A/N: Someone sent a tumblr ask for a story about Clint and Phil that was not slash or romantic, but intimate. I love platonic stories about Clint and Phil, despite my track record, so here we are. Thanks to dysprositos for beta help, and thanks to the requester, whoever you are! (If you want to, check out my tumblr at westgateoh.)

"You're bleeding on my couch," Phil said as he sat down at his desk. "Again. If you're going to be too stubborn to go to medical, can you at least have the decency not to bleed on my couch?"

Phil watched as Clint sat up gingerly and swung his legs onto the floor. He looked around his body, lifting his sweat-stained t-shirt as if looking for something. "I am?" he asked.

Phil sighed, reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a washcloth, and threw it at Clint, hitting him square in the chest. "Gash on your drawing arm. Want some antiseptic?" It was an old conversation, comfortable in its familiarity and consistent in its rhythm.

Clint caught the cloth and turned his arm over, wincing. "What I want is to go home and sleep for a god damned month," he said as he put pressure on the cut. "But instead I'm going to sit in a debrief until it's at least two in the fucking morning, and then I'm going to be up at the ass crack of dawn again for –" he stopped suddenly, wiped his hand down his face, and sighed, standing to head for the small bathroom in Phil's office to rinse the washcloth. "God damn it, and now I have to go to medical for stitches," he said as he re-emerged from the bathroom a minute later and headed for Phil's door.

"Why do you have to get up tomorrow?" Phil asked as Clint left. "You're off mission for at least three days, right?" He asked because Fury had a bad habit of 'requisitioning' his specialist without consulting Phil other than by hacking his computer calendar.

Clint stopped at the door and looked back, suddenly looking every bit his thirty-eight years and as if every bone in his body were rebelling against their job. "Tomorrow's October 15th, right?" he asked as if hoping he were wrong.

Phil glanced down at his desk calendar and then nodded. "Yes." And it suddenly clicked. Each year since Phil met Clint after Fury recruited him, he had been gone on October 15th if they weren't on mission. Once he'd left straight from the mission and had come back the next day, fully accepting the official reprimand and fine. He'd asked about it once, over coffee the day after, and Clint had just shrugged and said, "It's an anniversary." That had been three years ago, and it never came up again between them until now.

Clint nodded and gave Phil a mock-salute. "See you in fifteen, boss."

Clint was right about the debriefing taking until two in the morning. Even with coffee constantly passed around the table, everyone was bleary eyed and short tempered by the time they were done. Clint didn't even get up when everyone was dismissed, so Phil packed up his briefcase and tapped the back of Clint's head as he just stared at a wall.

"You want to crash at my place until you have to go?" he asked, worried that Clint might just sleep in the conference room if left on his own. Clint and Natasha had both bunked over at Phil's enough over the years that they each had a spare set of clothes and toiletries stashed in the guest bedroom dresser. "I'll make you breakfast before you go in the morning."

Clint looked up slowly and then rubbed his eyes. "Natasha's still out, right?" he asked, his voice rough from exhaustion and talking through most of the debrief.

Phil nodded. "Yeah, she's not expected back until Thursday."

Clint pushed his chair back and stood, stretching his arms over his head and garnering a few cracks from his cramped spine. "Okay, yeah. I'll take you up on it. It'll be easier leaving from your place anyway," he said.

Clint didn't have a lot about him that was private. SHIELD had a file on him that was two inches thick and Clint hadn't really done anything without Phil or Natasha since he joined and she came on board a few years later, so Phil liked to let him keep some things to himself if he needed. Besides, Clint didn't pry about Phil's life, either, though he had been dragged to Thanksgiving dinner with the Coulsons a few years in a row after Phil realized he always took missions or hid out in the Helicarrier every year.

'It's a family holiday. I never celebrated,' Clint had said when Phil asked about it, and that was that. Phil dragged him along (took Natasha once or twice, too) and Phil's mother loved Clint, even managed to send him a box of her snicker doodle cookies every couple of months. She sent them to Phil's address with a stern note making sure he gave them all right to Clint. She even included a count of the cookies and Clint always made a show of counting to make sure they were all there each time. Sometimes, Phil stole one just to make Clint glare.

