingly built reputation.

His second thought after he read the first few lines, ink pressed deep into the paper in a more legible chicken scrawl then usual:

He could live with it.

He left the paper with its painstakingly printed list where it was for three days. Then it was secretly relocated, its new home a carefully pressed file folder labeled "Employee Disciplinary Action Form EDA2-5" in the bottom locked drawer on his desk. Next to his Browning (his forth favourite back-up weapon).

The next time he opened that file there were two new points added to the list and a bright pink sticky note with a smiley face.

Phil upgraded the security measures on the entire floor. Personally.

When Phil Coulson disobeys direct orders he gets promoted.

Phil Coulson once took down an entire hydra unit single handed, when asked what weapons he used he smiled and held out his pen.

If at first you don't succeed, you're not Phil Coulson.

Phil Coulson's stare is so bland his enemies spontaneously combust from the need to emote.

Phil Coulson is never late because time would never dream of fucking with him.

If Phil Coulson doesn't feel like kicking your ass he'll have his suit do it for him.

Phil Coulson doesn't interrogate people, he stares them down until they beg to tell him what they know.

Phil Coulson can lay out a royal flush with just one card.

There is no such thing as silence, the world is simply waiting for Phil Coulson to give it permission to speak.

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Phil joined Fury in the far corner of the cafeteria, his appearance generally disregarded by the majority of agents around, just as he liked it. He nodded at his superior, accepted the puzzle page from the newspaper that was passed to him and pretended that the man was reading the business section and not the Sunday comics. Across the room a group of agents voices were beginning to rise, good-natured ribbing, letting off steam after a difficult week. Coulson sipped his tea and circled three words in quick succession. When the agents began to get louder he glanced briefly their way and suppressed a sigh.

"I take it this means Agent Barton has finished placing Starks latest bugs in our duct system," Fury intoned and Phil nodded, moving on to the first of three Sudoku's. Clint had actually finished over an hour ago. He'd made good time.

"Yes sir. I have agents in the ducts removing them now," most of them at least. Barton was getting more creative in his hiding places, but a few of them could actually come in handy in the future, so long as they weren't near Fury's or his own office. He pondered his cherry danish, wondering if he wanted to save it for a little longer. He was going to be here a while. "Seven was the last count."

Across the room tables were suddenly scraping across the floor, loud and obnoxious as the agents around them moved out of the way. Five-thirty in the morning was too early for this, even for Phil, but considering that the majority of men and woman in the room had been pulling night shifts for eight days straight it wasn't unexpected. Neither was it unexpected when Barton sprang up onto one of said tables dressed in worn jeans and a bold red t-shirt with a cherub holding a bow and arrow front and center. The image was only partially hidden by the suit jacket (the very nice suit jacket) that hugged his shoulders. Phil's eyes narrowed. Barton didn't look in their direction as he shrugged the jacket off and callously tossed it to the group gathered round. He raised his arms to get a cheer, strutting around like he was the main attraction and clearly enjoying it.

"Looks like he found your secret locker," Fury commented wryly, eye still focused on his paper. Phil very carefully did not scowl at his director. Across the room Agent Polanski jumped up on the opposite table to another round of cheers. Now Fury looked up. "I'm not certain Barton is the most logical choice for this lesson," he sounded more amused than disapproving and Phil shrugged; best way to shut an ego down is to have an even bigger ego put it in its place. Besides, Fury secretly adored Barton, at least for an hour or two every other month.

"You think you can challenge this?" Polanski, one of their newer agents who looked like he may have been a recipient of the super-soldier serum, gestured to his very fit form. There were catcalls all around and the man grinned widely, soaking it up. "You can't handle this Old Man," he goaded Barton, who had his back turned and was making eyes at the agent he had given the jacket to. She looked back with interest just as his attention was pulled back to Polanski. He eyed his challenger up and down skeptically, his look saying everything he thought of the junior agents self-inflated ego.

"I'm not sure I know anyone who'd want to handle it," Barton smirked back, rolling his head and shoulders for show. "We doing this or are you planning on outgrowing your training pants first young whippersnapper." Polanski, rolling his shoulders in imitation of Barton, grinned sharply. Barton was barely ten years older than him.

"He does realize who he's challenging right?" Fury looked genuinely curious and Phil nodded.

"Barton's shirt is a pretty dead giveaway and Polanski has been trying to get the Avengers attention for a while now. He knows who he is." Sisco, Polanski's immediate supervisor, pulled out a chair and joined them at their table.

"When I casually mentioned that I needed to cut Polanski's ego in half and you told me you'd take care of it, I didn't think you'd meant within the next hour," he looked suitably impressed. Phil tilted his head in acknowledgement, having no intention of revealing that Barton had been balancing on the drop down ceiling above their heads at the time of the conversation; Phil hadn't asked Barton to step up here. Sometimes Barton had a weird fixation with invisibly stalking Phil. The fixation of showing up the agents around him was old hat.

"Let's do this," Polanski agreed eagerly. Phil took a small bite of his danish. Delicious.

The two men across the room moved to the tables edge, lined up, and then dropped stiffly forward. They caught themselves easily when their readied hands landed firmly on the table across from them, but only one thud was actually heard. Another agent stepped forward, one of Polanski's teammates who looked a little too gleeful about the entire scenario.

"Rules of the challenge are:" his voice carried well, "you will lower yourselves into a half extended push-up on my mark and remain in said position for as long as possible. The first man to fall loses."

"I hope you have an icepack ready, 'cause you're going to need it," Polanski ribbed, mostly good-naturedly.

"I'm sure I could dig a frost giant up from somewhere to cool down with," Barton smirked. Phil managed to not roll his eyes.

"Begin!" The agent ordered and both men dutifully bent their arms until they were locked in a half push-up. Phil contemplated getting another tea.

Five minutes in Barton became bored and began a conversation with the woman holding Phil's jacket for him.

Fifteen minutes in Polanski had a sheen of sweat on his forehead but he was still going strong.

