"Phil, get out, go to Vegas, get a dog or some shit. Just TAKE. A. BREAK! We will survive without you for two days."

"Sir-"

"NO. GET. OUT."

I fixed my tie, cleared my throat and (unwillingly) thanked Nick Fury, while calmly storming out of his office. Well, no one who didn't know me would notice my fury (pardon the pun).

After all I've done for Marcus this year... this fucking decade!? With The Avengers plus Sergeant Barnes, (there's still some getting used to that and definite awkward flashbacks of meeting Steve when I'm with Sergea-James. He told me to call him James...) and I get thrown out on my ass, told to get a life and see you on Monday? Screw him. I have a life.

"You have a life."

"Are you sure Hill tested you for mind reading?" I asked Agent Natasha Romanoff as she slinked down the empty hall beside me. Empty due to our presence; Natasha's presence at least. There are many bets and pools of our relationship, her loyalty and my sanity.

"That's classified." She said almost more straight faced than me.

"I've got a higher clearance level than you. Where did you hide this time?"

"I don't hide, I observe in a space out of eye line to preserve the integrity of the information I receive. As Tony would put it, I'm a 'spy through and through'." She says as we finally enter my office, still having not looked into my eyes. We've discussed her reading me and my body language for her own gain. She's been brought in from the cold, literally, for almost 8 years now. We've made huge steps towards trust and loyalty but she doesn't trust herself with me sometimes. She doesn't believe I can trust her with my life and my secrets completely because my ledger is too empty, too honest, too naive. Natasha may be covered in red and deceit but she is filled with loyalty and unwavering love; and I think I may know something about her before she herself has, for once.

"Spy or not. Fury can send you to Antarctica for six months if he wants to. So, I suppose I'll see you in two days. Don't get into trouble, don't let Tony get into trouble, don't play with the Avengers and we can survive until Monday." I say as I pull on my dark navy jacket over my suit blazer and pick up my filled briefcase. Just because I'm not /at/ work doesn't mean I can't work.

"I guess. Have a nice break. I'm not busy. Don't /you/ get into trouble." That's the closest she's gotten so far to telling me to call her and stay safe (and alive). Well, closest when we're not on the brink of death.

"I'm telling you, trouble finds /me/." I end our conversation as I enter the elevator and she continues down the corridor, red hair flowing around her neckline, black jumpsuit ready to be unzipped from its day's strain and killer heels loaded to be used.

O f course I have to happen upon a local dog pound on my evening walk. I like to enjoy the numbness of the unusually quiet streets of back alley New York, my mind will wander and my feet will keep walking but my instincts will heighten. I contemplate going in. I know I wouldn't be able to keep a large pet very well with my work hours; thinking back sorrowfully about the three dead fish and that one abused crab. It's classified.

Though, that doesn't mean I can't annoy the shit out of Marcus with a large, loud dog on the Helicarrier. Promoting his idea and listening to authority and what not. We sometimes forget we've known each other since I was nineteen and he was twenty five. He changed my life forever and has kept changing it for two decades. And I can't say I'm sorry.

No, I might be annoyed, but I'm not stupid and I refuse to put a dog through my lifestyle. As I walk on, my instincts scream at me. Whether it's of danger or to help, I'll never fully understand. Then I see them. A young boy, young in looks and age but old in experience and life. He's around five, cropped sandy hair, steeled but watery blue eyes and a lanky arm around the neck of a scruffy German Shepard about the same size as the boy himself. The dog is ready to attack me to protect the kid. The pair of them make me uneasy but also I become unusually attached to the stares directed at me. They are so tired. So pained. Too finished with their short lives. A lot like Natasha's. I'll blame the reminder of her dark eyes for the consequential events but I knew it was my own idiotic flaw of kindness and naive helpfulness that led me astray, but also towards something I wouldn't give up to even Nick Fury.

"Hey. Are you two okay?" The dog takes another step at me, snarling as I lower to a crouch position about three metres from theirs in front of the overflowing and overwhelmingly smelly bins. He's so big he drags the boy with him in his step.

"Go away!" The boy shouts but his voice is broken and raspy, in the least he has a throat infection.

"I'm not gonna hurt you or take you away or even split the two of you up. I swear. Do you want to tell me your name? Or his?" I nod my head towards the dog who seems to have calmed at my soft tone. Assessing the threat.

The boy sniffles some more before sighing and narrowing his eyes giving an answer.

"Max. S'mine. Keeps'me safe. Who're you?" He straightens his shoulders to prove his courage although I know this kid is wise and brave far beyond his years.

