Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.

Author's Note: While I embrace constructive criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"

Copyright Notice: Please do not copy or repost my work without my express permission. I have recently discovered an issue with plagiarism, in that another person had copy/pasted my work and was claiming it as their own on another site. I've dealt with the situation, but I plead with readers to keep an eye out on other sites. If you see something of mine on another site other than the following, it is NOT me. Please inform me immediately! I am published on AO3 under the name Aggie2011 and tumblr under the name aggie2011whoop. Thanks for looking out y'all!

We're back! And so soon too! I realize I'm in the middle of Clint's Birthday series, but this series has been waiting in the wings and now you guys have TWO one-shot series to look forward to. This way, you never know what's coming next! :D

The song this series is named for is legit probably my favorite Christmas song, which is why it earned the coveted spot as the title inspiration.

Untold Stories - believe it or not - is progressing MARVELOUSLY. I'm actually HOPING *fingers crossed* to have it done by the end of July. But please, no pitch forks if I fail in that. I WILL be moving (thank you US NAVY) around the end of July so life is gonna get crazy.

If you haven't checked out my tumblr for the VPU (I got super tired of typing out Vantage Point Universe all the time), and are interested in a timeline, character profiles, and much much more, go check it out! my user name is aggie2011whoop :)

Now, have yourself a merry little Christmas...Hopefully this cures anybody that's got a 'case of the Mondays'

Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Let your heart be light
From now on,
our troubles will be out of sight.
"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" by Ralph Blane

December 24, 2003, 8:33 p.m.
SHIELD infirmary, Brazil

Phil forked the last of his chicken fried steak into his mouth and then twisted in his chair, stretching as far as he could without having to take his feet from their perch on the edge of Clint's bed. He tossed his plate and fork towards the small trash can near the door and for one harrowing moment, he didn't think it'd make it. But then the plate tipped forward and landed safely in the bin. Phil twisted forward again, wiping his hands on his napkin as he raised his gaze to Clint.

The archer was leaning forward on the bed, elbow braced on the bed tray hovering over his lap and head resting in his hand. He was pushing around his own food with his fork but from the state of his plate, hadn't eaten but a few bites.

Phil wadded up his napkin as he watched him, wondering at the morose and lethargic mood that seemed to be keeping Clint in its grip. The doctor had postulated that it was the low-grade fever the archer just couldn't seem to shake as his body continued to fight off the infection that had nearly killed him. Even with antibiotics, that infection was slow to leave.

Of course, the damn thing had at least 36 hours to get a foothold.

"Please…Barney…" Clint gasped, writhing restlessly on the cot. His eyes were open, but he wasn't seeing, not really. He was somewhere else, with someone else.

Phil leaned over him, pitching his voice low and firm in an attempt to break through the delirium.

"Clint! Focus! Focus on my voice! It's not real!"

He watched Clint go still, almost eerily so. Taking it as a sign that he'd been heard, Phil went on, softening his tone.

"He's not here." Phil didn't know who he was, but he'd make sure he was never near Clint again. "You're safe and nobody's going to hurt you."

Clint was still staring at something, maybe someone, that only he could see. So Phil tried one more time.

"Focus, Clint."

The archer blinked, and then his eyes finally shifted to Phil, focusing on him. Clint's hand drifted up to his chest, his fingers brushing an old raised scar.

"Are you with me?" Phil asked carefully.

Clint nodded, but something in his expression was still tragically broken. Like even though reality had returned, the delusion was still torturing him. It was made even worse by the signs of pain Clint wasn't bothering to hide, maybe couldn't hide.

"You're okay." Phil soothed as he reached for a morphine dose and carefully injected it into Clint's leg. "Just sleep, Clint. You're safe."

Phil wouldn't soon forget those long hours spent waiting for an extraction, hours spent watching Clint reliving old wounds and old betrayals.

But until the last day or so, Clint had seemed to be in a relatively good mood despite it all. He'd been lethargic, sure, and tired easily, but he'd at least made good company. Phil could count the number of words the kid had said in the last few hours on half of one hand.

"So," Phil spoke up, watching Clint's gaze slowly rise to meet his, "that chicken fried steak, huh? Not bad for being in Brazil."

Clint shrugged one shoulder and pushed the food around on his plate a little more.

"If you didn't like chicken fried steak, all you had to do was tell me. I would have gotten you something else from the mess hall…though getting that by the desk nurse was a feat I'm due a medal for. I might have been pushing my luck with a second run."

"I like it," Clint assured quietly, though without the enthusiasm the claim usually entailed.

"And you liking it is why it's getting a free ride around your plate instead of meeting its untimely demise."

The sidelong glare Clint tossed him was heartening, at least it showed signs of life.

"I guess I'm not really hungry," Clint admitted as he sat back and nudged the tray away.

