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"

And we're back with the next - and second to last - installment to the Milestone series. Yes - there WILL be a Year 9, which if you check my story list timeline, will take place AFTER Phil is dead. *cue heartbroken 'awwww' for Clint*...it is current in the works and will hopefully be ready for release in the next few weeks.

Thanks to my awesome beta and great friend Kylen who not only gave me the idea for how Clint and Phil should spend Year 8, but also stuck with me through the LONG process it took to get it done...cuz believe it or not, I started this one back before What No One Else Sees was released...yeah...and now a word from my awesome beta herself...

Kylen here: I gave her the idea - SHE ran with it.

Now, if you are new to my stuff, this is another installment in an increasingly long line of multi-chap fics and one-shots in a universe that I created for the Avengers. It revolves around Clint Barton and various events in his life. If you are curious, check out my profile page to see what I've completed and what I've got planned :)

Brief summary of universe so far:

Clint Barton was 18 when he was recruited by Phil Coulson into SHIELD. After that, Phil worked patiently and tirelessly to gain Clint's trust and eventually the two formed a deep bond of trust that became the basis for the brotherhood the two would share for the next nine years until Phil was killed. Several years after coming to SHIELD, Clint was sent to France for a mission and eventually after Natasha Romanoff, who he eventually recruited. The two assassins were officially partnered a year later, and would work together for the following two years. A mission in Vietnam changed the nature of Barton and Romanoff's partnership when the two began a romantic relationship during the events of that mission. Director Fury subsequently split up their partnership, claiming it was for other reasons. A mission in Budapest went horribly wrong. The cause was later revealed to be a betrayal from an unexpected place. After the events of "The Avengers", Clint Barton struggled to deal with the death of his handler and the return of a former Army unit mate with a thirst for revenge. Clint eventually started to build relationships with his team mates, and eventually built a solid friendship with Tony during the disastrous events of a mission in South Africa. Months later, after Natasha was reported killed in action, Clint temporarily left SHIELD to seek revenge.

Now on to Milestone Eight...

"Life gives us brief moments with another...but sometimes in those brief moment we get memories that last a life time..."
Unknown

Clint shivered and woke with a frown. He shifted, his fingers instinctively curling around the hilt of the knife under his pillow. He shivered again and tightened the ball his body was curled into. Without opening his eye,s he made his move to rectify the situation.

"Phil!"

There was a grunt from across the room, but no movement that he could hear.

"PHIL!"

"What?!"

Clint smirked at the annoyed, half asleep tone – his eyes still closed.

"The radiator stopped working."

He heard a deep sigh.

"Clint, it's three in the morning – you couldn't just get up and fix it yourself?"

Clint's smirk widened.

"But Phil…it's cold."

Another sigh.

"And you're closer."

Blankets shifted and a cot creaked. Feet made the floor creak and then a pillow slammed into Clint's head as Phil walked by. A moment later there was a tinkering of metal as Phil messed with the radiator. Clint pushed his head out from under the blankets.

"You realize to hit me with that pillow you had to go farther away from the radiator first? And be out in the cold longer."

Phil picked up a shoe and hit the radiator with it. Immediately it growled to life. He turned and tossed the shoe down.

"It was worth it."

Phil dropped back onto his cot and cocooned himself in his blankets. Clint stayed wrapped up in his, waiting as the room slowly warmed. About the same time he heard Phil's breaths even out, Clint felt he could safely push away his blankets without fear of something freezing.

With a contented sigh, he stretched out and closed his eyes again. He had a couple more hours before they would even think about starting their day. A few more hours of sleep sounded pretty good.

A minute passed – and then two.

Twenty painfully long minutes later, Clint was forced to accept that he wouldn't be getting back to sleep. Nearly a lifetime of not being able to go back to sleep after nightmares had made insomnia an affliction he was painfully familiar with. It had also made it unreasonably difficult at times to get back to sleep after waking, so he knew when to admit defeat.

With a sigh, he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the cot. He tossed a glance at Phil, still sleeping soundly. As quietly as he could, Clint stood and pulled on a pair of athletic pants and a t-shirt. He finished with his old ARMY sweatshirt, pausing for a moment when he caught a whiff of vanilla. A soft smile lit his features. Natasha was always stealing his stuff and this hooded sweatshirt was a particular favorite of hers.

His smile stayed in place as he pulled on his running shoes. It was going to be cold outside – Tasmania in the dead of winter tended to be. But he knew after the first mile or so he'd be warmed up enough that it wouldn't bother him.

He frowned as he stood and a dull throb echoed through his head. He rubbed his temple and swallowed, frowning more deeply when he felt an odd tightness in the back of his throat.

He seriously hated not getting enough sleep – it sometimes made him feel a little off for a while. Once his blood got flowing and his body realized he was up for good, it would wear off.

He scribbled a quick note on the back of a page from the mission brief – telling Phil where he'd gone – and then quietly left the small safe house.

Clint kicked the safe house door, hopping from foot to foot as he waited. He expertly held two cups of coffee in one hand and two folded bags in the other.

"Phil! Open the damn door!"

A few moments later, the door swung open and Clint quickly made his way inside.

"Where have you been?"

"On a run – and then getting breakfast." Clint dropped the bags on the table and carefully set the coffee next to them. He pulled his hoodie over his head. "I left a note."

Phil pulled a piece of paper off the table.

"Phil – run – Clint. You didn't even use a full sentence." Phil waved the paper demonstratively.

Clint shrugged and took a sip of his coffee.

"You could have at least let me know when you were going to be back." Phil groused mostly under his breath as Clint moved to his cot and kicked off his shoes. Phil curiously opened one of the bags, smiling at the delicious smell that wafted up. He reached for his cell on the table when it rang.

"Coulson."

"I'm back."

