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Nobody knew Clint was a Seer. He’d never told anyone. Well, that’s not quite true. Barney knew. Had known, at any rate. Clint wasn’t even sure if Barney was still alive to know. He’d been there when Clint had had his first Vision at age 12, and when he’d seen his first Phantasm (in the flesh, so to speak) when he was 13.
And he’d told Clint not to tell anyone. To keep quiet and keep hidden.
Things happened to Seers, you see. Especially back when Clint was a kid. Things had changed in the last decade or so. But back when Clint was small, Seers were taken, force-bonded to a Fighter and they never came home again. They’d just show up, minds gone, in quiet white hospital wards, unable to even feed themselves. With their Fighters nowhere to be seen.
Most people were neither, you see. Not a Seer or a fighter. And both were needed in the war. Ghosts, phantasms, creatures from the beyond, they kept coming, no matter what the government tried. They haunted houses, disturbed families, killed children and pets. And no one knew why. You’d think if those we loved could come back, they’d want to help us, love us, care for us. But no. Great Aunt Ida shows up bearing a grudge and far too powerful to stop.
So it’s not something he tells people. It’s not something he makes known. And he doesn’t look the typical wispy Seer, pale and underfed with bags under eyes. Not him, he’s got muscles and a good tan, so no-ones ever even looked twice at him. Not since he grew up. He has got a reputation for being the luckiest mercenary alive though. He’s always getting out before the ghosts show up, or making shots no one else could, but no one thinks it’s because he’s a Seer.
Everyone knows Seers can’t take care of themselves.
No one knew Phil Coulson was a Fighter. Well, nearly no one. He wasn’t strong enough, he wasn’t big enough, he wasn’t in-your-face enough to be a Fighter. Really, the very idea of it was ridiculous. But, as most ridiculous things were, it was entirely true. Phil was a Fighter. That’s how he’d come to SHIELD. He had gone into the Army, wanted to serve his country, and he’d destroyed the first ghosts they’d met on patrol single-handedly. He’d been given special attention after that, sidelined into a special project, which we don’t really need to go into.
It isn’t something he likes to talk about.
Afterwards, Marcus had found him. They’d gone through basic training together before it had all gone wrong, and Marcus had dragged him up by his boot straps and pulled him in his wake to the revamped SSR. And he’d been there ever since.
Their lives collided in a spray of blood and sweat and dust in a desert far from home.
Clint Saw it coming. Not the details, but that something big was going to happen. He almost called off the job, almost ran away, almost turned his back on the assassination he’d been hired to do. But he’d been Seeing more and more lately; there were more ghosts, more Phantasms, more demons breaking loose and terrorising the world. If he went home every time he Saw something, what good was he? He could take care of himself.
Phil had no idea what was going to happen. If he had known what was coming, he probably would have stayed in bed. And he would have cheated himself out of some of the best years of his life.
Operation Bird Catcher, as Nick (formally Marcus) had taken to calling it, had brought Phil across the globe following one codename Hawkeye. He and his team were set up, waiting, knowing the Bird had a job here. They didn’t know who he was supposed to be killing, but they knew he was supposed to be there and that the job was going down that day.
So they were waiting.
“You know he’s not coming right?” Jasper said, his tone dry as the desert they were in. “This guy never shows up where he’s supposed to be.”
“Yeah,” Maria put in. “We’re never going to get him. He always flies away whenever we get close.”
“Nobody is lucky forever,” Phil replied, eyes trained through the binoculars on the small sandy town square.
And he was right.
In the next instant, several things happened at once.
An arrow flew. A man died. A Phantasm appeared. People screamed. Chaos reigned.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Futzing Phantasm. In the middle of the town. There were kids, there were families. There was a dog. Even as he was processing what had happened, Clint was shooting the salt tipped arrows and rappelling down the side of the building to the ground.
On the other side of the square, an older man in a suit was firing his own salt rounds from a modified handgun, and when he ran out of bullets, instead of reloading, he dropped the gun. As Clint watched the man raised his hands and pale blue auras flew out and cut holes clean through the Phantasm.
A Fighter. The man was a Fighter.
People were swearing and shouting, including a handful of others in suits who had to be with the Fighter, and Clint knew there were more ghosts coming.