"You barely ate lunch either."

"Since when are my eating habits front-page news?" Clint asked as he settled farther back against his pillows. He reached to hook his left arm over the back of the mattress and looked, for all the world, like he was just as comfortable and content as could be.

But Phil knew it was a front, because Clint had started demanding they lower his pain medication over the past few days. Part of Phil couldn't blame him. The lethargic and energy-sapping effects of the stubborn fever were bad enough on their own. When mind-fuzzing pain medication had been in play, Clint had been more out of it than in. It was definitely nice to have the kid coherent again.

But another part of Phil was seriously struggling with watching the archer suffer silently through whatever pain he was feeling. Clint hid it well, perhaps better than anyone Phil had ever seen, but it was still there. It was evidenced in the tightness around his eyes and the way his hands would twitch every now and then as if he wanted to clench them but refused to allow himself the outward display.

Not for the first time, Phil wondered where along the line Clint had learned that pain was a weakness not to be revealed.

"Thinking mighty high of yourself if you think you merit the front page." Phil went for teasing, hoping to break through whatever funk had settled in. When Clint just gave him a dispassionate glance, Phil softened his tone and tried for cajoling this time. "You're still running a fever, it's gonna knock you on your ass again if you don't keep your strength up."

The corner of Clint's mouth turned down and he shifted his gaze back to his plate. Some sort of mental battle seemed to take place before he sat forward with a heavy sigh and picked up his fork again. He speared a piece of the steak but then hesitated. He dropped the fork back down and sat back again.

"Sorry…I'm just not hungry, man."

Phil sighed and nodded, letting him off the hook. He slid his feet off the bed and stood, gathering Clint's abandoned plate and taking it over to the trash.

"Maybe you'll be hungry at breakfast," he theorized. "I was thinking I'd bring you in something special in honor of the occasion. Even Nurse Ratchet of the intake desk won't dare deny a sick man good food on Christmas, the day which comes but once a year."

The corner of Clint's mouth turned down again, but Phil barely noticed.

"I figure since you're stuck in bed, we can watch a movie or two. I was able to find copies of "A Christmas Carol" and "The Santa Clause", both of which I think you'll appreciate. Hell, I bet I could scrounge up some decorations for in here too, make the place seem more festive…" Phil trailed off when he noticed the definite frown on Clint's face.

Clint didn't even seem aware of the outward display of emotion. He was too busy staring off to the right at what seemed to be a fascinating stretch of wall space.

"Hey," Phil called to try and win back his attention. It worked. Clint momentarily tensed, but then recovered and turned back to face him, the frown disappearing. Clint raised his eyebrows in question. Phil watched him for a moment before asking, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He even sounded fine, maybe just a little tired.

"Are you sure?" Phil couldn't help it, something felt off. "Are you in pain? Do I need to get the do-"

"No," Clint interrupted. "I'm fine. I'm just tired."

Phil nodded slowly, casting a furtive glance at his watch. It was early still, barely 8:45. But Clint was still battling the last vestiges of the infection and with as little as he'd eaten today, the fever was probably draining his energy. Tired made sense.

"Well…why don't you call it an early night then? Try to get some sleep. "Besides," he grinned as he moved to the door, "Santa won't come if you're not sleeping." Then he flipped off the light and tossed a parting smile over his shoulder. "See you in the a.m., kid."

"Besides," Clint watched Phil head for the door, "Santa won't come if you're not sleeping."

Clint felt the blood drain from his face just as Phil flipped off the light. The sudden dimness was the only thing that saved him from having to explain the sudden paleness. Then Phil was tossing him a smile and stepping out.

"See you in the a.m., kid."

Clint couldn't even muster the will to offer a response. He just sat there, staring at the door where Phil had just been.

"Santa won't come if you're not sleeping."

Why did people always joke about that shit?

December 24, 1991, 7:28 p.m.
Waverly Hospital, Pediatrics Ward

"Can you climb into your bed by yourself?" Nurse Hannah asked as she pulled back the covers and looked down at her small charge.

"Yep!" Clint crowed. "I gots TWO arms again! I can climb!" To prove his point, Clint angled for the small bookcase between his and Barney's beds. He'd only gotten his foot onto the lowest shelf when Nurse Hannah snagged him around the waist.

"Oh, no, you don't," she scolded gently. "Isn't climbing how you hurt your arm in the first place?" she asked as she plopped him on the bed and watched him wriggle his way under the blankets.

"Stupid Travis knocked me down! He maked me fall!"

"Made you fall," Nurse Hannah corrected as she pulled her stethoscope from around her neck and pressed it against Clint's back. He drew in a deep breath without having to be asked and let it out as she listened.

"Yeah. He maked me fall." Clint agreed with a solemn nod of his head. "But Doctor Jimmy telled me that the assident-"

"Accident."