Phil turned to glare at Clint, who stood with his phone pressed to his ear and a mocking smirk on his face.

"You're an ass," Phil accused through the phone before disconnecting the call with a flourish.

Clint laughed and tossed his phone onto the cot.

"I brought you breakfast. Does that buy my way back into your good graces?"

"It's a start." Phil sat at the table and started pulling food out of the bags. "So what's the weather like out there? Forecast was calling for rain sometime over the next day or so."

"Well it was cold – because we're in Tasmania in July, so it's fucking winter."

Phil inclined his head in agreement.

"Why are we in Tasmania in July again? A stupid intelligence gathering mission. I know I haven't pissed Fury off – at least not since that thing with the recruits a few weeks ago – so what they hell did you do?" Clint fixed Phil with an arched eyebrow and a scolding glare.

Phil rolled his eyes.

"I didn't do anything. And this isn't a stupid intelligence gathering mission. If you're able to find their weapons store, then we can cut this arms operation off at the knees."

"And no one else could come sit on top of a building for hours and follow these guys around? It had to be me? And it had to be now? This is not the way I wanted to commemorate eight years, Phil."

"Calm down," Phil admonished. "It's not that big a deal. We're still together. We'll just do something tomorrow to celebrate – just like we always do."

"Phil," Clint waited until Phil looked at him, "you've got this nasty habit of seeing positives in situations. I really don't like that about you. Me? Me, I want to complain until I'm blue in the face just so the world can know how pissed off I am."

"You know, I already knew that about you." Phil smirked in a sort of amused – and slightly patronizing – fashion that made Clint seriously contemplate doing him bodily harm.

"You've already watched them all day, do you really think you need to go on a surveillance run tonight? That rain they've been forecasting could start at any moment." Phil watched as Clint pulled on his jacket and then his boots.

"If I log a few more hours today, then I can justify skipping a few tomorrow so we can properly celebrate."

"If you're sure."

"I'm sure. See you in a few hours." Clint shrugged his quiver into place and strode out of the safe house. Phil, for his part, settled on his cot with his comm and flipped open his laptop. If there was something fun to do in the middle of winter in Tasmania – he was going to find it. He wasn't letting a little thing like a mission ruin his and Clint's tradition of celebrating Clint's years at SHIELD with style.

Phil pulled open the safe house door and stepped back as Clint nearly dove through.

"I fucking hate the rain."

"You're the one that stayed out in it for three hours."

The glare Phil got for his comment would have leveled anyone else.

"I wasn't going to have gone all the way out there and only get an hour of recon in."

Phil rolled his eyes and moved to the old coffee machine on the counter of the very small kitchen. He poured a fresh cup and started shoveling sugar into it.

"Why don't you take this, go get a hot shower, and call it a day?"

Clint kicked off his boots and shed his quiver and jacket across one of the kitchen chairs. He accepted the coffee and started towards the bathroom.

"I fucking hate the rain, you know." He tossed the comment over his shoulder just before closing the bathroom door.

"Yeah, kid, I'm well aware." Phil shook his head with a grin.

Clint rested his forehead against the tile and let the hot water beat against the back of his neck and down his back – and he waited for his body to thaw.

Somewhere along the past six hours the minor annoyance of a headache he'd woken with had decided to escalate into something closer to what he imagined a jackhammer against his skull would feel like. And the slight tightness of his throat from this morning had morphed into feeling like someone had rubbed sandpaper around in his throat.

He just needed sleep – a lot of sleep.

He hadn't realized he'd dozed off until a knock on the door had him flinching.

"Clint – you okay?"

He nodded, only to roll his eyes at himself when he remembered Phil couldn't see him.

"Yeah, I'll be out in a minute."

When he emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, he felt considerably less frozen but no less exhausted. Phil was sitting on his cot with his laptop open on his lap, but he glanced up when Clint emerged.

Clint frowned when Phil frowned.

"What?"

"You feeling okay?"

Headache. Sore throat. Tired enough to fall asleep standing up.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

He just needed sleep.

"You just look…off. And I can't remember the last time you took a shower that was longer than three minutes."

"I'm fine – just tired." Clint pulled a clean pair of boxers on under the towel he had wrapped around his waist, and then promptly sprawled out on his cot. He burrowed into his blankets and sighed contentedly.

"I've got some ideas for tomorrow – want to hear them?" Phil peered at him over the edge of the laptop.

"Sure." Clint reached to the pile of clothes he'd dropped on the floor and pulled his knife from its sheath. He slid it under his pillow and dropped his head down to rest. He let his eyes drift closed even as Phil started talking.

In the end, he didn't even remember the first thing out of the handler's mouth after that.

Phil frowned as he drifted back to consciousness, sleep-muddled mind still confused about why he was being pulled from his slumber. He stretched and rolled onto his back, blinking into the darkness of the room and focusing his senses on his surroundings.

He had just deduced that there was no noticeable threat and had started to roll over when a short series of nasty, wet sounding coughs broke the silence of the room. Phil immediately looked over to Clint, sleeping on a cot across the room. The archer was curled on his side, back to the wall, with the blankets pulled tightly around him and over most of his face. All Phil could really see was the crown of his head and his mess of blonde hair.

Phil just watched for a moment and waited.

Sure enough, a few seconds later, another series of deep, wet coughs tore from the bundled agent. The archer's whole body seemed to contract with each cough, making his mound of blankets shift as well.

"Ah shit, kid," Phil sighed and sat up, tossing his blankets aside.

He'd wondered last night when Clint had looked a little flushed after his shower, hadn't even mentioned wanting food – something he always seemed to want – and had then fallen asleep mid conversation, if there was more going on with the kid than just lack of sleep.