But Phil didn't always remember this particular date. He was off on missions sometimes when it rolled around and hadn't actually noticed in a couple of years.

Now, though, Clint was exhausted and was clearly dreading whatever October 15th meant to him. It didn't sound like a yearly party to Phil. "Come on," he said quietly. "You shouldn't drive." Clint just nodded and followed him out to the parking garage and Phil's car, and he was leaning against his window and asleep before they got to the road. Phil leaned over and nudged him awake when he turned the car off, and Clint jerked, wide eyed and panting, clearly caught by surprise. Phil leaned back and held up his hands. "Sorry. Sorry. We're at my place, though. Come on, Clint. You need a little sleep."

He watched as Clint climbed wearily out of the car and followed Phil into his small house. Clint would have just headed to the bedroom wordlessly, but Phil reached out and tugged at his arm. "Hey, what time do you need to be up tomorrow?" he asked, since he'd promised breakfast and needed to know.

Clint clenched his arms across his chest and answered, "I gotta leave by eight."

"I'll get you up at seven and have breakfast ready by seven-thirty," Phil said, letting go of Clint's arm.

Clint headed to the bedroom and said, over his shoulder, "You're still so weird about that breakfast thing," but he didn't protest to Phil's time table.

Phil headed to his bedroom, changed into his sleep pants, and fell asleep to the sound of Clint's shower.

He woke at six forty-five, four hours after they got to his place, and put a pot of coffee on while checking his email on his tablet. Four hours wasn't enough to cause any real fires, and he logged out at seven and went to wake Clint. He was surprised to find him already awake and messing around with his laptop.

"Oh, hey. Morning. Is there coffee?" Clint asked, looking up from where he sat cross-legged on the bed, still complete with bed head.

"Yeah, but you have to come out to the table to get it. There'll be eggs in ten minutes," Phil answered, stepping back out of the room.

Clint hollered after him, "You're weird about drinks in the bedroom! There are about fifteen reasons you don't date, and this is one of them!"

"And you're ungrateful," Phil called back with a grin.

Clint had shared his list of why Phil didn't stay in relationships for more than a couple of months several times over the years, and the reasons changed each time. He was okay with it, though. Clint understood SHIELD being the life. Phil knew Clint and Natasha slept together sometimes, but neither of them had a long-term relationship, either. It didn't fit in their world very well and they all felt lucky to have their world at all, so they didn't complain.

Ten minutes later, Clint shuffled to the table, wearing jeans, a white t-shirt, and a forest green button down. His hair was combed into its 'stylish mess' as Phil called it, and he sat down at the table with a thump, reaching greedily for the coffee sitting at his place. He took a sip, let out a deep sigh of contentment, and then set it down again.

That was weird. Clint usually silently sipped his way through a cup in under two minutes, and if he didn't do that, he'd head straight for the pot, despite Phil's constant protests. That was just gross. But today he set his cup down and pulled out his cell phone, staring at it. Phil set down a plate of eggs and toast in front of him and then took his seat across the table, sipping his own coffee and eyeing Clint carefully.

"Um, Phil, listen," Clint said, picking up his coffee cup again and setting the phone down. He didn't say anything else, though, and Phil watched him frown and look over toward the door to the apartment. Phil followed his gaze and then looked back and waited. Clint took another sip of coffee and shook his head as if to clear it.

"Clint, what's going on?" Phil asked, concerned.

When Clint met Phil's gaze, his eyes were stormy and dark. "Look," he said roughly, "I have to go out of town today. I'll be back tomorrow morning by eight."

He paused and took another drink as Phil replied, "Yeah, October 15th. You're always gone. Is everything okay?"

Suddenly Clint shoved his coffee cup and plate to the middle of the table and put his head down on his arms, shutting Phil out entirely. After a pause, he mumbled through his shirt, "Will you come with me? Nat usually comes if I ask, but she's gone so I got you a ticket and checked your schedule. I'll come back earlier if you need to, even."