"-maked it worser."

He drew in another breath as she switched to the other side of his back and let it out again.

"That's why you got a new cast." Nurse Hannah agreed as looped her stethoscope back around her neck and ruffled his sandy blonde hair. "Down you go."

He flopped back onto the bed like a boneless fish and wriggled farther down until his head was in the proper place on his pillow.

"When is Barney coming back?"

"Nurse Adele will be bringing him back from therapy any moment now."

"How much longer do I got to do therapy?"

"Until it's not so much work for your lungs to breath anymore."

"And how much longer do Barney got to do therapy?" Clint grinned mischievously. "Until it's not so much work for his head to think anymore?"

Nurse Hannah tossed him a look that was a cross between a scowl and a hidden grin.

"You think you're such a clever little man, don't you?"

"I know I am." Clint grinned cheekily. Then continued with wide, solemn eyes. "And I know Barney's head is better now. Doctor Jimmy says he is doing really good! He says that Barney is gonna be good as new!"

"And he will. He just needs some more time."

Clint's attention diverted when the door swung open.

"Barney!" Clint crowed as he jumped back up to a seated position. "It's Christmas Eve! I told Nurse Hannah that we had to put out cookies and milk for Santa and she said she would put them at the nurse desk for him! Isn't that good? Now Santa won't forget us because we left him cookies!" Clint informed his brother in a rush and without taking a breath. He paled a little as he drew in a staggering breath when he was finished.

"Clint, sweetie, you know better that to talk that fast right now." Nurse Hanna scolded him gently as she nudged him to lay back down. "Do your breathing exercises."

Clint let himself be pushed back down and dutifully started focusing on taking slowly, controlled, deep breaths. Satisfied, Nurse Hannah patted him on the chest, pulled his blankets up to his chin and stepped away. Nurse Adele had already helped Barney out of his wheelchair and into bed where he was getting himself situated all on his own.

"All right you two, get some sleep." Nurse Adele moved over to the light switch and flipped it off. The Christmas lights Nurse Hannah had helped Clint hang around his bed – Barney hadn't wanted any around his – served as a night light, casting the room in a festive glow.

"That means you, Clint," Nurse Hannah gave him a pointed look as she moved to the door. "Santa won't come if you're not sleeping."

Clint wiggled down farther into his blankets, pulling them up to his nose to hide the wide, goofy grin on his face. He eagerly closed his eyes and willed sleep to come quickly. He didn't want Santa to skip them because of him.

He thought of the letter he'd sent to the big man in red last week. He'd only asked for one thing and he'd been a very good boy so he was sure he'd get it.

Clint clenched his eyes tighter and thought sleepy thoughts. He had to get to sleep because when he woke up, it'd be Christmas and his present from Santa would be here.

His mommy and daddy would be back.

December 24, 2003, 8:53 p.m.
SHIELD Infirmary, Brazil

"Agent Barton?"

Clint barely held back a flinch as he blinked and snapped his gaze over to the door. The front desk nurse, Genevieve Morales, was leaning into the room.

"What?" he asked with a little more force than she deserved.

She just narrowed her gaze at him and looked pointedly at his heart monitor. Clint heard it then. The increased rhythm was hard to ignore now that it had been brought to his attention.

"Sorry," he muttered as he made an effort to breathe deep, calm breaths. Almost immediately the rhythm on the heart monitor started to slow.

"Are you all right?" Nurse Morales asked in that no-nonsense tone that Clint both respected and despised at the same time.

"Fine," he replied sharply. "Just let my mind wander." He gestured vaguely at the various visible injuries he had and hoped she would take his excuse at face value.

She eyed him critically, then glanced at the heart rate monitor and its steadily slowing pace. Finally she nodded.

"Get some sleep and try not dwelling on the torture, okay?" Her tendency to be ever so direct was refreshing.

Clint gave her a nod and made a show of settling back onto his pillows and closing his eyes. He heard the door fall softly closed and waited a moment to be sure she wasn't coming back. Then he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, hearing the faint sounds of Jingle Bell Rock playing out in the main area.

If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost block it out.

Christmas Day, 2003, 8:35 a.m.
SHIELD Infirmary, Brazil

Phil cast a paranoid look over his shoulder as he hurried down the short hallway to Clint's room. He was still in sight of the intake desk, and if he didn't move quickly Nurse Duran – the strictest of the four lead nurses they'd come across – would spot him and confiscate his contraband.

Though if she tried, he might just throw down with her right here. It was Christmas, Clint was getting the pancakes Phil was smuggling. And he was also getting the stocking full of candy that was hidden safely in the bright red bag he was carrying.

Finally, he reached Clint's door and pushed his way inside, proclaiming his greeting before he'd even cleared the threshold.