Not that Clint hadn't gone to sleep mid conversation before – but usually it was on purpose to show Phil how uninterested he was in what his handler was saying. It usually happened during particularly long de-briefs – or during lectures on protocol.

Phil pushed up from the cot and made his way towards Clint. He winced at the wet, plegmy quality to Clint's breathing – which became painfully apparent once he got within earshot. He needed to get the kid propped on some pillows and then get the first aid kit.

Even as Phil reached Clint's side he was listing in his head all the things he needed to do. Take his temperature, get some medicine in him, call Dan…

He was just reaching to touch Clint's shoulder when the agent launched into another coughing fit – this one so abrupt and hacking that Clint flinched awake all on his own. He flailed wildly, arms flying as he tried to get them underneath himself to push himself up. Phil reached quickly to wrap an arm around Clint's waist and help him upright – pushing the agent's legs around so his feet were on the floor.

It was then that Phil realized that even when the coughing paused, Clint wasn't pulling in air – or was pulling in very little before he was coughing again. So Phil did the first thing that came to mind. He pounded his palm against the kid's back.

"Dammnit, Clint, breathe!"

Clint surged to consciousness with only one startling thought in his mind.

Not enough…not enough air…JESUS...

Clint curled into himself, pulling his knees up to his chest as the coughing spasm took on a life of its own. Every time, something caught in his throat before he even got halfway through a breath, and his body forced the air back out, his whole body shaking now. Panic began to build in his stomach as his lungs, his chest – hell, his whole body – started to burn from a lack of oxygen. Gray crept into Clint's vision, and he started to lose his grip on consciousness.

So this is how it feels like to…

Suddenly, an arm circled around Clint's waist and tugged him roughly to a seated position. A hand pushed his upper body down, though, and pounded mercilessly on his back.

"Dammit, Clint, breathe!"

Phil, Clint thought lazily, as the coughing continued. The pounding on his back timed with it, though.

"Keep coughing, kid. Just keep it up." Phil's words somehow filtered into his brain, and as they did, something loosened in his chest. Heaving in as deep a breath as he could manage, Clint coughed one last time, and whatever was blocking his throat flew free.

Blessed, sweet air filled Clint's chest, and he pulled it in hard. That triggered another round of coughing, but less desperate as before. Phil continued to pound the palm of his hand against his back, and Clint's lungs – finally – began to process the air he had been working so hard to pull in. He gulped at the air, furious in his desire to just breathe.

Phil's arm tightened around his waist.

"Slow it down, kid. Nice and easy now."

In that moment Clint's awareness narrowed – tightening from the loose, lazy, almost detached quality his mind had taken on to a hyper-aware, almost overloaded focus. He was suddenly acutely aware of everything – Phil's hand against his back, the tightness and pain in his chest, the cold floor on his bare feet, the small puddle of yellow goo on the floor…

Wait…

"Gross."

He saw Phil's eyebrow quirk out of the corner of his eye and took a moment to reflect on how exactly the word had come out sounding. His eyes drew into a slight wince when he hazily deduced that he really shouldn't sound like a 90-year-old chain smoker that had just had throat surgery.

And he really shouldn't be "hazily" deducing anything given the sharp awareness he usually operated under.

God damn it.

He was sick.

"Son of bitch." He forced out the rasping, scratchy words and then practically threw himself back onto his cot with an admittedly pathetic groan. "I think I'm sick," he moaned into the pillow.

"No shit."

He could hear the smirk in Phil's words, even though he couldn't see him.

Clint turned and leveled the handler with the most heated glare he could manage at the moment – which was, unfortunately, not as heated as he would have liked. But even though Phil was smirking, there was deep, familiar concern in his eyes.

"I'm calling Dan."

"But…"

"I swear to God if you say you're fine, I will smother you with that pillow."

Clint stayed for a moment with his mouth frozen open – and then his eyes took on a faux innocent look that would fool anybody but those closest to him.

"That's not what I was going to say."

Phil rolled his eyes.

"Stop talking, because it's physically painful for me just to hear you. Here," Phil took a few quick steps over to his own cot and retrieved his pillow. A moment later he was propping it under Clint's shoulders and pulling the blankets back up over his body.

Almost greedily, Clint pulled the blankets closer around himself and burrowed down into the warmth. Concern overwhelmed Phil for a moment and he reached to press the back of his hand against Clint's forehead. An accurate measure of his temperature couldn't be achieved this way, but Phil needed to know if Clint was as sick as he seemed.

Dry, uncomfortable heat had him drawing his hand away a moment later.

"Don't go anywhere," Phil instructed firmly as he headed for the bathroom, where he'd left the first aid kit after patching up a particularly nasty scrape Clint had gotten on his elbow while sliding – intentionally, according to Clint – down the side of a rooftop.

"Yeah," Clint muttered into his pillow, "because I was about to make an escape so I could go run a marathon."

Phil sat back on the edge of the cot, first aid kit in one hand and cell phone in the other.

"Clint," he drew his charge's attention quietly, "stop talking."

"Yeah, okay."

"Clint." Phil couldn't keep the small smile off his face as he scolded his agent for disobeying the directive already.

"Sorry."

Phil flicked his finger against Clint's temple for talking again and then pushed the business end of an oral thermometer into Clint's mouth. Clint's expression became so put upon that Phil almost laughed at the overdramatic nature of the expression.

The thermometer beeped and Phil pulled it from Clint's mouth before Clint could do something Clint-like and spit it out.

101.2F

Not good.

He let Clint take the thermometer and squint at the digital readout even as he slid his finger across his phone and hit his number 4 speed dial. He hummed in response to Clint's annoyed curse as he waited for Dan to answer.

"You know, Phil, it's generally accepted to be the middle of the night where you are. Do I even want to know why you're calling?"

Phil sighed. Sometimes caller ID really caught him off guard.