Twenty minutes in Barton started asking him about his training regime, commenting on his stamina, asking him where he bought his shirts because they hid sweat stains really well. Fury sighed and lifted his hand. A moment later a fresh coffee was laid before him and a black tea with all the makings on the side for Phil. Sisco had moved to a different table by then, clearly uncomfortable in Fury's silent presence for longer than five minutes.

Thirty-five minutes in Polanski's arms were shaking visibly and he was beginning to loose his form.

Forty-two minutes in the junior agent crashed to the ground amidst a long series of cheers and backslaps. He was impressively fit, even as far as athletes went, just not fit enough. Barton turned his head and watched with a grin as the man pulled himself to his feet.

"It was bound to happen, I have fifty pounds on you," the guy grumbled, clearly not used to losing.

"What? I'm sorry I'm having trouble concentrating, so tired," Barton gasped dramatically, and his arms started bending. "Oh, oh no I'm going down, I'm going…wait, no," he paused, his chest a centimeter above his hands, and smirked at Polanski, "actually, I think I'm good," he easily pushed back up halfway, then went down again. "Woah, little unsteady here, but I, actually no, no I'm still good," he pushed easily back into place. "You know what would make this even more embarrassing than having an old guy like me already beat you so easily?" He quirked his head and between one moment and the next he shifted up onto his fingertips, digits digging white into the tables surface. The muscles in his arms shifted nicely.

Fury stood from his seat and left without a word.

Polanski noticed and turned to leave as well.

"Hey? The challenge isn't over yet," Barton exclaimed and Polanski turned back to him.

"Looks over to me," he stated blandly, trying to shrug it off as no big deal as the agents around him began slinking back to work.

"Nah, not when you have an extra fifty pounds on me. Clearly I'm cheating here, so grab a seat and join me. We'll see this through." Polanski did not look interested and Barton's eyes narrowed, all humour suddenly gone.

"Sit."

Polanski sat. And sat, and sat. Three hours later when Phil wandered back to check on his progress Polanski was still sitting and Barton was still frozen in place, a long hard plank connecting the two tables and looking like he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Silent. Still. A predator. Polanski looked like the message had been received, but Phil would have to wait for Sisco's report in a week or so.

Barton would probably make the man sit there all day to prove his point. Phil wanted him to get some rest, and Barton was well aware of this if the wink he sent his way meant anything. Phil allowed a brief flash of amusement to cross his face, just enough to make Barton frown at him, suddenly wary. Phil always got what he wanted.

Stark chose that moment to burst loudly into the room, all sound and movement and energy while Banner moved beside him, nodding along easily. It took three seconds flat for both men to take in the situation before Stark gleefully strolled up to Barton and looked him over appraisingly.

"You know, I'll just bet you're ticklish."

"And I'll just bet your Bugatti needs a little aerating," Barton sing songed. Stark's fingers froze just before they dug into Barton's ribs, and then fell away.

"You play dirty Barton."

"Like you wouldn't believe." Polanski looked a little wide-eyed and started to get up. "Sit," Clint ordered softly and he did as he was told, quickly. Stark looked amused, and then contemplative, and then shrugged.

"Never let it be said that I don't follow your orders," he declared grandly placing his hands on Barton's back and hoisting himself up in one smooth, twisting move. He looked appallingly pleased with himself, parked solidly on the curve of his teammates lower back. Barton grunted under the sudden weight, barely having time to drop from his fingertips to his palms before Stark landed and, after dipping a few inches, he compensated and locked himself in place. His eyes were now pinched.

"It's a good thing you let me drive your car," he declared, the strain clear. Stark frowned, swinging his legs back and forward.

"I don't let you drive any of my cars."

"Oh, you do now," Barton assured him and Stark shifted, making sure he bounced a little in the process. Barton sucked in a sharp breath.

"We'll see."

Six minutes later Barton was still in place, albeit his face was red and sweat was dripping off his nose. Two agents actually had the nerve to pop in and take pictures, which Stark cheerfully waved for while his other hand clutched a coffee. Then he apparently got bored.

"Would you just give up already? I've got places to be," he might actually seem irritated if not for the grin on his face.

"Looks like your going to be late," Barton snarled between clamped teeth. Stark began to bounce again, this time with intent. Polanski had taken it upon himself to be Barton's cheerleader (Phil was certain Barton had just won himself a fan for life), and Banner was clearly enjoying himself as he hadn't left yet.

One minute later, his arms visibly shaking and Stark becoming more insistent, he dropped, suddenly and without warning. Stark ended up on his back, spread eagled and grinning wide while Barton was already on his feet and rolling his shoulders, right where he'd planned to be. He gave Phil a dark look that clearly said he was on to his devious tactics and did not approve, before walking out of the room with Stark's half finished coffee in hand like he hadn't just spent the better part of four hours exerting himself.

"Hard to believe he's just a normal guy sometimes," Banner said softly before moving to help Stark to his feet and Coulson shook his head.

There was nothing normal about him.

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"Agent Coulson's tie can kill a man five different ways but when he takes it off it becomes twenty, no, thirty-three times deadlier!" Clint said with the severity of a man pumped very full of painkillers. Sadly he sounded just as sincere as the last time he tried to convince someone of this fact, though the numbers had changed. From the corner of the spacious room Phil remained silent and still, his face a stony, emotionless mask as he stared at the only entrance into the room. He was still in fight mode, tense and waiting.

He was not wearing his tie.

"Right, that's our cue to head out," Steve ordered, making no move to step forward and touch Clint in a kindly farewell. The first time Thor had done that when their archer was drugged to the gills he had ended up on his back with the sharp end of a scalpel nobody had been aware Clint had palmed pressed to his neck and blood from where he ripped his IV's out dripping onto his shirt. Lesson: A drunk Barton you could manhandle to your hearts content but don't touch him in unexpected ways when he was heavily drugged until he gave you explicit permission.

"Awwwww, leav'n so sooon?" He slurred, bleary eyes trying to watch them all at once.

"Fraid so, Tony needs his beauty sleep," Steve explained and Barton nodded gravely in agreement.

"'K" he muttered, trying to fight the pull of his drooping eyelids.

"Hm, what? I'm here." Tony broke out of his distracted trance and looked at the group, clearly ready to fall asleep where he stood if that wasn't what he had just been doing. Steve ushered him to the door gently.