"Santa couldn't get past the desk nurse, but he found my bunk room just fine…"

Phil froze, just inside the door, and stared…at nothing. There was no one here. No Clint. No nurses. No doctors. No one.

The room was empty.

The to-go container of pancakes he's brought from the mess hall fell from suddenly limp fingers and the red bag quickly followed it. Phil turned on his heel, leaving a mess of pancake and candy behind, and took to the hallway in a run.

He was barely able to force himself to breath as he all but sprinted to the intake desk.

Nurse Duran gave him a wide-eyed look of shock as he skidded to a stop at the desk and leaned across it desperately.

"What happened? Did his fever spike? Did the bleeding start again? Is it the infection?" He fired off his questions rapidly and without pausing to allow a response.

"Agent Coulson." Nurse Duran snapped out his name with authority and intensity, rendering him momentarily silent. "You are in an infirmary. Lower your tone or I will have you removed." She followed the scolding with a reprimanding glare. "Now, what on earth are you talking about?"

"Clint – Agent Barton! Where is he?"

The look she gave him now was at best, patronizing, at worst, condescending.

"Where in the world do you think he is? He's in his room, has been since I did my rounds when I came on shift this morning."

Phil let go of the tight reign he had on his patience.

"If he was in his room, do you think I'd be out here carrying on this pleasant exchange with you?!" The sarcasm was shining through quite clearly and he could tell by her darkening countenance that it wasn't appreciated.

She stood from her desk with a glower and led the way back to Clint's room. Phil followed, fighting down the irrational urge to clock her on the head with her own clipboard and find someone more helpful to answer his questions.

They reached Clint's door and she calmly pushed it open, a haughty arch to her eyebrows as she gestured inside the room without actually looking for herself.

"See? Right where I said he was."

Phil stared at her. Then looked purposefully over her shoulder into the room and then back at her. He arched an eyebrow and waited for her to catch on.

She frowned at his expression and turned to look in the room. Her face blanched as she found it – as Phil had already known it to be – empty.

"How did…" she stepped out of the room, looking back at her desk which faced the infirmary entry, the only way out. She turned quickly back to the room, as if she expected Clint to have miraculously appeared. "I don't…how…" she stuttered as she looked back at her desk once again.

Phil sighed and looked in the room again, looking for clues as to the archer's whereabouts.

Now that he was paying attention, he could see that the blankets had been pushed off to one side, as if the bed's occupant had been the one to move them before climbing out. The IV needle and the heart monitor finger clip were abandoned on the bed and the heart monitor was turned off.

It was suddenly very obvious that Clint had left of his own free will.

Phil blew out a frustrated breath and backed out of the room, trying to put himself in Clint's shoes.

"I was at my desk all morning." Nurse Duran was shaking her head in confusion. "I don't…" she shrugged helplessly. "How?" she finally asked as she looked to Phil.

Phil, however, was focused on something else, another door across from Clint's room. The label on the door simply read 'Supply Room'. He moved to it, pulling it open, but really already knowing what he'd find. Sure enough, across the small room and above a shelf…maintenance access to the air duct system. He shook his head in a mixture of awe and absolute frustration and answered the nurse's question.

"Apparently…it's a talent."

Christmas Day, 1991, 7:21 a.m.
Waverly Hospital, Pediatrics Ward

Clint sobbed into his pillow, refusing to even acknowledge the burn in his chest as his tender lungs ached from the abuse.

"Clint, stop crying," Barney sighed from his own bed. "Crying is for babies."

"B-but Santa," Clint drew in a hiccupping breath, "d-didn't bring them!" he cried, though the sobbed words were muffled by his pillow.

Barney blew out an annoyed breath.

"Santa didn't bring what?"

Clint lifted his face as huge tears of devastation continued to run rivers out of his eyes.

"I only asked f-for one thing," he bawled. "I was g-good an-and he didn't bring them!"

"What didn't he bring, Clint?" Barney asked again, more firmly this time.

"Mommy and Daddy!" With that tearful proclamation, Clint buried his face in his pillow again and started sobbing anew.

Barney stayed quiet for a long moment before frowning at his crying brother.

"That was a stupid thing to ask for."

Clint's head shot up and he glared across the space between their beds.

"No it w-wasn't!" he defended. "Santa can do anything!"

"Santa isn't real, Clint!" Barney snapped. "Only babies believe in Santa. And even if he was real, he couldn't bring back Mom and Dad. They're dead."

"You're lying!" Clint accused as he sat up in his bed and angrily wiped his hand across his eyes. "Santa is real! Daddy said so!"

"Dad lied!"

"No! You're lying!"

Nurse Hannah burst into the room and moved between their beds, dropping down to kneel in front of Clint.

"Clint, sweet heart, you need to calm down."