"No bullets or knives if that's what you're thinking." Phil paused, glancing down at Clint, whose eyes had drifted closed as he waited. "Clint's sick."

Dan sighed deeply.

"You know I'm supposed to hand you off to Webber, Phil, right?"

"I didn't call Webber – I called you."

Dan sighed again.

"Well, I am the doctor on call tonight, so what the hell. Barton's sick? Let me guess, you have a case of STS on your hands."

Phil was hit with a wave of unreasonable frustration that probably had more to do with the sudden shiver that briefly overtook Clint's body than with Dan.

"What the hell is STS?"

Dan and Clint shared the rare ability to communicate eye rolls over phone lines – Phil wasn't quite sure how they did it.

"Sicker than shit, Phil. Cold symptoms, fever?"

Phil's eyebrow arched of its own accord.

"You know what's wrong?"

"I might have an idea." Dan sighed again, more deeply this time. "We have a strep epidemic making its way around the helicarrier. I'm going to take a stab and say Barton's got it?"

"Strep? Jesus...but Clint hasn't even been there for almost a week."

"And the incubation period is 2-5 days. Romanoff just came down with it yesterday. I considered calling, but I figured in Barton's case, no news was good news."

Phil rubbed his forehead roughly.

"He seemed fine until last night. I'm betting being stuck out in near-freezing temperatures in pouring rain probably didn't help his situation."

"No, probably not. Run the symptoms past me."

Phil sighed and adjusted the blanket over Clint with his free hand.

"Wet cough, 101 fever, sounds like he's been gargling glass shards." Phil took in the tight lines of pain around Clint's eyes – his only real tell when it came to physical pain and something very few people would ever notice. "He hasn't complained but I can tell something hurts – probably his throat and chest if it's really strep."

"Throat, yes, but it sounds like he's got a nasty cold on top of it." Dan blew out a deep breath. "I take it a trip to a doctor's office is out of the question?"

"It's barely above freezing outside and we're on the edge of town to begin with. I don't even know if this town has a doctor."

"And he wouldn't go even if you ordered him." Phil smiled at the same time Dan snorted. They both knew Clint way too well. "OK, you got your kit in front of you?"

"Yeah," Phil nodded even though Dan couldn't see him, "I've got it."

"What've you got in there for antibiotics?"

Phil pushed things around in the first aid kit and pulled out the four medications he knew to be antibiotics.

"Uh…amoxicillin, penicillin, cephalexin, and cypro."

Phil heard Dan typing on a keyboard, no doubt bringing up Clint's chart on his laptop.

"OK, let's try the cephalexin, one pill three times a day. Ask him how his chest feels?"

Phil looked to Clint, sighing quietly when he realized the archer had fallen back to sleep. He really didn't want to wake him up.

"You know, I can actually answer that. He's congested. Woke himself up coughing and practically hyperventilated trying to clear his throat." Phil glanced at the congealed yellow substance still on the floor. "I'll spare you the description of what he ended up hacking up."

"Ouch." Phil could hear the wince in the single word. "OK. Dig out the ibuprofen and the guaifenesin, too. With any luck, the antibiotics will kick in fairly quick. If there's anything else bacterial going on, that should address that, too. The rest should get the cold on its way out. Do I even need to go over the rest of the basics?"

"Fluids and rest?"

"You got it – and lots of both." Dan sighed once more. "Not much else you can do except let it run its course." Dan paused suddenly for a moment. "Shit. It's the 12th where you are, isn't it..."

Phil sighed for what felt like the millionth time.

"Yeah." He scoffed a humorless half laugh. "Hell of a way to spend the day."

"Sorry, Phil. Pass that onto the kid too, will ya?"

"Will do – how's Natasha doing? She gonna be up for a call later? I have a feeling Clint will need a pick me up."

"Glaring holes into the infirmary walls at the moment. You wanna talk to her?

"Yeah, put her on."

Phil rubbed his eyes as he waited and glanced at Clint when another shiver racked the archer's body. He got up and moved to grab a spare blanket. He heard Dan walking and then a shuffling on the line. He heard his own name and then Natasha was on the line, sounding about as terrible as Clint did – if a little less hacking.

"Tell this идиот to let me out of here."

"No can do, Natasha. Tell me how you're feeling. And if you say you're fine, I'll have Dan keep you there an extra 24 hours."

Phil tilted his head. Clint and Dan weren't the only ones who could communicate eye rolls over phone lines – Natasha was fairly adept at it as well.

"Fine. I'm sick. Why are you calling?"

Ever to the point – that was Natasha.

"Your worse half woke me up in the middle of the night coughing up his lungs. He's gonna be pissed if he finds out you got him sick."

He'd been hoping to get a rise out of her – a snappy defense that she had nothing to do with it – that it was somehow Clint's fault instead because he tended to be so stubborn about such things. Instead, she came back sounding worried and he realized she must feel as terrible as she sounded.

"He okay?" She was going for nonchalant – Phil could tell – but she couldn't quite achieve it.

"You know Clint. He doesn't do anything halfway – but he's hanging in there."

He could visualize the soft smile she'd be wearing with her next words – a smile reserved only for Clint.

"He always does. Can I talk to him?"

Frankly, Phil didn't think she sounded like she needed to be talking any more than Clint did. But those two tended to lend strength to each other – and it sounded like they both could use the boost in morale.

He hated to wake Clint, but he'd be facing hellfire-like wrath from the archer if he found out Nat had been on the line and Phil hadn't let him talk to her. Besides, he needed Clint awake to take his meds anyway.

"Give me a sec."

Phil lowered the phone and looked down at Clint. Very lightly, he tapped the archer's left shoulder. Instantly, Clint's eyes flashed open and he looked around in confusion for a moment before blinking and focusing on Phil.

The handler held out the phone.