"A speedy recovery mighty Hawk," Thor grinned widely, before turning to follow on their heels and addressing Steve grandly. "Thou failed to mention the cloth adornment around Son of Coul's neck was such a formidable weapon. Very clever! Tell me, how does one acquire such a tool?"

His voice drifted off down the medical wings hall, loud and distracting and no doubt waking up several patients from the mornings early hours.

It was enough to drown out any possibility of overhearing soft words spoken closely in the room they had left. To distract from warm hands layering and fingers tangling above sheets. To ignore grey-blue eyes refusing to close until reassurances of sentry were assured an accepted.

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"And then- and then-" Barton was laughing so hard he couldn't get the words out, tears threatening at the corner of his eyes and he smacked a fist onto the table to try and center himself enough to speak. "And then Sigrid, our hoopers mother, said that if- if she'd known it was his corndog she would have eaten it sooner!" He barely pushed the last words out, leaning back in his chair with an abandon that was almost foreign and everyone erupted with laughter around him. Thor nearly knocked him out of the chair he clapped his shoulder so hard, Tony did fall out of his own chair (though that could have something to do with the five martini's he'd already downed), Steve was shaking his head and covering his eyes while Bruce jumped up to go see if they actually had any corndogs in the walk-in freezer. Natasha looked upon them all fondly, though most would probably interpret the dry look as annoyance.

"God what a hammer-squash! Nobody could ever get a word in edge wise with that woman, and if they did she never let them forget it," Clint wiped at his eyes, reached for his beer and settled down in a comfortable slump.

"Not even you?" Steve asked with a grin and Clint shrugged, his lips quirking.

"Maybe me, but I had a soft spot in her heart. Plus she was pretty set on hitching me to her daughter when we turned eighteen, which was practically an automatic get-out-of-jail-free card, " he smiled fondly at the memory.

"I should like to meet this fine woman," Thor declared grandly, shaking Clint's shoulder before reaching for his own ale (supersized).

"You know, I have no idea where she is anymore," Clint shook his head. "I dropped back in a few years ago to help a friend out and she was gone, along with the Bearded Lady; now there was a woman after my own heart! Best cook in the state and a right hook that would make Hulk cry."

"You ever miss it?" Steve asked and Clint hesitated, only for a moment but too long to go unnoticed, and settled on a soft smile.

"Some of it. There were some good people there, really good, but it wasn't for me. Maybe in a different life," he took a long pull of his beer and looked up to see Phil watching him from kitchens door, his gaze steady and calming. 'I'll never regret leaving' he wanted to say, holding Phil's gaze and taking another deep drink. At that point Tony began daring Thor to do a cartwheel and the conversation smoothly slid on around him. Phil disappeared as silently as he came.

Clint didn't bother waiting a minute before following him, ignoring Tony's catcalls and Steve's hissed 'have some respect Stark!' and spent the rest of the early morning showing Phil exactly how much he didn't regret leaving.

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The third time they come across the sword thief they realize that the man is actually stalking them. Or, more definitively, he's stalking Clint. Coulson had had his suspicions after the second run in with the man, but the archer hadn't brought any specific concerns forward, even when prodded in debrief, so it had only been a working theory.

It was hard to deny when theory became fact as the sword thief appeared once more during a battle the Avengers were called to. This time he hadn't remained distant from the scuffle, choosing instead to sneak up on Hawkeye as the archer covered his team from their rear.

"It would have been nice to know we should have added 'sword fighting capabilities' under the skillset heading in your file Agent Barton," Fury eyed Barton with a disapproving frown and Barton shrugged with deceptive nonchalance.

"I wouldn't say I was necessarily sword-fighting sir-" he trailed off as Fury pointedly activated the holographic display in the center of the debrief table. The group watched in silence a moment as the satellite recordings began to play out in 3D. In the image Barton's attention was focused over the hood of the pick-up truck he was using for cover, his arrow drawn and thumb resting steadily at its anchor point. With his attention on the fight beyond him he almost didn't notice the masked man armed with a sleek looking broadsword moving in on his back. Almost being the operative word. Barton released his arrow and twisted around just as his attacker reached him, bringing his bow up to block the thrust of the sword. The sharp blade nicked the string and the recurve snapped violently with the loss of tension but the weapons alloy reinforced limbs were strong enough to repel the sword. The swordsman's lips curled up in the parody of a grin, Barton adjusted his stance and grip on the bow, and they were off, a clash of weapons and fists, feet twisting and gliding across the pavement fast enough that it was difficult to follow.

"Yeah, I'm not sure I'd classify that as sword fighting either," Stark unhelpfully added as the scene progressed.

"I'm not interested in your opinion at the moment Stark," Fury narrowed his eye at Barton, still daring him to deny that he had any formal training with sword fighting. It was clear enough to see that he had done better than any novice against his attacker, especially with his highly unconventional blade.

"I thought you knew sir," appearing repentant also wasn't a skillset listed in Barton's file, the reason of which was clear now as he eyed the director challengingly. Fury watched him right back, unimpressed.

"Maybe he was afraid his sword would ooof-" Stark hunched slightly over his side to catch his suddenly misplaced breath, throwing a wounded look where Natasha stood beside him. Nobody had seen her move and she remained unfazed, her dark eyes studiously watching the reconstructed satellite recording of the fight.

"It's clear now that this guys second appearance was aimed at getting Clint's attention," Rogers looked suitably worried, especially as Barton didn't seem outwardly concerned about this twist of events. "What's your connection to him?" He asked and Barton, shoulders squared, pretended he was engrossed in his fight displayed before them. Once upon a time that distracted look might have convinced the people in this room that there weren't a hundred thoughts connecting lightening sharp behind the shuttered gaze. They didn't make that mistake anymore.

"I don't know him," Barton answered.

"That's not what I asked," Steve rebutted and Clint cut a dark look at the team leader, more openly guarded than he'd been in a long time. If it unsettled anyone in the room they didn't show it, but the increase in tension was palpable, until Barton looked back to the fight again and softened his shoulders, seamlessly making himself appear more at ease.