Clint turned his tear filled blue gray eyes to her and started sobbing out an explanation.

"I-I just asked Santa for o-one thing! And I t-tried to be good! B-but he d-didn't bring it!"

Nurse Hannah thought back to the letter Clint had given her to mail to Santa last week. She suddenly wished she'd snooped and read the damn thing.

"What did you ask for, sweetie?"

Maybe she could still get it.

"My mommy and daddy!" And the tears sprang forth with new vengeance as the little boy collapsed onto his pillow and continued to cry.

Hannah felt her face go pale and she reached out to lay a gentle hand on Clint's shoulder.

"Clint, sweetie, Santa can't bring people for Christmas." Especially when they were dead.

"Barney said Santa is-isn't even real!" Clint wailed as he refused to be coaxed out of his pillow. Hannah shot a look at the elder Barton boy and he shrugged one shoulder dismissively. But the careless shrug couldn't hide the tears brimming in his eyes or the heartbreak on his own face.

She should have prepared for this. Clint was six. Of course he asked Santa for his parents back. And Barney was twelve, he was old enough to know his parents were never coming back.

Now she had two heartbroken boys on her hands and had to decide who to comfort first.

Ultimately, Clint was the one with healing lungs that was now hyperventilating into a pillow. She reached for the small boy and started making soothing sounds.

"There, there, sweetheart, it's gonna be okay."

"How?!" he questioned miserably as he continued to cry. Hannah didn't know how to answer that, so she just squeezed his shoulder and looked to Barney for some help. Surely the older brother would know how to calm Clint down. But Barney was just watching them with cold eyes and silent tears streaming down his own cheeks.

Hannah was suddenly struck with the thought that she'd comforted the wrong child first.

She turned back to Clint and tried again, unsuccessfully to get him to calm down.

She reached for the call button and calmly asked for help. A few minutes later Doctor Jim Walker rushed in and tried once to calm Clint himself, when that didn't work, he firmly tapped Clint's upper arm and smoothly slid the needle of the syringe he'd brought in into the boy's arm, depressing the plunger.

Seconds later Clint's sobs started to quiet and he slowly went limp on the bed.

Jim reached past her to gently shift Clint onto his back and went about listening to lung sounds and checking his breathing. Hannah stood and backed up, giving him room to work. She turned to Barney, who was now resolutely looking everywhere but his brother.

She sat carefully on the edge of his bed.

"What happened?"

"I didn't do anything," he defended sharply.

"I didn't say you did. I just asked what happened."

"He asked Santa to bring our parents back. It was stupid." Barney huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back on his pillows. Hannah looked over to where Jim was carefully drawing Clint's blankets up, seemingly satisfied that no damage had been done to Clint's little lungs.

That was a good sign, but it also meant he was closer to leaving them than she might be ready for.

"It wasn't stupid to him," she pointed out firmly. She hadn't meant it as an admonishment, but she knew that's the way it came out sounding. She turned quickly to tell Barney as much, but he was already glaring at her. "Barney…" but he rolled onto his side, away from her and away from his brother.

Christmas Day, 2003, 10:37 a.m.
SHIELD Base, Brazil

Clint didn't turn when he heard the relieved sigh originate from the direction of the stairwell entrance. He'd figured Phil would find him eventually. He'd just hoped it would take longer.

He heard Phil move across the rooftop and sensed him drop down to sit a couple feet to Clint's right.

For several minutes they just sat in silence. Clint did his best to pretend Phil wasn't sitting there and focused instead on the warm breeze flowing lightly around them. He'd been up here for long enough that sweat had soaked through the thin white undershirt he was wearing, and even with the lightness of his borrowed scrub pants, he was still hot. Maybe that was the fever though.

"It's weird, isn't it?" Phil spoke suddenly, his tone casual. "For it to be so hot on Christmas day? Doesn't seem natural."

Clint didn't think it was all that strange. They were south of the equator, so of course it was hot in December. And on top of that, it was Brazil…so hot was just par for the course.

Phil sighed next to him and spoke again, his tone a little more strained.

"So what's with the great escape?"

Clint felt the corners of his mouth turn down slightly. Phil's tone sounded strange, almost shadowed in worry.

"Did someone say or do something that upset you?"

Clint wasn't sure if he should be annoyed that Phil thought he'd run off and throw a tantrum just because somebody said or did something to piss him off. Though, to be fair, the last time someone had truly upset him he'd gone and botched a training mission, so…maybe Phil wasn't so far off there.

"Well, did I say or do something?"

Clint scowled. Since when was he such a delicate flower that his feelings needed to be catered to? Maybe he should be annoyed.

"Jesus, Clint, throw me a bone here. Is it Christmas? Do you have something against Christmas?"