"Natasha."

Clint's eyebrow arched curiously, but he reached for the phone without hesitation. He pressed the phone to his ear and rolled onto his side.

"Tasha?"

Phil took the opportunity to stand and move to the small fridge across the room to retrieve a bottle of water for Clint. Almost absently, he tuned into Clint's side of the conversation – unable to keep the soft smile from his face as he listened to Clint talk to her. No one – not even him – brought out the side of Clint Natasha did.

"You sound like shit."

Phil scoffed – that probably got a colorful response from the female assassin since Clint sounded unreasonably worse than she had.

"I'm blaming you, you know…" he paused as she replied. "Why? Because I'm pretty sure it's your fault."

Clint chuckled tiredly at her response to that.

"Why did you ask to talk to me if you don't want me to talk? People keep telling me to stop talking – I'm starting to take it personally."

Clint scoffed as she replied – only to have it turn into a wet cough. When he was done, he responded to whatever Natasha had said.

"That wasn't very nice."

Phil started back towards him, watched Clint's lips quirk affectionately at whatever the other assassin was saying.

"I'm fine." He rolled his eyes, only to wince and squeeze them shut.

Phil sat back on the edge of the cot and started pulling the various meds he was going to give Clint from the first aid kit. He watched Clint make a face.

"Fine. I will be fine. Phil's in full on mother hen mode so I'll be lucky if I get to use the bathroom by myself."

Phil flicked him gently in the temple and Clint just smiled.

"You taking care of yourself?"

He watched Clint listen for a moment and then his expression shifted – it was an expression Phil had only seen him wear when Nat was involved. He quickly busied himself rooting around for nothing in particular in his first aid kit as Clint's voice lowered and his language switched to Russian.

Phil could speak the language, kind of. But Clint and Natasha spoke Russian when they didn't want anyone else to listen in. Phil had learned early on it was easier just to pretend he couldn't hear – and to ignore what he could. It saved him and Clint some embarrassment.

He looked up when the conversation seemed to draw to a close.

"See you soon," Clint finished and then he was handing the phone back. "Wilson wants to talk to you again."

Phil accepted the phone and raised it to his ear.

"Dan?"

"Surprisingly, Romanoff is suddenly intensely cooperative. Judging by the Russian, I'm guessing it's not you that said the magic words."

"Clint."

"I figured. Look, get the drugs in him and call me back if his chest doesn't start to clear up. I wouldn't put it past your boy to end up with something dramatic like pneumonia."

"I'll keep an eye on him."

He sighed as he realized Clint had already drifted off – again.

"You gonna scrub the mission?"

"Don't really have a choice at this point."

"Let me know if anything changes."

"Will do."

Phil pocketed his phone after Dan hung up and sighed again. Clint wasn't making this easy.

"Clint."

The archer didn't move, just stayed curled on his side breathing the same ragged breaths he'd been breathing the whole time. Phil really hoped the lack of his usual hyper-awareness was a side effect of the exhaustion and not because Clint was worse off than he seemed.

Changing tactics, he tapped Clint's shoulder as he'd done earlier, and again Clint's eyes flashed open immediately – with a dose of startled bewilderment. Kid was definitely exhausted.

"Time for meds."

Clint blinked blearily and levered himself slowly onto his right elbow. Phil grabbed his other hand and turned it so it was palm side up, then he pressed doses of cephalexin, ibuprofen and guaifenesin into his hand.

"Don't move, I'm gonna get you some water for those."

"Wasn't planning on movin'." Clint cough miserably. "Just gonna focus on existing."

Phil quirked his lips in sympathy, then handed Clint the water bottle – the cap already unscrewed. The archer chased the pills with a several short sips of water – Phil was sure his throat probably couldn't take long gulps. He took the water back and set it on the floor, watching Clint all but collapse back into his nest of blankets.

"I don't know how you do it, Clint." Phil shook his head in fond exasperation. "You've never had so much as a sniffle since we met and now you manage to not only get a chest cold, but tag strep on just for kicks."

Clint smirked wearily and pulled his blankets closer when a shiver racked his body.

"Go big or go home."

"I'd rather you chose the go home at this point, kid."

"You kidding? That would have been easy and that's just not my style."

Clint started to clear his throat and ended up doubled up in another coughing fit. All Phil could do was grip the back of his neck in comfort until it tapered off. He eased Clint back onto his pillows and reached for the water bottle. Clint waved him off, but Phil pressed it into his hand anyway.

"You need fluids. Drink."

Clint took an obligatory sip and then just rested the base of the bottle against his chest, Phil figured the coolness of the plastic probably felt really good against his fevered skin. Phil let it be for now and started packing up the first aid kit, leaving out only what he'd need – the drugs and the thermometer.

Out of nowhere, the kid spoke.

"Not the first time."

Phil glanced at him with a curious arch to his eyebrow, wondering if his fever had spiked. Clint had curled on his side again, all but hugging the water bottle to his chest, eyes closed.

"Not the first time what?"

Clint didn't bother opening his eyes as he responded, making Phil certain it was exhaustion and sickness speaking – the normal Clint wasn't this candid.

"Not the first time I've been sick."

That brought Phil's attention away from the first aid kit and fully to Clint.

"Say that again."

Clint shivered and pushed the water bottle away. Phil caught it before it could spill and shifted the blankets higher on Clint's shoulders. Clint burrowed into the added warmth and replied with a yawn.

"Been sick on a dozen assignments…just never told."

Phil wished the archer could see the open surprise on his face. It had to be the fever. Clint was going to be pissed when he realized he'd just made a full confession about something he'd probably planned to take to the grave.

"You're allowed to take a sick day, kid." Phil sighed. "No one would have held it against you."

Clint shook his head and mumbled a response as he relaxed into his pillows, his words slurring slightly as he drifted off. Phil barely caught bits of it.