"I had a few mentors growing up, teaching me the tricks of the trade," he nodded that the dark purple clad attacker on the screen, the silver highlights on his outfit matching the gleam of his weapons as he pulled his second sword from its sheath. "I've never met this particular piece of work but his fighting style is familiar. I think he was trained by a man called Duquesne, also known as the Swordsman."

"The man who put you in critical care when you were seventeen," Coulson clarified, his tone as emotionless as they had ever heard, which said more than enough about the seriousness of the situation.

"We had a slight difference of opinion at the time," Barton lifted a sardonic eyebrow and looked back at Rogers, who was watching him intently. "I'm guessing the Swordsman took this guy on as an apprentice after he took to the criminal underworld and before you ask," he looked at Fury, "no, I have not had any contact with Duquesne since our last dance. There is one very notable difference between Duquesne and this protégé though" his voice was far too chipper as he turned back to the holographic representation of what had taken place only an hour before. Those who weren't watching the unsettlingly violent dance focused on it again just in time to see Barton pull a wicked looking knife from his ankle sheath, preparing to attack, when he just…stopped. Froze in place, like a snapshot.

His image, panting hard from the exertion, tossed his broken bow-come-sword to the ground and, with a flick of the wrist, tossed the knife away behind him. He straightened from his braced position to an unshielded stand and then did nothing to defend himself as the Swordsman's apprentice moved right into his personal space, one deadly blade lifted to rest gently on his shoulder, pressing into Barton's neck.

"He's a mutant," he finished, just in case it wasn't obvious when Barton had stopped fighting cold turkey and just stood there for the slaughter. "He has some kind of suggestive telepathy, calls himself 'Compello,'" Stark snorted at the name. "He said a few things during the fight that didn't affect me but the moment he ordered me to stop with intent behind his words I lost control. Couldn't resist doing what he ordered but mentally present throughout."

"What did he say?" Steve looked away from the image as Compello finally stepped away from Barton, gently lifting his sword away to salute him mockingly and then retreated down the nearest subway entrance.

"I'm the greatest swordsman blah blah you will rue the day blah blah evil laugh and more of the same," Barton rolled his eyes and then hesitated a moment, enough to be noticed. Behind the group Coulson narrowed his eyes at the distracting tactic. "I get the impression he wasn't loved enough as a child. Also, he might be a little crazy. For real crazy, not just megalomaniac crazy."

"Great," Rogers sounded thrilled as Barton crossed his arms, leaned one hip on the edge of the table and shrugged.

"Yep," Barton agreed solemnly.

"Why is he after you specifically?" Fury asked and Barton uncrossed his arms enough to raise his hands in a 'how the hell should I know' gesture.

"Maybe he wanted a chance to clash sw-oooow. Okay!" Stark took a very pointed step away from Natasha and rubbed his arm. "I get it, no sword jokes," he glared at her in clear irritation.

"He was introducing himself to you for a reason. He must have said something that explained what he wanted," Fury continued flatly and Barton pressed his lips into a brief thin line.

"He didn't tell me what he wants, he didn't give away any master plans, all he did was rant about being the better warrior, reiterate his name a few times, lord over the fact that he could kill me and I wouldn't be able to stop him, and then left. I don't know what else you're looking for me to say here," Barton said, his body held still against the table, no twitching to hint at unease, his blue-grey eyes daring Fury to keep asking what he considered stupid questions.

After a long minute of this Fury turned back to Rogers to close the debrief and dismiss the team. When it was just Coulson and Fury standing around the table, they watched the image of Barton meeting up with the team after his nearly fatal fight, strutting around like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Like he hadn't nearly been taken from them permanently only moments before.

"He's not telling us everything," Fury reached out and shut the projection off. "I'm not comfortable with this." Coulson didn't respond, didn't need to. "Let Rogers know I want Barton watched; he doesn't go anywhere alone until we understand exactly what's going on. I'm not losing him to some egotistical mind-fucking blade-dancer who has mentor issues and wants to take it out on our asset."

Coulson nodded grimly, pretending he didn't notice the searching gaze Fury was leveling on him. He and the Director might not always see eye to eye on how to handle the Avengers (though Fury was most likely unaware of most of Phil's misgivings), but in this instance they were very much on the same page.

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"What do we know about the Swordsman Duquesne?" Steve asked, frowning at the mansions live security feed before him. Clint, in ratty shorts and well-worn tank top, ran with a single minded focus on one of their gyms heavy duty treadmills. He'd been running for forty minutes. Neither Steve nor Phil pointed out that the man should be recovering from the afternoon's fight, not running himself into exhaustion.

"He was at the circus Barton joined as a child," Phil said with the most business-like tone he could muster. He wanted to go to Clint. It wasn't time yet, he wasn't sure there would be a time at all. "Intel suggests Trick Shot was his primary mentor but in light of this new evidence it is reasonable that Duquesne was more involved with his training than we thought."

"Should I ask why you think Barton hasn't mentioned this before?" Phil's silence was answer enough. Rogers looked back to watch Clint. "Has either man made appearances lately?" He moved on and Phil forced himself to relax his stance.

"Not in North America," Phil replied promptly. "Trick Shot was sighted in South Asia two months ago, possibly involved in a Cambodian Ambassador's assassination. The Swordsman hasn't been seen in years. Rumour speculates he was somewhere in France, close to Italy's border, but I wouldn't hold my breath. I have agents looking into it." They were silent for a long moment.

"We'll keep an eye on him," Rogers softened his tone, and Coulson, damn it, was grateful to hear it confirmed even if he had never doubted that would be the case. He nodded tightly, took a seat and logged into the mainframe. He could work from the security room as well as from his office. Rogers left silently. A few minutes later Natasha walked onto the security feeds screen, dressed in tight shorts and a tank top that left nothing to the imagination. The only thing that singled her out from any other gym-goer Phil had ever seen was the blade strapped to her ankle. Never leave home without it.

She took the treadmill next to Clint without a word. Clint ignored her.

Phil sighed and went back to work.