Clint supposed it could be put that way. He hated the damned holiday, so yes…he had something against it. He just wasn't sure how exactly to explain that without sounding childish. He hated Christmas because Santa didn't bring him his parents back? It sounded insane. But it hadn't been, not to his six-year-old self. He'd firmly believed the big guy in red would come through for him and he'd been beyond devastated when he didn't.

Having the reality of your parents' death finally sink in on Christmas morning was a sure-fire way to scar a six year old for life. He hadn't celebrated the holiday since, not in the years at the orphanage, not at the circus – though Brit and Kara had never stopped trying to persuade him – and not in the years since. December 25th was just another day to him and had been for the last 12 years.

He realized Phil had fallen silent, had stopped asking questions and seeking answers.

For some reason, it made Clint want to explain even more.

"The car accident was on November 13th, 1991." Phil's head swiveled to face him, eyes widening as if he were shocked by Clint's choice to speak. Clint, though, kept his gaze firmly fixed on the horizon and went on. "I woke up in the car for long enough to watch my mom die. My dad…" Clint shook his head to banish the memory of his father's broken form in the driver's seat, "he was already gone. And Barney wasn't moving. I'd never seen him so still. I remember it being hard to breathe and it felt like my chest was being crushed…" Clint winced as his chest throbbed with a phantom ache. "Turns out I'd broken seven ribs and punctured a lung. Barney had a cracked skull. We both ended up having surgery and needing a hell of a lot of physical therapy.

"We were in the hospital for just over eight weeks total, and in all honesty, I was probably good to go before that. But the doctor in charge of my care thought it would be detrimental to separate me from Barney, so he pulled some strings to keep me admitted until Barney was well enough to be discharged, too."

Clint took a breath and reached to brush the back of his hand over his forehead, wiping at the sweat accumulating there. He was so goddamned hot.

"So, that first Christmas without them? We were in the hospital."

He saw – out of the corner of his eye – something like understanding dawn on Phil's face.

"But the real rub of it was that in all my six-year-old wisdom, I wrote a letter to Santa and asked him to bring my parents back. And I firmly believed it would happen, right up to when I woke up Christmas Day and they weren't there."

Clint shook his head. It seemed ridiculous now, to look back on that wish. But the part of him that still remembered how that six year old had felt, wished Santa had been real enough to make it happen.

"God, Clint…" Phil shook his head. "Why didn't you say something when I started going on and on about Christmas last night?" Phil suddenly looked stricken. "Jesus, and when I made that joke about Santa?"

"Phil, I haven't celebrated Christmas in twelve years. It's always been just another day to me. I made sure of that by avoiding any sort of festive shit people were up to. And then with everything that's happened the past couple weeks, I hadn't even thought about it before you brought it up last night. You caught me completely off guard. I couldn't think of what to say or how to say it."

"Well next time, just say something." Phil rubbed his face with his hand. "So, you're just going to continue avoiding Christmas for the rest of your life?"

Clint shrugged.

"Seems to be working out for me so far…until now, at least."

"But maybe-"

Clint cut him off before he could break out his 'convincing tone'.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore. I don't want to be fixed. I don't need your help to deal. I just want to keep moving forward like this is any other day, okay?"

"Clint…"

"Just leave me alone, all right? Go celebrate with everybody else. I don't want any part of it."

Phil opened his mouth to say something, but Clint spoke again before he had a chance.

"I'm serious, Phil. Go."

Phil's mouth snapped shut and he looked away briefly. After a moment, he turned back.

"You don't want to do Christmas…that's okay." The absolution was unexpected.

Phil was a goddamned puzzle sometimes. How he could take Clint spitting venom at him and then come back with calm warmth and understanding was beyond him.

"But you need to come inside. This heat is not going to do you any favors when you're already sick and neither is all this exertion. I'll give you ten minutes to be back in your bed. After that, I'm sending the infirmary staff for you, got it?" The words were firm, but still cloaked in warmth.

Clint found himself nodding in agreement without really thinking about it. Then Phil stood without another word and walked away. Clint turned his gaze back out to the horizon and let him go.

Christmas Day, 1991, 4:18 p.m.
Waverly Hospital, Pediatrics Ward

Clint watched Nurse Hannah let the door fall closed behind her as she left him in the room. She'd just brought him back from his daily physical therapy session, which had been very relaxed today due to all the excitement this morning.

Barney was sleeping, he did that a lot. Clint didn't really understand why, since Barney had slept for eight whole days after the car crash.

Clint looked around the room, vaguely hearing "Here Comes Santa Clause" playing outside in the main area. Their room was decked out in decorations. Many of them Clint had made, with Nurse Hannah's help. Even Doctor Jimmy had made a paper snowflake to hang from the ceiling.

Now, the decorations that had excited him and filled him with anticipation of every child's favorite day of the year, just made him sad. He didn't want to do Christmas anymore. He hated it.