"…to 'portant…p'ples lives…"

Then Clint was asleep, breathing rickety-sounding breaths, but peacefully asleep.

Phil blew out a breath, checked that the blankets were sufficiently tucked around his charge and then stood up. So much for a nice, relaxing day spent celebrating eight years.

He brought the first aid kit back to the bathroom and went back to his own bed.

He knew he needed to try and get some rest of his own. Wearing his own immune system down and getting sick himself wouldn't do either of them any good. He glanced at his watch.

3:18 a.m.

Phil lay back on his bed with a sigh, his head resting directly on the mattress since his pillow was currently under Clint's head. He flicked his own blanket back over his legs and closed his eyes – focusing his hearing on the rhythm of Clint's breathing.

He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.

Clint tilted his head when he heard whispering, shifting on the rafter he was currently perched on. He turned on the wood easily, moving back towards the trapeze net he'd navigated away from just a few minutes ago.

He froze and hunkered down when he saw Barney and Jacques standing a few paces in from the tent flap, as if doing so would keep him from being spotted if either of them looked up.

His curiosity peaked and had him shifting closer, moving silently along the tent's support beams. He didn't know Barney and Jacques were friends – that they had actual conversations. He'd barely ever seen the two men share a glance.

He froze when he got a sudden view of Barney's mouth. Without conscious thought, he started reading his lips – just like Brit had taught him, though Brit had also told him – many times – that it wasn't polite to eavesdrop.

"I want more this time – I played a bigger part."

"Kid, you haven't even gotten your toes wet. Just keep your mouth shut and take what I give you."

He didn't need to see Jacques' mouth to know what he was saying – the man didn't seem to be concerned about begin overheard. Arrogant bastard.

He listened to them argue and moved closer, shifting so he was above the trapeze net. He froze when Barney's voice finally rose above a whisper – to the sharp, loud tone Clint was now used to hearing from him.

"Why don't we just take it all and leave for good? We can make more pulling real jobs."

"Don't be an idiot, Barton. We've got a cushy gig here – we skim what we want and old Zaney boy is none the wiser. That's smart business."

Clint's jaw dropped. They were stealing from Zane.

Like hell.

Before he fully thought it through, he jumped from the rafter – angling for the net. He landed on his back and used the bounce to flip off the net and to the ground, landing in a crouch to absorb the impact.

He was met with two wide-eyed, startled – and infuriated – glares. Almost as one, they started towards him. Clint held his ground. He wasn't backing down. It wasn't his style.

"I heard you. I'm not letting you steal from Zane anymore."

"And what are you going to do about it, you little shit?" Barney spat as they drew steadily closer. "Nothing, that's what. You're gonna act in your best interest and keep your mouth shut."

"Easy, Barton." Jacques waved a calming hand at Barney and eyed Clint darkly. Clint was familiar with that look. Jacques wasn't shy about being a bastard. "No reason we can't be civil…I'm sure we can make it worth his while."

"Go to hell." Clint spat. "I'm not letting you do this."

He moved to shove past them and go to Zane. He wasn't sure why he was so surprised when Jacques caught his arm in a bruising, vice-like grip and jerked him around. He was even more surprised by the closed backhand that snapped his head to the side a moment later and sent him to the ground.

Clint's hand went to the corner of his mouth, drawing back with bright red blood coating his fingers. He looked up at his brother and mentor with wide eyes. He saw Barney move to reach for him and tried to scramble back, pushing his heels into the dirt. But Barney caught the hem of his t-shirt, yanked him back and got a firmer hold on the cloth covering Clint's chest.

He pulled Clint up and slammed a fist into his cheek, sending him right back to the ground.

Suddenly the tent was gone and it was raining. Clint was running, sneakers sticking in the mud as he half stumbled, half sprinted through the maze of tents. He stumbled, going to one knee and pushing a hand off the ground to get him back upright.

Then he kept running.

He had to get to someone – anyone. Brit and Kara weren't there. They were in town along with half the carnival crew.

But Buck was here, and Buck's tent was closest.

Terror stole his breath as he moved, one hand braced against the fiery pain in his ribs, the other wind-milling to keep his balance. He sucked in panicked breaths, head pounding in time with his rapidly-beating heart.

They were going to kill him. His brother was going to kill him.

He had to get to Buck.

His sneakers slid as he rounded the prop tent, white-hot fear slicing through him when he saw Swordsman coming towards him. He tried to stop, but the mud stole any chance of traction and he ended up on his butt in the mud.

He scrambled back up, feet sliding as they tried to find something to grip. Panic made his movements fast and uncontrolled and it took two tries before he found his feet again. He backed up quickly, breathing hard.

"Clint, Clint, Clint…" Jacques shook his head mockingly. "Always too curious for your own good."

Clint kept backing up, wishing his heart would stop racing, wishing he could catch his breath.

"You can't do this!" He snapped lowly at his mentor. "You can't steal from people and expect me to just look the other way." He wiped water out of his eyes from the rain, frowning when the cuts on his face stung, and the bruises pulsed in pain. He barely saw red painting his hand before the rain washed it away.

"We offered to cut you in, Clint, but you just had to be a little bitch about it."

Clint spun, his feet nearly going out from under him. Barney was shaking his head in mock disappointment as he approached.

"You know what you have to do, Barney."

Clint barely heard Jacques' words, because he suddenly saw a knife in his brother's hand.

"Barney?" Clint breathed in confusion. Barney wouldn't hurt him. Barney was his brother. Barney was supposed to love him.

"Always the little bitch, Clint." Barney advanced and Clint retreated, eyes widening in disbelief. He flinched when he backed into something solid and then there were arms locked around his, holding him in place.

He immediately jerked, trying to break the hold, but Jacques was strong – stronger than him.