“GET DOWN!” he shouted, already drawing back on his bow. This arrow was one he didn’t like using, one that dampened down etheric energy. It generally made anyone in range feel like total shit, but he knew in his gut that if he didn’t use it, people would die in the ensuing fight.
The Fighter Suit didn’t hesitate, he dropped and rolled and the arrow went clear over his head, directly through where he had been seconds before and through a second Phantasm, bigger and faster than the first one. The arrow head detonated and Clint lost some time.
Seers are sensitive to etheric energy, that’s how they function. How they do what they do. Clint had essentially taken himself out of the fight. Shot with his own arrow.
The next thing Clint knew he was opening his eyes and the man in the suit, the Fighter, was standing over him, his back to Clint, hands raised. That blue aura, brighter and sharper than before, now surrounded them both.
He was protecting Clint from the ghosts.
That was…
He glanced over his shoulder.
“Hello, Hawkeye,” he said, a half smile on his face. “It’s nice to meet you, finally.”
Clint blinked and tried to think of a response, but for once words failed him. He just lay there. The Fighter blinked back, head tilted. The blue aura was still around them. But Clint couldn’t see (or See) any more ghosts.
“Are you alright?” the Fighter asked. “You took down that Phantasm, and that was a fifth level haunt by the way, and then you just collapsed.”
“I’m fine. Fuck off.” He sat up, maybe a little too fast, and then threw up over himself.
“Yeah, you seem fine.” The Fighter said, and normally Clint appreciated a good bit of sarcasm, but whoever this guy was, he had terrible timing. Clint rolled onto his belly, then pushed up onto his hands and knees. The world was spinning around him and everything hurt. There was a warm hand on his back, between his shoulder blades.
And that was the moment everything changed.
Phil watched the assassin who had just saved all their lives collapse. The Phantasm, the level five one, had dispersed but there were still low-level glims and gaunts around. It wasn’t safe to be on the ground. Phil’s head was killing him, his hands were shaking as he stood and stumbled across the square to get between the archer and the ghosts. He didn’t know what that arrow was or what it had done, but he wanted it for SHIELD.
While the other agents did clean up, Phil protected Hawkeye.
When the assassin woke up, he swore, threw up over himself and then tried to get to his feet. Despite himself, Phil was charmed. Which is probably not the correct reaction to someone swearing at you and then throwing up. Maybe because the poor kid was obviously terrified. He was shaking all over and looking for escape routes. Maybe because he’d just fought off a level five haunt by himself. Maybe because Phil had always had a soft spot for the underdog.
He let the man try and get to his feet himself, wanting to sooth his pride. But when it became clear that Hawkeye couldn’t stand up, Phil bent down and smoothed a hand over his back, intending to take his shoulder and help him into a sitting position.
He never got the chance.
As soon as his hand touched Hawkeye (his name is Clint)’s back, everything changed. He felt heat and light and connection and it was familiar and terrifying. There was none of the pain of his first bond (he could feel Clint touching the memory and flinch back) there was just an overwhelming feeling of connection.
Hawkeye was a Seer.
It took a while for the world to stop spinning. Both from the arrow and the Bond. The Fighter (Coulson, Phil Coulson) was standing solid and sure when Clint blinked away the confusion and pulled away from the hand on his back. His first instinct, as it often was, was to run. To get up and run and keep running until he was away from the Fighter and his government organisation (it’s called SHIELD). Because Clint didn’t know what happened to Seers swept up by the government, but he knew it was nothing good.
Of course, as soon as he thought about running, he knew Phil would let him. Would stop SHIELD from looking for him. And that was…
Clint was a contrary bastard. He was very aware of this. The right thing to do was to run. To hide. To protect himself, to get away. which was what made him grin and offer his hand.
“You know, Coulson. I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship,” he said, and Phil smiled back, every bit aware of how easily Clint could have disappeared. There was a fierce hope and pride in both their chests.
“I do believe you’re right, Barton,” Coulson replied. He didn’t back down from the challenge, he shook hands firmly, but didn’t engage in any of that macho bullshit. Clint appreciated that. Phil was obviously above all that.
After all, Phil Coulson was a Fighter.