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Clint marched into the Avengers lounge with a storm cloud thundering over his head and the first thing Bruce thought was that at least it wasn't raining. Of course his teammate looked more prepared to blow up a couple buildings than shed a tear so he stopped worrying about protecting the schematics he'd been sketching on the brown paper towel, and began paying more attention to how disgruntled his teammate was.

"Feeling under the weather?" Tony grinned from beside Bruce. Bruce pulled his napkin drawings closer for protection, just in case, when a tiny arc of lighting flashed above their archer's head. Clint ignored them both as he headed straight to the state of the art coffee maker where he eyed it darkly and then moved to the fridge instead. He grabbed a bottle of orange juice. For a moment a beam of sunlight split through the roiling cloud and glanced across his hair, teasing a golden glow into the spiked locks. Clint swiped at his hair in irritation, the sunbeam disappeared, and he scowled at them as he disappeared out the door just as fast as he appeared. He practically snarled when he almost crashed into Steve on the way by. Steve looked subtly amused.

"What's got his tighty-whities in a bunch?" Tony almost looked interested as he scribbled what looked suspiciously like stick people on the corner of Bruce's improvised tablet.

"You mean aside from the fact that he was zapped with A.I.M.'s version of a meteorological mood ring?" Bruce pointed out pliantly and gently pulled his paper towel away from Starks pen tip.

"Yes. As amusing as this whole things been these last few days I haven't seen clouds that dark yet, so spill," the genius looked to Steve and Steve stood straighter, squared his shoulders, and let a little smile loose.

"SHIELD's making him get his driver's license with me."

There was a long moment of silence. Bruce very carefully did not show his surprise or all the reasons behind their teammate not having said license in the first place.

"You're kidding," Tony at least didn't hold back on his incredulity. "The guy has been driving their cars, their bikes, their boats, their airplanes and helicopters and now they're worried about him having his official drivers license?" Tony barked out a laugh. "Oh my god! Are we seriously working with these people?"

"Being in the public eye-" Steve started and paused and held out his hands in a 'what can you do?' gesture. Steve probably didn't understand the point of a drivers license either. He retreated to the massive coffee machine and swiftly punched in an order. Tony jumped out of his seat.

"How long before the mood ring floating above his head disappears?" Tony asked innocently.

"Another five hours or so but we can't be sure," Bruce replied without thinking, his mind drifting back to the synthetic homing endonuclease he'd been sketching out.

"Tony," Steve warned and Bruce looked up from the table to find Steve casting his 'stern' gaze on the billionaire.

"What? I'm just going to test how dark that cloud can turn. It would be scientifically negligent to pass the opportunity up." His returning smile was not at all innocent. Steve narrowed his eyes a little more.

"If you get hurt playing with Barton again Coulson's not going to hear the end of it from the higher-ups." Their leader warned severely. One of the first team rules the Avengers set for themselves after forming was:

'Do not make Agent Coulson's life more difficult than it needs to be. Ever. Seriously.'

One didn't mess with Coulson. Coulson could make their lives a living hell should he choose. And if Coulson didn't choose than they had recently learned they needed to start looking over their shoulder for Barton.

"I'm just going to talk to the guy. We're all friends here," Of course Stark was unconcerned and slipped out of the room. Steve shook his head and looked at Bruce with a wry grin.

"He's going to be struck by lightening before the hours up," their leader sounded very put-upon and Bruce frowned.

"Being electrified is never good for his reactor," he pointed out, though if Tony were struck by some out of control mini-lightening bolt it would most likely be justified.

Steve was silent for a moment, looking to his still brewing coffee, and clenched his hands into annoyed fists. "Damn it," he growled and left to chase after Tony.

A moment later Bruce slipped out of his chair to head back to the sanity of his lab, where there where no thunder storms brewing over teammates heads and nobody near to provoke the rage. He snagged Steve's coffee on the way out. It was a good afternoon.

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Phil Coulson doesn't need a gun to kill a man; he only needs a reason.

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The Avengers are six extraordinary beings, each with their own very individual, very strong personalities. Put them under one roof, add a highly trained agent (the unofficial Avenger), a few very select support staff and you get a living space that is supercharged with energy and emotion. Occasionally the tension can be overwhelming.

Clint coughed wetly, sucked in a laboured breath and shook his head to clear it, almost disbelievingly.

He'd just wanted to get out for the night, just wanted a drink on the town. With Phil, Tony and Steve along for the ride it shouldn't have been a problem.

Compello didn't give him a chance to catch his breath, once more driving a fist into his gut. Clint folded forward as the pain spiked and his breath stuttered in his chest, but managed not to fall face first into the dirty ground. His knees were already aching from the abandoned parking garages cold floor. His wrists ached even more, locked behind his back twisting and rubbing together in his wasted effort to break free. The truly frustrating thing was that there was nothing forcing his hands to stay there save the order from Compello. No cold metal, rough rope or even duct tape. Clint thought he might feel better if there were some form of restraint, something material to struggle against, something that might cut in sharply or rip out hair, something that should be more difficult to fight against than air.

Compello flexed his fingers against the sting, eyes narrowed as he stared down at Clint before he shifted back a half step and let an empty grin curl his lips.

"My actual name is Simon," he shared at large and glanced where he had Steve and Tony trussed up in thick, elaborate restraints that look like they took a while to install. Phil, Clint swallowed as he carefully didn't look their way, was next to them, handcuffs bolting him securely to a thick anchor in the wall. He was watching Clint and Compello silently, his shoulders slumped in a mimicry of capitulation, making him look smaller than Clint was familiar with.

"Which is both ironic and coincidental," Simon continued, not sounding amused by his own words as he watched his captives darkly. His back was to Clint and it would be so easy to jump him, to wrap his arm around his throat and squeeze. Clint didn't move. "Simon says stop trying to get free Captain," he ordered with that special tone of voice, and like a puppet with his strings cut Steve sagged in his restraints. Clint was sure that if he looked he'd find Steve's glacier blue eyes narrowed steadily at Simon, promising retribution that the man would just laugh at. Simon didn't need to make eye contact for the order to hold, but he did need to repeat his orders every ten minutes or so, which he was clearly well-practiced with. Clint would know, he's been fighting against Compello's hold since the man walked into the bar, up to their table, and simply ordered them to follow him: do not resist, do not call for help. They were fucking putty in his hand, following him out without an even token of resistance and catering to his every request.