"Barney…" Clint knew he was begging, pleading, but he didn't care. Barney was his brother – Barney loved him.

"I'm sorry, Baby Bro."

"Please!" Clint flailed in Jacques' grip again, trying to get away, to run, to hide, to pretend none of this had happened.

"I've got to look out for myself now." Barney raised the knife and met his eyes.

Barney hated him.

He brought the knife down hard into the upper right side of Clint's chest and sunk it to the hilt. Clint gasped, in pain, in confusion, in terror, and stared into his brother's eyes.

His brother was going to kill him – maybe already had.

The arms around him loosened and Clint slid down to the mud, hand grasping uselessly at the hilt of the knife still buried in his chest.

Something bubbled in his throat.

He couldn't breathe.

He heard shouting – felt Barney and Swordsman move away.

His fingers slid across the hilt of the knife, now slick with rain and blood.

He couldn't breathe.

"Clint!"

He heard Buck call out to him and tried to reply, but there was something blocking his throat.

He tried to cough, but nothing loosened.

"Clint!"

He couldn't breathe – he was dying. Barney had left him to die in the mud and the rain.

"CLINT! Wake up!"

Clint blinked and the rain was gone. In its place was a blurry, but familiar face.

He coughed again, and something in his throat loosened, but didn't break free.

He couldn't breathe.

He grasped at the knife in his chest, needing to pull it out – to take away the heavy ton of pressure on his lungs.

"CLINT, Goddammit! Breathe!"

He blinked again, saw Phil hovering over him, holding him up by his shoulders.

Rain was in his eyes. Barney was holding the knife over him again – ready to stab him again.

"Barney, please!"

He brought it down hard into Clint's chest and Clint cried out in pain.

"Son of a bitch! It's not real!"

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe.

"Yes, you can! If you can say it, you can do it!"

Clint realized then he'd been talking. Repeating one phrase over and over around gasping, hyperventilating breathes – was still doing it now.

"I can't…bre…breathe…I…ca…can't…b…breathe…"

"Yes you can." Phil assured firmly, pulling Clint into a fully upright sitting position. He ignored the bruising grip Clint had on his forearm, the white-knuckled grip he had on the front of Phil's t-shirt. Ignored the fiery heat radiating from Clint's forehead where it came to rest against his collar bone.

He ignored the pounding of his own heart, and the emotion making his throat tight. He ignored all of it – because none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was Clint.

He resisted the urge to flex his quickly numbing left hand and gripped the back of Barton's neck with the other. He squeezed gently, just letting the kid – who wasn't really a kid anymore – know he was there.

"You can breathe. It was just a dream."

Clint sucked in one labored, phlegmy breathe and then another. Then he coughed, wetly and painfully, and his left hand went from gripping Phil's shirt to pressing against the old, white scar on his upper right chest, fingers searching for a knife that was only a phantom.

"It's not real." Phil forced out around the sudden painful lump in his throat. He blinked through the growing moisture in his eyes when Clint gasped in pain, fingers going white as they fisted around a hilt that hadn't been there for ten years.

"Hurts."

One word – one painfully, brokenly spoken word and Phil nearly lost it. He didn't know if Clint meant physically, or emotionally, or all of the above – but there was so much pain in that one word that it hurt Phil just to hear it. It hurt to hear his steel-strong, never-let-your-emotions-show, twenty six year old sound like he was a terrified, hurt, confused fifteen year old all over again.

Why, in eight years, had seeing Clint go through this never gotten easier? Why did it feel like it got harder instead?

He knew why.

Because it was Barney – and even after more than ten long years, that wound had never stopped bleeding.

"I know it does." He swallowed against the break in his own voice and squeezed the back of Clint's neck again.

He knew. He knew because he'd been watching Clint struggle to face what his brother had done for eight years. He'd watched Clint hallucinate the trauma as if it were happening all over again in the Andes seven and a half years ago. He'd listened as Clint laid out the memory for him two years ago – the terror, the hurt, the betrayal that were all still as fresh as if it had happened ten days ago, instead of ten years.

He'd watched Clint still stand there, heartbrokenly confused, and ask Phil how. How could someone do that to their own brother? Phil didn't know what to say – didn't know how to explain that kind of hate to someone like Clint. Someone who, even after everything, couldn't bring himself to hate his brother.

And maybe that was okay. Phil could hate him enough for both of them.

Clint pulled in another ragged, painful-sounding breath only to cough again. His breathing wasn't settling – he was still too worked up to calm himself down. Phil knew he needed to intervene, or it would only get worse. Of all of his fears and nightmares, this was the one Clint had never been able to fight off alone.

"Breathe, okay? You're okay. It was just a dream."

Clint shook his head miserably against Phil's collar bone.

"No, it wasn't."

There was the pain again – the heart-wrenching, soul-crushing pain.

Phil had to close his eyes. It was the only way he was going to keep the overflowing moisture from falling. He felt his own breath catch in his throat.

Clint was right – it wasn't just a dream. It was real. It had happened. It wasn't a memory twisted by time and his subconscious.

Clint's brother had really stabbed him – had really left him to die.

Clint's brother really hated him.

No, it wasn't just a dream – never had been and never would be.

"I know." Phil admitted quietly. "But you're okay now. I need you to breathe – focus on that. Get it under control." He forced a little authority into his tone, knew Clint would respond to that better than coddling.

Clint tried. Phil heard him force one breath after another with exaggeration that would have been comical if not for the situation.

"That's it." Phil felt his own heart rate slow and his own breathing calm along with Clint's.

When he felt like Clint was as close to breathing normally as he was probably going to get, Phil shifted so he could reach for the pillows Clint had apparently knocked on the floor sometime over the short five hours he was asleep. He resettled them behind Clint and tried to ease him back.