Phil set his coffee on the table and thought about his day. He was surprised had Clint asked, but if Clint needed someone to go along and wanted him, well. Clint Barton wasn't one to ask for things. "Let me call the office, okay? There's one thing I need to switch, but you're right. Today's not bad for me." Clint nodded into his arms and Phil stood, moving to the living room to call in. He managed to switch what he needed after a few minutes and went back to the kitchen, where Clint stood, wrapping his coffee cup in his hands and looking small.

"Sure, I'll come along. Do I need to bring anything?" Phil asked, clearing the table and rinsing the plates.

"Just, um. You might want to wear jeans and your hiking boots. There's a walk," Clint replied, his body relaxing a fraction.

"Okay. You said 'ticket.' Are we flying?" Phil asked, curious. He hadn't realized Clint had been going somewhere far each year.

"Yeah. Let me grab my pack and we'll go after you change."

Phil nodded, accepting that now was apparently not the time for the explanation, and as they climbed into his car, Clint mumbled, "Thanks, Phil."

Phil turned on the car and chuckled. "Thank me if I don't bitch about the travel all day. You know I hate to fly commercial."

When they got to the airport and Clint picked up their tickets, he just gave Phil a shrug when Phil said, "Cedar Rapids?" Phil knew a little about Clint's past. What was in his file, anyway, which was enough to tell him that Clint grew up in Waverly, Iowa, which was only about forty-five minutes from the Cedar Rapids airport. As they sat on the plane, Clint fiddling with his tablet and read while Phil worked on a report due the next day.

Phil took some time to try to figure out what was going on. Waverly wasn't a place Clint talked about. At all. He had never mentioned his home town to Phil, ever, and he never talked about his parents. Phil knew from the report that they had died in a car accident, with alcohol and Harold Barton to blame. He also knew that only a few months and a few foster homes after the accident, Clint and his brother had been transferred to an orphanage, and then the two boys had run off to the circus. The rest of Clint's file read like a bad adventure novel, the kind of vagabond, hand-to-mouth life you wouldn't wish on anyone. Clint didn't have a home that stayed still until he joined SHIELD at thirty-one.

So Phil didn't know what would draw his friend back to his hometown on this date. It wasn't the date of his parents' death, it wasn't his birthday, and Phil didn't know what mid-fall in northeast Iowa could hold for a man like Clint. Nostalgia was not something he suffered from. So Phil waited, worked on his report, and knew that there was a chance that he wouldn't find out. There was a chance that he would accompany Clint wherever he was headed and simply bear witness for him.

Phil was willing to do that.

They landed in Cedar Rapids around eleven in the morning, and Clint had rented a car. After complaining to the rental agent that it was an 'old-person car,' he got it switched to a gorgeous cherry red Mustang (Clint shrugged and told Phil he hadn't spent any money in a while anyway), and they were on the open highway by noon.

Phil was fiddling with the stereo about twenty minutes in when Clint asked, "Did I ever tell you about Dell's?"

"Is that a store?" Phil asked, turning the volume down and leaning back.

Clint laughed. "Nope. Only the best diner in Waverly. Rivals that one we found in Joplin."

Clint and Phil had a diner thing that drove Natasha crazy. They always had to find a diner before any other kind of restaurant if they were anywhere in the US. "Nothing rivals Joplin," Phil answered.

Clint shrugged. "Say that after you try the chicken salad and the chocolate pie."

"Is that where we're headed?" Phil asked patiently.

"I figure we'll grab some lunch and then head out from there," Clint said, and was quiet after.

Phil agreed and looked out the window at the fall colors coming onto the trees that framed the side of the road. It was flat, but it was gorgeous. The crisp blue sky contrasted with the oranges and reds on the tree tops, and the sight was a little hypnotic. After a few minutes, they pulled into the outskirts of a picturesque small town, and Phil immediately found himself trying to imagine a miniature Clint Barton riding a bike or running along the sidewalk in sneakers and a baseball hat.

It didn't work very well.

Clint pulled into a parking spot in front of a classic old-fashioned line of shops – Waverly was practically stuck in the 1950s in terms of appearance, and the sidewalk in front of Phil was lined with a drugstore, a diner, an old movie theater called The Palace, and a second-hand clothing store.