Clint was going to take this fucker down, if only because he put that look of strain in Steve's eyes, the worry not so hidden in Starks, and the sheer impassiveness in Phil's.

Simon, Compello, who-the-fuck-ever, turned back and crouched down in front of Clint. He looked him over, eyes darting everywhere and not settling until he reached Clint's face, his lips, and then his eyes.

"I've been wanting to meet you for a long time," his voice rumbled, eyes darkening as he stared at Clint, mostly black amongst the unusually vibrant green that Clint remembered so well after their last encounter.

"Thought we met a few months back. That wasn't too memorable for you either, huh?"

He saw the blow coming before he'd finished speaking, was almost anticipating it, and was not disappointed as the blossoming heat spread across his cheek and made his ears ring. He turned his head to the side, spat out some blood and grinned.

Apparently Simon didn't like it when Clint grinned either. This time Clint was unable to stay vertical, twisting to the side just enough that his shoulder hit the unyielding ground instead of his face. He didn't have a chance to pull himself back to his knees as Simon grabbed the collar of his shirt and hauled him back up. It took a long moment for him to let go, his knuckles brushing beneath Clint's jaw before he pulled away.

"Have you given any thought to our last discussion, Clint" Simon asked softly, annunciating the end of his name sharply as he started to circle him slowly. Clint was used to feeling eyes on him, being watched for so many different reasons at any given time, but this…this made his skin crawl.

It didn't help that he could practically feel the way Phil's attention sharpened, which was kind of scary since the man was hyper alert at this point anyway, at Simon's words.

"No." Liar liar pants on fire. The word rolled off his tongue easily.

"Answer the question truthfully," Simon snapped, coming to a stop only a few feet away and inhaling slowly through his nose. Calming himself. Clint didn't notice, his focus turned inward, trying to keep his mouth shut against the overwhelming need to do as Simon said. He lasted mere seconds.

"Yesss," the word hissed out between teeth clenched tight, his lips pulled back in a snarl from the internal struggle. He twisted his wrists viciously, bones pressing together, bruising, and the he stilled. He needed to rein in his temper, it had no place here. Not yet.

"And what did you conclude?"

Clint felt no pull to answer truthfully this time, but he did anyway. He could be giving like that when he felt like it.

"I'm just made of awesome," Clint pulled out his best what-can-you-do shrug to help make the point.

Simon blinked, his odd purple gaze heavy on him and Clint met it steadily. Daring him to disagree. Simon blinked again and then twisted about on one foot, giving Clint a real good look at the two swords crossing over his back (the silver swirls imbedded in the deep black sheaths gleamed even in the dismal garage lighting), and eyed his other captives.

"A super-soldier, a trust fund baby with authority issues and a-" he paused as he looked over Phil, eyeing his dress shirt and tie and pressed black pants, "government issued pencil-pusher." Phil meekly avoided eye contact, everything about him screaming 'don't hurt me.' Clint didn't smile. "You sure keep interesting company," he turned back and looked down at Clint. "Think they could explain to me why it is that you're so special?" he sneered and yep, the crazy was back. Clint had been hoping he was wrong about that.

"Don't think Stark will be much help seeing as you tell him to shut-up every time he gets his voice back," Clint had always thought finding a way to keep Tony quiet would be hilarious. It really wasn't. Tony certainly didn't seem to be enjoying it, his mouth rapidly shaping words as he struggled against his own bindings, no sound escaping. Simon didn't care.

"I trained with him longer," he hissed. "I trained with him harder! I never disobeyed orders, I never once turned my back on him, I did everything he asked of me and it still always came back to you." Simon crouched in front of Clint, his hand snapping out and grabbing his jaw in a crushing grip and holding him in place. Clint breathed through his nose, nostrils flaring wide for air. A thumb dug across the corner of his mouth smearing blood over his lips and chin. When he let go he remained eye to eye with Clint, close, too close, and Clint wanted to spit into his face. He would have, he would, but not with the others here. Not when Simon could turn on them.

Behind them Tony whined, the sound sudden and sharp and cut off almost as soon as it happened. Simon stood back and kept his eyes on Clint, not giving any further orders to keep Tony quiet.

"I even offered myself to him," the swordman stated, matter of fact though his eyes narrowed in dark displeasure. "I offered him everything and he didn't want it. Why do you think that is?"

"Maybe you just didn't have that 'it' factor that makes a star," Clint bared his teeth in a smile, tasting iron on his tongue. Simon straightened at the dig, eyes narrowing in anger and between one movement and the next the reached over his shoulders and pulled his swords free, the slide of metal on leather unmistakable, and then the swish, swoosh of blades whipping through the air too fast to see followed. Clint held himself still, not even breathing as the man moved around him, twisting, twirling, bending and weaving in an all to familiar dance. The swipe swipe of the blade gliding too close to skin as he weaved his art and when he stopped and looked down at Clint with a feverish gleam in his eyes Clint allowed himself to breathe. He slowly squared his shoulders, and then shrugged his right one until the last shreds of his shirt slid to join the tatters on the floor about him.

"That shirt was a gift," he said mildly. He'd mourn its loss later.

"He told me all about you," Simon announced conversationally, sliding his swords back into their homes smoothly. "Keep your hands behind your back," he ordered Clint, and then over his shoulder "cease your efforts to get free Captain." Clint could feel Steve's frustration from here as his near return of self-control was stripped from him again. Clint's wrists pressed together tightly, his elbows and shoulders aching from the strain. "He told me all about how he trained you, about how he realized your talents and had such great plans for you. His first apprentice. 'You never forget the first' he would say."

"You know you're a little bit crazy right?" Clint tried to derail the guys train of thought, the garage far too quiet around them and a sick feeling rolling in his stomach as the lavender eyes stared. Simon grinned.

"I want to know what was so. Damned. Unforgettable. What made you so Special!" He stepped forward and backhanded Clint again, Clint turning away at the last moment to try and soften the blow at least a little. "Well?"

Clint didn't have an answer. He'd spent years wondering it himself, though 'special' wasn't the word he'd use.