"Hi, Max. I'm Agent Phil Coulson. I can show you my badge? I just want to know if you're okay. Do you need any help? Some money?" I make slow movements to pull out my badge and throw it gently on the ground towards the boy.

I can see him struggle with the words, although adults also struggle with the SHIELD anagram. Who the hell would leave him here? And for how long?

"S'real. M'not supposed to talk ta cops." He adds quietly, seemingly unsure of things he's known all his life. He throws it back to me limply and I place it in my jacket pocket.

"It's okay. I'm not going to say or do anything you don't want me to. I'm off duty anyway. Do you need help getting home or calling someone? How long have you been here?" He shuffles his feet and the German Shepard - Max - has settled with a seated pose by the boys feet, still between us but with no more snarling, just glaring.

"B-B-Barney. He... He left me behind. What dayzit?!" He furrows his brow as my heart stutters a little at his pout and his words. I'm so screwed.

"Friday 13th of June." I should have been wary of that date but I've never really been superstitious, maybe I should be. His face drops and he pales at the knowledge. As he stands dreamily frozen I get a chance to look him over. Max has moved a little to whimper and check on him, allowing me to scope for injuries and clothes. He's wearing a too big leather jacket, ripped jeans, also too big, a purple t-shirt, too small this time, and busted sneakers. There's a scar on his neck line, one behind his left ear, one on his right wrist and multiples of various bruising. His clothes are covered in mud splatters and the odd oil drop, his hair is sticking to his forehead from leftover raindrops and grease and his hands are similarly dirtied.

"6 days." He mumbles and my breathe catches as the tears stream down his face but his eyes stay hardened as if he's accepted his fate and his pain in his mind and awaiting his body to catch up. "No. No home. No... Fam-family. 6 days. Gone 5 days ago. Without m-m-me." He hiccups. The tears are free flowing now and I'm done, so very thoroughly done with everything. Fuck this. I'm hugging this boy and I'm killing this 'Barney'.

I tug him towards me, Max growls ever so slightly, wavering on a bark when the kid freezes at my actions but when I wrap him in my arms and place my hand comfortably on the back of his head, soothing him, they both relax.

After almost fifteen minutes of sniffling, I wrap him in my raincoat and lift his tired body into my arms. I call after Max and we walk the twenty minute journey back to my apartment. The boy eventually falls asleep, after stubbornly fighting it for who knows how long, on the walk over but wakes immediately when I stop at my front door to fumble with the keys.

"No. NO! Please! No!" He shouts and screams, aggravating his throat more but there's a fire in his eyes and a pain in his tone.

"Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. Okay. It's okay. What's wrong?" I ask quietly as I sat him down on the ground again. Max nudges at his stomach to calm him.

"Please don't hurt me. Please. I don't wanna go t'prison. M'sorry. I- I - I..."

"No. No no no. I'm not arresting you or anything. I'm just going to get you something to eat, maybe a shower, a rest? I can wash your clothes or get you new ones. It's all up to you. And Max will be with you the whole time... pinkie promise? It's the one kind of promise I can never break." I tilt my head at his curious yet nervous expression, offering my pinkie to him. After a moment's deliberation he fights a smile, twists his pinkie around mine and nods.

I open the door to my contained two bedroom apartment. He follows me slowly, trailing Max. I'm rarely here but it's clean and simple. I've got some Captain America memorabilia here and there, even some stuff about Sergeant- James. The couch is a comfy, worn soft material and I've got a matching recliner. The coffee table is a dusty oak wood to match the sofa colours and the black flat screen is a stark contrast to the light browns and creams. Down the hall you can see some of my bedroom from the cracked open door, its dark blues and blacks, blackout shades and dark wardrobe. A bathroom is the next door up from the bottom and then the spare bedroom decorated in shades of easy green. A small kitchen with an island and some stools makes my kitchen/dining room table. It's mainly in blacks and creams, more modern than anything else in the apartment.

"C- Clint." I hear a whisper from behind me.

"Sorry?" I lower myself to face him after closing the door and locking it.

"M- my name. It's... Is Clint. Barton. Um... Clinton Francis Barton." He declares proudly when he sees I'm not making any anger or movement towards him, it's endearing. And useful.

"That's a fantastic name. I'm Phillip James Coulson. Most people just call me Phil or Coulson. Can I call you Clint?" I raise my eyebrows minutely at the little glow on his face with my praise of his own name. What the hell happened to this kid?!