Clint turned off the car and sighed, looking over at Phil. "Nat doesn't always come with me, and I don't always come back here, not every year. But I needed someone along this year and I appreciate you not asking what's going on. I appreciate you just dropping everything and coming with me. I know it's a big deal for you to miss a day of work."

Phil smiled at Clint and shrugged. "I wanted to come, and I'm glad you asked."

Clint laughed. "See, you still haven't asked what's up. That's cool." And then a shadow passed over his eyes and his voice darkened a touch. "I'm not going to tell you now, though. It's just – It's just easier to show you."

"After lunch," Phil replied, unbuckling his seat belt.

"After lunch," Clint agreed.

Clint was right about the diner food, and they took their time quietly working their way through the peach pie before Phil slipped an over-generous tip onto the zinc counter and they headed back to the car.

Clint pulled away from the restaurant and drove them through town, pointing out a small, brick school with an "I went there two years," and, after a pause, "My second grade teacher hated me."

Phil smiled as he imagined Clint's ability to pester starting at a young age. "Is that where your skill for inane chatter was groomed?"

"Dunno. I remember getting in trouble for fighting all the time, though."

Phil remembered Clint's first few months at SHIELD as a young agent who seemed angry all the time, except when he was working with his bow or blazing through his training classes with the ease of a seasoned veteran. Outside of the places he shined, he was sullen and short tempered. One day, soon after he finished training and got assigned to the field rotation, Phil broke up a fight, led Clint to his office without any questions or condemnation and told him to lie down on his couch until he calmed down enough to explain what happened. After doing that a few times, Clint started skipping the fights and just sneaking into Phil's office to sleep or read. It's where their friendship outside of the field was formed. The anger lessened, and Clint started to make friends among his co-workers.

"You fought all the way back in the second grade?" Phil asked as they turned a corner onto a beautiful maple-shaded street. He imagined the sharp, defiant look that could still flash through Clint's eyes when he felt cornered and wondered how that would look on a seven year-old.

Clint shrugged. "It was the only way I knew how to act, really. I made it through, though." He stopped the car and climbed out, so Phil followed him and looked around. They were on a tree-lined street bursting with fall colors. They were parked along the edge of a line of small houses, well-kept, an across from a city park filled with playground equipment, picnic tables, basketball courts, and a beautiful, white gazebo that looked like it could be right out of "The Sound of Music." Clint pulled his backpack out of the backseat and crossed over to the park entrance.

They walked down a clean sidewalk to the back of the park, and there was a hill stretching up a few hundred feet. It, too, was covered in flaming orange maple trees, interspersed with pine. There was a dirt path that climbed it at the edge of the park, and Clint headed up, setting a solid pace. They made it to the top of the hill and there was an overlook, but Clint went around it, heading down the path on the other side of the hill. About a third of the way down the hill, he veered off the path and soon Phil found himself on an outcropping of rock, a nature-made platform that jutted out a few feet from the side of the hill. Clint threw himself down and dangled his feet over the edge, and Phil mirrored him.

He looked down, and he could see the town stretched out in the distance, but the most prominent thing in his sight line was a church. It was a whitewashed one-building church with a tall steeple, like something out of Tom Sawyer, complete with the whitewashed picket fence. The grass around the church was a brilliant green, neatly trimmed, and there were wildflowers waving in the afternoon breeze, splashing blues and greens and yellows against the church walls.

Clint's voice broke the silence. "It's pretty, huh?"

Phil looked over at him, but Clint was staring at the church, too. "Yes," Phil said, and left it at that.

Clint leaned over an unzipped his backpack, and he carefully set a thermos and a bottle of scotch on the rock platform next to him. He unscrewed the thermos first, and pulled two plastic cups from his pack and poured what appeared to be iced tea into the cups and handed one to Phil. He took it silently and after Clint began to drink, he followed suit. They drank the tea silently, slowly, enjoying the breeze and the view. It wasn't often Phil got to just sit someplace pretty and quiet, and he felt himself relaxing.

A few minutes later, once they both finished their tea, Clint gently took Phil's cup and then poured each of them a finger of scotch, handing it back to Phil without a word. They sipped that, and it was a strange contrast to their surroundings, the burn in Phil's throat jarring him out of the reverie that had settled.