"Maybe," Simon looked him over cruelly, surveying him, "maybe I just wasn't young enough." Clint couldn't help the icy feeling that flooded his chest at that, knew that he had paled uncontrollably. Knew that it was noticeable when Steve broke his stout silence, demanding that as team leader Compello should be negotiating with him, and Tony squeaked again as he got closer to regaining his speech.

Clint fought to keep his face impassive, unconcerned. Simon saw right through it.

"He told me all about his correctional punishments," he sneered. "Told me how he would make your assignments more and more impossible and how you would work harder and harder to stop fucking up. I used to mess up on purpose after he told me that, but he never so much as touched me outside a training session. I used to lie awake wondering what I was doing wrong."

"I think we can all agree the crazy boat left the bay a long time ago," Tony finally managed to force words out, his voice still shaky. Later Clint would appreciate his efforts to help him. For now he struggled not to let on how much this fuck's words were revealing, how much he wanted him to shut the fuck up right now. Simon ignored Tony completely.

"You must have had one hell of a mouth on you," the man sneered and Clint couldn't help the sheer horror he felt. He snarled, ferocious words building in his chest but before he could get a single one out there was a fist wrapped tightly in his hair, jerking his head back, and a cloth covered dick shoved up against his face. The zipper cut into his already torn lip, the fabric chaffing the bruising on his cheek as Simon pressed into him suggestively, grinding forcefully before pulling away and shoving Clint back hard enough that he toppled over, landing awkwardly on his clasped arms. Clint instantly moved to sit up. "Stay," Simon ordered and Clint froze, leaning on one elbow, knees in a half-bent sprawl. He felt more vulnerable and exposed than he had since Compello had held a blade to his throat and whispered how easy it would be to bleed him dry then and there.

"How was it the punishment went? You miss the target by more than a few inches and he took what he wanted?" It was a rhetorical question, the man had already moved off, grabbing what looked like a spray paint can. He stopped before Phil, eyeing him like he still didn't know what to make of the government lackey, before swiftly stepping before Tony and Steve. He looked back and forth between them and then unceremoniously popped the cans lid, shook it briefly, and sprayed a bright yellow circled across Tony's white Armani covered chest. He then sprayed a quick dot in its center, just below his glowing arc reactor. Tony down looked at the target and didn't say a thing.

"He said you missed less and less as you got older," Simon announced into the near silence. "He'd make you stand on a trotting show horse and you'd still hit a target swinging wildly from the trapeze. He'd have you hang from that trapeze and hit a pea at the other side of the tent." He went to a bag at the side and pulled out a glossy black compound bow and single arrow. "You're nothing but a man, no powers, no loyalty to him, and fifteen years and a betrayal later you still mean more to him than I do!" His rage and confusion was clear and he loomed over Clint for a long moment, eyes dark with jealous hate. Clint felt nothing but disgust and anger and didn't know if it was directed at himself or at the Swordsman. It was hard to tell on a bad day, and this was turning out to be a very bad day.

He could feel the gaze of his teammates on him, of Phil on him, and fought hard to bury the sense of shame that he knew he shouldn't feel, but couldn't help, deep down.

"I want to see how good you are. I want to see what it is that makes you the prodigal protégé so here is what I propose: hit the center of the target or I will punish you the same way he did."

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Phil played the part. He played the meek office worker, played the scared hostage, played the hapless guy who wouldn't know the first thing about escaping handcuffs bolting him to the wall just above his shoulders. He made himself a non-threat while Steve and Tony kept Compello's attention. While Clint kept Compello's attention. He played the part and waited until the hostile forgot about him and the right time to move appeared.

It hadn't been when Clint was getting the shit beat out of him, on his knees and bleeding.

It hadn't been when the swordmaster danced around him and shredded his shirt without leaving a scratch on his already too scarred skin.

It hadn't been when the man had ground himself into Clint's face, gripping his hair tight enough that his fingers went bloodless white and he had a smear of blood on his pants when he stepped back.

It hadn't been when Clint, only for a moment, such a brief moment, let the anguish of terrible secrets being so callously revealed flash like a beacon in his eyes before shutting the emotion down. Hard.

It hadn't been when Compello ordered Clint to his feet and ordered him to make the choice: Tony dead or Clint any way Compello wanted him. Tony watched Clint steadily as he lined up the arrow, his eyes so dark they were black and he softly said 'it's okay' as an absolution for the choice they all knew Clint would never make. The arrow hit its target, two feet above Tony's head.

Compello smiled darkly and moved to Clint.

"Give to me what you gave to him," he ordered and then ordered Tony to shut-up when the avenger started turning the air blue. Tony's teeth cut through his tongue they snapped shut so tightly, blood easing out the side of his mouth. Steve was once more locked into immobility, his knuckles flushed red over white skin where his hands clenched.

The devastation that crossed Clint's eyes, the way he bowed his head and refused to look towards his team, towards Phil, it made something sharp spike in his gut. Sharp and hot and too close to something breakable.

When Clint helplessly dropped to his knees and reached his steady hands up to Compello's silver belt…that was when Phil stopped playing meek office worker.

His vision didn't turn red in his rage, his body didn't come alive with retribution, he was not overwhelmed with bloodlust and he did not blank out. His fury was calm. His fury had him dislocating his thumb without feeling a thing. It had him moving across the lower level parking garage with the silent steps of a predator. It had him stepping up behind Compello and wrapping his hands around the mans chin and the back of his head without any thought whatsoever.

Twist, wrench, snap.

Smooth, efficient, final.

It should not be so easy to break a full grown mans neck, not even one who was distracted.

Phil likened it to snapping a pencil in half, only a thousand times more satisfying. He never once entertained the thought of letting the man live.

With his hands still gripping the bodies head he flung it aside, away, and dropped to his knees so he was level with Clint. He gently placed his hands on his own knees, and waited.

Clint didn't look up right away, taking a few steadying breaths before his stormy blue eyes rose to meet his own. Emotion controlled, tightly pushed aside but still too close to the surface for his comfort. Phil could sense the unease, the uncertainty, and damn near gasped in relief when Clint raised one perfectly calloused hand and rested it on the back of Phil's neck. Warm, covered in tiny rocks and grit, and just right.