He nods enthusiastically. "Yes."

"Okay, Clint. You can call me Phil. Would you like something to eat? You can help me cook something if you want?" I swear to the God I don't believe in that I will spend the rest of eternity being re-stabbed by Loki if Clint gets to smile like this forever. I don't think I've ever loved a smile so much or wanted to cry over one before. He actually looks younger when he smiles, if that's actually possible.

"Yes. Please. Th-Thank you... Phil." My smile must be as goofy as his because his only gets bigger. I feel like the goddamn Grinch with my heart growing about three sizes.

"What would you like? I've got soup. Mac and Cheese... Or beef stir-fry and rice or noodles?" I ask when I help him remove my jacket and his. He picks at the holes in his t-shirt, biting on his lower lip as he thinks it through.

"Mac'n'Cheese... Please?" He asks quietly. I just smile at him.

"Absolutely. It's my favourite." I encourage him just to see how long I can keep that smile on his precious face.

"Me too!" He giggles and when I couldn't think I could fall deeper in Clint's little trap, I defied all expectations and did just that.

After four hours, cooking Mac and Cheese together, giving Clint some clothes to wear after a hot bath while I wash his, and some light as well as heavy discussion, Clint has passed out on my lap in the living room.

We had decided to watch Bugsy Malone, one of my childhood favourites. He took a while to trust me enough to watch him and keep him safe in his vulnerable state but he's fully asleep on me now. I now know Clint's favourite food, full name, favourite colour (purple), Barney is his brother and only family, his parents died somehow when he was three, he's six years old, there's someone called Jacques (the Swordsman?), there's a circus whom I presume left him behind when Carson's Travelling circus left the city 5 days ago and he found Max on the streets, shared his found food with him on his first day alone and they became best friends.

Max hasn't strayed his side once, he's even curled right up against my leg on the couch with us. I think he's warming to me also. I gave him a quick wash while Clint was getting washed too. He doesn't have a collar but he enjoys Mac and Cheese. I should probably get him food, a leash and stuff.

Dammit. I'm getting attached. No, screw that, I'm an idiotic idiot who got attached to a six year old on the streets with a growling dog who both gave me tired looks, smiles a beautiful smile, loves purple and Mac and Cheese and likes to call me Phil. I'm a dumbass who's never gonna let anything happen to these two; if they stay with me or (most likely) not. I will fight for them.

For now, I will I put them to bed and I can call in some names to check out and receive some info tomorrow. Agent Marlow owes me a few.

As I wrap Clint under the duvet in the guest room, remove the hair from his eyes and Max steals the space beside him, I just stare at the boy who stole my heart in the space of five hours, possibly less.

I'm asleep. Or, I was, until I felt the movement outside my door. I kept it open a touch to listen out for Clint or Max. I hear shuffling of small feet and muffled sniffling.

"Clint?" I sit up a little and readjust to the new light of the opened door. Clint is standing in my shrunk army t-shirt and SHIELD shorts, trailing my only purple blanket. I can hear Max snoring in the background, probably unaware to Clint's disappearance.

"Ph- Phil?" Clint sniffles and lowers his head.

I get out of bed, after deciding to sleep in a band t-shirt (don't tell Tony) and bottoms due to the company, and crouch in front of the boy, wiping away the tears.

"What's wrong, Clint?"

"I had a... a nigh'mare. M'sorry. Din'mean t'wake you..." He sniffles some more, moving away.

"It's okay. It's fine. You can come and find me. Whenever you need me, I'll come, okay? Pinkie promise." I know I'll come running if he needs me, I just need him to know it now too. So, he curls his pinkie around mine as tight as he can. Then I suggest a solution...

"I get nightmares too. Why don't you sleep in with me? You can protect me and I can protect you, huh?" His eyes sparkle at the idea and he nods vigorously. I lift him and wrap the blanket around him, walking back over to my bed; he's too light. I need to get him a check-up, for definite.

I lower him down on the opposite side to me and I settle back down on the mattress. Blankets covering us both. He's silent but he seemingly takes a deep breath, moves closer snuggles into my chest and grabs a hold of my t-shirt in a white knuckle grip. I can feel him let the breath go when I wrap my arm around him and squeeze him in tighter.

This is probably the closest thing to peace I've had in the last 10 years. I don't know what I'm going to do or what Clint wants to do but I'm never leaving him behind. I'm not doing that to him again.

I place a kiss to his head, his breathing evening out and I drift off myself to the comfort of his weight in my arms and Max snoring in the background.