With firm resolve, Clint climbed off his bed, reaching for the plug hidden behind the bookcase. His arm almost wasn't long enough, but he was able to get a tenuous grip on the plug belonging to the Christmas lights.

With a jerk, he pulled it out of the outlet. The sudden absence of colorful glow, made him feel a little better. So he unwound the lights from the frame of his bed, wadded them up and threw them in the trash. Then he stood on his bed and reached to pull down all the paper snowflakes he and Nurse Hannah had made. All of them joined the lights in the trash, even Doctor Jimmy's.

Next he went after the pictures of Santa, his reindeer and Christmas trees that he'd drawn. They were taped along the wall and easy to rip down and crumple up.

"What are you doing?"

Clint looked over his shoulder at Barney, who was sitting up in his bed blinking blearily at him.

"I don't like Christmas anymore," Clint told him calmly and matter-of-factly. He tore down the last picture and reached to rip down the green-and-red paper chain he'd made.

"You don't?"

Clint shook his head and moved over to the book case between their beds. There was a small stack of little presents from the nurses that he hadn't opened. With a sweep of his arm, he knocked them all into the trash.

Christmas Day, 10:54 a.m.
SHIELD Infirmary, Brazil

Clint couldn't remember a time he'd eased out of an air vent so slowly and gingerly. He was still hot, even after crawling through a vent whose sole job was to transport cool air. His bullet wound in his side ached and his spot his molar used to be in his mouth throbbed. And every bruise, scrape, and cut that he'd acquired during his stay with the Germans in the Andes seemed to have acquired new life.

He was actually looking forward to getting back into bed and sleeping through the rest of the day.

That appealing thought had him easing the supply room door open and peeking out into the hallway. Finding it empty, he quick-stepped across the short distance to his room. A quick look at the intake desk showed Nurse Duran focused on some papers. He was able to slide safely into his room without being noticed.

He paused just inside the door, frowning at the faint smell of pancake that seemed to be hovering around. There was nothing in the room to indicate where the smell was coming from so after a moment he just shrugged and moved farther into the room.

He arched an eyebrow as he noticed a small wrapped square box on his bed. Next to it was a piece of paper with Phil's now-familiar handwriting on it. Clint eyed the box but left it be as he picked up the note instead.

Clint –

You don't do Christmas. As I said on the roof, that's okay. You've got more reason than most to want to avoid the holiday and I won't try to force you or guilt you into changing your mind on the matter. But I do do Christmas and Christmas means spending time with people you care about. So how about we compromise? I'll bring you lunch, we'll watch a movie (nothing Christmas-themed, scouts honor), and we'll get through today like it's any other day. That way we all get what we want. You get no-Christmas, and I get the part of the holiday that's most important to me.

So get some rest, I'll be by around noon.

Phil

Oh, P.S. yes that gift is for you. I got it for you before I knew what was bothering you, and I still want you to have it. You can take it or leave it, but I really hope you'll take it.

Clint dropped the note onto the bed and picked up the box, regarding the bright green paper suspiciously. He fingered the large red bow that took up the entire top of the box and chewed the inside of his lip.

He almost opened it, but then stopped. He didn't want it. Just like he hadn't wanted any of the gifts those nurses had given him 12 years ago or the presents Brit, Kara, and the others had tried to force on him during his years at the circus.

He didn't want the reminder of the one present he'd asked for and hadn't gotten. Even if it was irrational. Even if his 18-year-old self knew his six-year-old self had been foolish to expect such a thing.

Because that six year old, he was still buried deeply inside him. And he was still crying for the parents he would never get back.

Clint turned, unerringly tossing the box into the trash can near the door. He crumbled the note next and tossed it to follow.

Almost as if cued, the door opened and Nurse Duran stepped in. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw him, almost dropping the fresh sheets she had in her arms.

"Where in the world have you been?" she demanded sharply. She strode forward, pointing a scolding finger at his chest. "Never mind that, get that skinny little butt of yours back into bed."

Clint was fascinated by her. She was the meanest, sternest of the nurses, but he had never heard anything close to a curse pass her lips, no matter how livid he made her…and he'd made her pretty livid during his stay. Clint always could appreciate a good contradiction.

He allowed her to manhandle him back into the bed and didn't protest as she stuck an ear thermometer into place. She guided his hand up to hold it in place and then wrapped her fingers around his other wrist. She was nothing if not efficient.

"Good lord, boy, your heart is just a shade under racing." The ear thermometer beeped. "And you've spiked your fever again." She reached for the pitcher of ice water on his bedside table and poured him a small cup. "Drink that and stand out of my way."

She pulled him up by his wrist and shifted him out of the way. He stood obediently sipping the water while she changed the sheets on his bed with more speed and efficiency than he thought was possible.