He looked over at Clint, but the silence lingered. They finished their scotch and Clint poured them more tea, and they repeated the process. When they each finished their second glass of scotch and Phil felt a warm weariness begin to seep into his body, Clint finally spoke.

"I don't remember a lot about my mother," he said, his voice quiet, but carrying easily. "I remember she liked tea. Always had a jar on the porch in the sun. I don't have any pictures, but I remember she wasn't a big woman, and she had mousy brown hair and beautiful greenish – well, I guess I got her eyes. They changed colors sometimes," he said with a small smile. "I remember her hugging me a lot, especially after my dad passed out at night. He didn't like her being too affectionate with us," he added, as if that explained everything.

Phil leaned back on his hands and said, "She sounds nice," because she did, and Clint must have gotten his naturally kind spirit from someone and it didn't sound like his dad fit the description.

Clint sighed. "She was scared most of the time. I suppose she was nice, but –" he paused and took a sharp breath – "She wasn't much of anything to me, really." Phil raised a questioning eyebrow and Clint shrugged. "I spent a lot of my time hiding from my dad and blaming my mom for that. I wasn't smart enough to try and catch her good points." He paused and added, "Maybe if she'd lived I might have figured them out."

"That makes sense," Phil replied.

"My dad," Clint continued, "he was a bastard, through and through. But he was smart. He could memorize anything and he was good with numbers, and he started out with a pretty good job at one of the local farms. Any skill he had was washed away by alcohol, though, and he didn't keep that job long."

Phil leaned into Clint's shoulder. "You're good with numbers like him."

Clint nodded. "Yeah, I guess, but mostly he was just a bastard. Someone to hide from, someone I could never please, someone who clearly hated the life he ended up with." Clint paused and looked down at the church. He took the bottle of scotch and suddenly heaved the bottle down the hill, watching it tumble down through the dirt. He pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, leaning into Phil.

"Clint?" Phil asked as he wrapped his arm around Clint's shoulder gently.

"They got married in that church on October 15th," Clint said, his voice trembling. "She was pregnant with Barney. They didn't have any family, but she used to take us to the church when she could manage, so I knew they'd been married there. They would've been married for forty-five years this year." Clint took a deep breath and looked away, adding, "If they were anyone normal."

They sat quietly, and Phil didn't push for more.

"I always wonder why she married him. They were young, though, and you were supposed to do that, I guess." He paused and then his voice went quiet. "I used to wish they hadn't done it. Gotten married, I mean. If she'd have left him, had Barney on her own, maybe met someone else who could've been my father. I used to dream about that, when I was little."

Phil heard something in his voice, though, and asked, "But?"

Clint laughed bitterly. "But I probably wouldn't have ended up at SHIELD," he said, looking up at Phil and pulling away. "Never would've met you or Natasha, and we've done some pretty good things together, huh?"

Phil smiled and nodded, thinking back to all the horrible people they'd taken down over the years, a few government take-overs aborted, a few good people saved. "Yeah," he said gently. "We've done a few good things." He looked over as Clint nodded and leaned back against the outcropping, just staring out at the landscape in front of him.

They sat for a very long time, then, quiet and contemplative. Phil thought about missions they'd had, and how they contrasted with the life Clint led before, and he marveled again at how someone with Clint's background, that obviously started out loaded against him from the very beginning, ended up doing so much good in the world.

Finally, as the air cooled a little in the late afternoon, Clint started to pack up his backpack. "I got us an earlier flight out tonight. We should be back by eleven."

They stood, and Phil looked down in wonder at the small church where the Barton family had begun, and then they made their way back to the car, grabbed some sandwiches at a fast food place, and drove back out to the airport. Once they got settled on the plane, Phil grinned as Clint absentmindedly laid his head down on Phil's shoulder and fell asleep, as if they were on a mission flight and he didn't have the energy to wait until they got home to catch some sleep. As Clint snored lightly on his shoulder, Phil sent a quick text to his own mother.

She had snicker doodles on his doorstep in two days.