"I'm alright Phil, I'm good," he said softly, trying for a smile. His hand squeezed and Phil took that as permission to slowly lean forward and brush his lips against Clint's bloody ones, briefly, reassuringly, and pulled back because now wasn't the time and they both knew it.

Later. They would deal with this later. Together.

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Clint went off grid for three days after Compello.

Phil told Fury it was nothing to worry about and Fury let the matter drop with the silent understanding that if Barton didn't return soon he would make it his business.

Rogers and then Stark both expressed concern to Phil, but accepted it easily enough when Phil confidently informed them there was nothing to worry about, not yet.

On the third day Clint showed up at the safe house the two of them and Natasha had arranged together years ago. Separate from SHIELD. It was a tiny little loft in one of the more rundown buildings in SoHo that had not been affected by the popularity of gentrification. Phil was waiting on the couch, mid afternoon light streaming through the windows and picking up on all the dust motes when Clint slipped silently into the room and sat beside him. The old cushions sagged under their weight, their shoulders and thighs brushed together.

For a long while they just sat there, the sun hot where it drifted across their knees, Clint's hands restless over his jeans until he sighed and rubbed hand down his face.

"I didn't know what to do when it first started," his voice was gravelly from disuse, heavy and he huffed out a laugh so far from amused it hurt Phil's throat. "I wanted to leave, so badly, but there was- there was nowhere to go. Shit, I was ten, a runaway orphan, and Barney was dead set on staying." Phil heard what Clint wasn't saying, that Barney had started pulling away and Duquesne had most likely used threats against his older brother; that Clint couldn't trust the other adults around, that nobody had listened to him for so long he didn't think they'd believe him. "So I made the best of it."

The best of it.

Sometime in the near future Phil was going to discreetly locate Duquesne and make it so nobody would be able to find him ever again.

That night, curled up under heavy blankets, Phil wrapped his arms gently around his partner and got to work on reminding him that he wasn't alone anymore. He never would be again if Phil could manage it.

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Things changed. Not in any way that matters or is surprising, but it's hard to learn something about a friend, something so personal and guarded, and not react in some way. Clint understands this, he's been guilty of it himself once or twice, so he decides that the best way to deal is to pretend it never happened. Unfortunately amnesia was not in the cards, which makes pretending virtually impossible. Clint is not surprised by this either, but he didn't survive to adulthood, didn't become one of the Avengers, by giving up easily: if he couldn't forget or pretend to forget than he could ignore with the best of them.

He ignored the way Steve was careful not to touch him as much when they sparred the first few weeks after. Mostly ignored. Actually, he took advantage of the near tentative combat and knocked the super-soldier onto his ass an embarrassing (and unbelievable) number of times. His formidable reputation grew in the eyes of SHIELD's agents and Clint soaked it up, taunting Steve until the man got over his uncertainty and finally hit back the way he was meant to.

They never spoke about it, about what had been revealed, what couldn't be unseen, but Clint understood that he hadn't been the only one hurt that day. He may have been the only one physically damaged, but the others had had their control stripped away just as forcefully as he had. He honestly didn't know if being made to watch and do nothing was worse than being the…injured party, but he never wanted to find out. The idea of seeing any of his friends, of seeing Phil, in that position made him shake just as much as the nightmares.

He ignored the way Tony became louder and overcompensated more than usual around him. With everything. Clint gladly spent hours on the range testing new arrows, new bows (that he didn't need because the ones he had were fine), new guards and gloves the billionaire suddenly insisted on. He didn't say no when Tony wandered into a room and froze for a moment, staring at Clint like a deer caught in the headlights, like he felt guilty for something out of his control, before loudly declaring that his treasured Bugatti was feeling neglected and tossing Clint the keys.

Clint understood growing up around people who should have loved you and feeling completely alone. He understood that suddenly having people care about you meant that you probably cared back and the sharpness of the concern was as daunting as it was difficult to accept that at times. Tony didn't know what to do with it.

Clint felt no guilt about manipulating Tony into buying him a state of the art gaming console. Or a Ducati 848 EVO fresh off the showroom floor with a few Stark upgrades and a sweet silver hawk engraving. Or flying the team to Hungary for dinner one night because Clint declared he missed the goulash soup the Strong Man used to make him (that man had been a badass chef!) on the colder evenings in the circus. He was pretty sure he managed to rack up nearly a quarter of a million in frivolous, and not-so-frivolous, bills before Tony caught on. His sulk was epic and Steve frowned at Clint in disapproval while Phil and Natasha and the rest of the avengers stood off to the side and tried not to laugh.

Clint made it up to Tony by buying him a cheap, bright red, fiberglass longbow from the nearest hunting store and five equally bright arrows and dragging him (not quietly, Stark never did anything quietly) down to the range. It was Tony's first and last lesson with Hawkeye on the finer points of archery. He bitched about it the entire time and leered when Clint made a point of getting real close to show him the proper stance before something in his shoulders finally gave and the Tony Clint was more familiar with came back to them. That was the end of it, or so he had thought. Years later, when he was helping Tony haul an injured Steve into Tony's bed to recuperate he spotted the red bow and arrows leaning between the wall and bed table, looking gaudy and out of place in the sleek, modern room. It made him smile.

Phil, Clint paused in the doorway to the Avengers kitchen to see his man standing between Thor, Steve and Tony as the three avengers argued about who-the-hell-cares with his bland 'the director and I are going to have words' stare. Natasha was perched on the counter with a delicate looking cup of tea and a sneaky look in her eyes. Phil. Jesus. Phil hadn't changed a bit since Compello. He was Clint's favourite recurve, his coconut gelato, his badass GI-Joe all mixed into one sexy, dependable, tie-loving package. Phil was his fucking rock. He wouldn't have it any other way.

"If Thor and Captain America got into an arm wrestling competition you know who would win?" Clint announced grandly, the argument abruptly halting as everyone turned to look at him and he pushed away from the doorjamb, ready to head to the gym. "Phil Coulson."

Phil smiled.

Widely.

End.