When she was done, she all but forced him back onto the mattress.

"Now," she took the cup back and pushed on his shoulder until he lay back the rest of the way against his pillows, "if you ever up and vanish like that again, I will break out the restraints. Am I clear?" The threat was delivered even as she reinserted his IV and taped it down with the ease of having done it a thousand times before.

Clint nodded once and met her fierce gaze evenly. If she was waiting for an apology, she wasn't going to get one. Her eyes narrowed for a moment and then she turned abruptly and headed for the door.

"I'm sending in your doctor to check you over. Do not move an inch out of that bed until he gives you the all clear." Then she was gone.

Clint stayed where he was, lying in the bed and basking in the cool air flowing out of the small vent above the bed. But his mind strayed. It strayed to the trash can and the small square gift sitting in it.

For some reason, the thought of something Phil had taken the time to search out and buy just sitting in the trash…it left a bad feeling in his gut.

He'd refused presents from Brit and Kara every year he spent in the circus. He had even thrown away one or two in the beginning, before they learned to stop giving them. It had never bothered him like this. It hadn't stuck with him more than a few seconds after he'd tossed the gifts in the nearest dumpster. Brit and Kara, they'd been family to him when the only family he'd had didn't seem to want him anymore. They'd been what he needed to recover from Phillip Jacobs and be a kid again. But that had been before everything had changed – he'd changed. He didn't even know who that kid was anymore or how he could have been so goddamned naive.

But Phil was different. Phil had somehow broken through the darkness Clint had found himself surrounded in and handed him a flashlight with a promise to show him a better path.

Phil had…saved him.

Clint sat up and slid out of the bed. He eyed the IV stuck in the back of his hand and followed the tubing up to the bag it was connected to. Easy enough solution. He reached for the bag and carefully lifted it off the hook it was hanging on. He carried it with him over to the trash can and gingerly leaned over to fish the small box out of the trash. He stared at it for several long moments without moving.

He still didn't want to open it…but he didn't want to get rid of it either.

After a moment longer of indecision, he moved over to his duffle which was sitting on the floor in the corner. He crouched next to it and slid the box deep inside, burying it under wadded up t-shirts and cargo pants.

He'd keep it.

Maybe one day he'd feel like opening it.

Satisfied for now, he stood and moved back over to his bed. A few moments later he had the IV bag hooked back in place and was back to lying comfortably on his pillows. As he relaxed back, he blew out a breath and resolved himself to put on his game face and make it through the day.

Because no matter what he told Phil – or had told Brit and Kara…and himself – today wasn't just another day. Today – and every other Christmas for the last twelve years – that little six year old couldn't help but make himself remembered. And today, more than any other day, Clint found himself wanting to cry right along with him. Because as much as he'd dealt with and come to accept that his parents were never coming back…he still missed them a whole hell of a lot.

As he stared up at the ceiling, a soft tune drifted through the air from out in the hallway.

Have yourself…a merry little Christmas. Let your heart be light, from now on your troubles will be out of sight…

Clint snapped his head over to the door when it opened suddenly, revealing a wary-looking Phil. His handler stepped slowly into the room, holding up a plastic bag demonstratively.

Have yourself, a merry little Christmas. Make the Yule-tide gay. From now on, our troubles will be miles away…

"So, I remembered a few minutes ago that I was supposed to have brought you breakfast. But we both sort of missed that. So I figured we'd make it brunch instead."

Clint stared at him in shock as he started unpacking a bag full of to-go containers that looked like they'd come from the mess hall.

Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore…Faithful friends who are dear to us, gather near to us once more….

Phil held out a plate loaded down with the most normal, non-holiday foods possible. It was the cheeseburger that caught Clint's eye though.

"I wasn't sure what kind of movies you like, but I figured action was a safe bet. How's 'The Terminator' sound?"

Through the years, we all will be together…If the Fates allow…hang a shining star upon the highest bow…

"Clint?" It was then that Clint realized he'd just been staring, not taking the food Phil was holding out and not acknowledging the DVD case he was brandishing proudly. Now Phil was looking even more uncertain, as if were realizing he might not be welcome.

"Do you want me to go?" He looked apprehensively towards the door.

Clint hesitated only briefly before he reached for the plate.

"I've never seen it." He nodded towards the movie. "What's it about?"

The smile that blossomed across Phil's face was a mixture of relieved and very, very happy. He headed towards the TV that was suspended from the wall.

"There are guns, assassins, soldiers, and time travel…you'll love it."

And have yourself a merry little Christmas now…

End of Clint's first Christmas at SHIELD

Or in this case, his first Christmas with Phil. :D Hope you enjoyed it! Will Clint ever celebrate Christmas? Will Phil turn him around on the holiday like he was able to his birthday? Time will tell :)

Until next time!