The archer went rigid, fingers that were still wrapped around Phil's forearm dug in painfully. For a moment Phil just let it be, it wasn't often that Clint let himself be vulnerable. It wasn't often that he openly sought comfort. Phil wasn't willing to deny it to him.

"It's okay." Phil soothed. "Just keep breathing."

He waited until Clint's grip on his arm relaxed before trying again. This time Clint let him bodily shift him, settling his shoulders and head on the double-stacked pillows.

"Keep breathing." He coached as he leaned to retrieve the thermometer that he'd kept out on purpose. He took the moment to collect himself – to get his own emotions under control so that he could help Clint deal with his.

When he looked back at the archer, Clint had shifted, covering his eyes with his right hand. Phil felt a pang when he saw the subtle shaking that had settled into Clint's fingers. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes – forcing a deep breath.

This never got any easier – for either of them.

One day, he really wanted to meet Barney Barton in a dark alley. Wanted to exact the revenge that Clint would never seek for himself.

Phil cleared his throat.

"I need to take your temp again, okay?"

For a long moment, Clint didn't move, just kept his eyes covered with a shaking hand.

"Clint?"

He'd barely gotten the questioning call out before Clint was talking, almost talking over him.

"It's been over ten damned years. How the hell can it still hurt like that?"

Phil swallowed and felt his heart constrict. He reached up and settled his own hand on Clint's, gently pulling it away from his eyes, silently telling the kid he couldn't hide anymore.

"Because that's what betrayal does," Phil explained carefully. "It hurts."

Clint swallowed, his eyes pinned on the ceiling.

"It's always gonna hurt, Clint."

He wouldn't try to tell him anything different. Maybe someone else could move past that kind of betrayal, but not Clint – never Clint. The archer felt things too deeply, held them too close.

"But I promise," Phil tried to swallow back the emotion swelling in him, "it won't ever happen again. I won't let it, okay?"

Clint worked his jaw, eyes suspiciously bright as he continued to stare at the ceiling. Phil could see the struggle, the emotional battle playing out just below the surface.

"Hey," he called quietly, waiting patiently until Clint finally looked at him. "I won't let it," he reiterated firmly.

Clint sniffed and eventually nodded, a certain level of calm settling in his eyes at last.

Phil nodded back and held up the thermometer.

He held it out to Clint and let the archer stick it under his tongue himself. He pretended not to notice that Clint's hands were still subtly trembling. Instead, he fished into his pocket for his phone.

He pressed the right buttons and brought it to his ear, rubbing his face as he waited for it to connect.

"Wilson."

The doctor must be distracted to have not taken time to look at the caller ID.

"It's Phil."

"What's changed?" Dan's tone was suddenly an impressive mix of worry and professionalism.

"I think his fever spiked."

"You think?"

"I'm taking his temp right now."

As if on cue, the thermometer beeped. Phil took it when Clint held it out to him, eyes going to the digital readout.

"102.3."

"Be grateful it's not higher." Dan sounded cool and calm. "The antibiotics are going to need a good 12 hours to kick in, Phil. C'mon. Medicine 101."

Phil sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"Yeah. I know."

Dan was silent on the other end for a long moment.

"What else is going on, Phil? You and I have both dealt with worse with him, and you sound like you're about to break."

Phil huffed a miserable laugh and glanced at Clint, his eyes were closed, but he was still awake. Phil could tell. Asleep or not, Phil couldn't tell Dan about the dream. Clint would never forgive that breach of trust.

"It's just nothing the easy way, you know?"

"Trust me, I KNOW." Dan's chuckle cut across the phone line. "I learned that the first time we met, and it hasn't gotten any better. But seriously, Phil, are you OK?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine. It's just been a long night."

"Okay, look, if that fever isn't dropping in another 12 hours, call me back. I'll switch off the antibiotics. Okay?"

Phil nodded even though the doctor couldn't see him.

"Okay."

"And Phil?"

"Yeah?"

Dan sighed.

"I know it goes against who you are, especially where Barton's concerned, but take it easy. It's just strep and a bug. Nothing you or Barton can't work through."

If only things were ever that simple with Clint, but he agreed anyway.

"Yeah, you're right."

"Uh-huh, sure. And there's fluffy bunny rabbits and sunshine and rainbows shooting out your ass right now. Just take it easy, OK?"

"Copy that." Phil couldn't help the small smile that quirked his lips. Dan tended to have that affect.

"Call me if you need to. I'm going to go find a nap."

Phil did a quick mental calculation after a glance at his watch. It was after 11 p.m. in New York.

"Thanks, Dan." Then Phil sighed. "I know you're skirting the line here by not handing this off to Webber. I appreciate it."

"As far as I see it, you're a friend calling a friend who happens to be a doctor. Anybody wants to make a federal case out of that, they can kiss my ass." Dan sighed. "Look, I've got to go crash. I have an early shift tomorrow. Call me if anything changes, but otherwise, g'night."

Phil listened to the call disconnect and then pocketed his phone.

For a moment, he just focused on breathing.

"You okay?" He asked the question quietly, without looking at the archer. He sensed more than saw Clint's eyes open and focus on him.

For a long moment, Clint was silent. When he finally responded, his voice was rough and painful just to hear. Phil could only imagine how it felt.

"Getting there."

That brought Phil's eyes around to meet Clint's. He could almost see the emotional walls rebuilding around him – could see him dragging his shattered defenses back into place. Clint's ability to do that – to just pull himself together by pure force of will – would never cease to amaze him.

It only took a little longer than usual, but eventually Clint had buried any evidence of the nightmare. If Phil hadn't witnessed it, he'd wonder if it had even really happened. Clint blew out one final breath and then pushed his elbows underneath him so he could then push himself to a full seated position.

Phil watched him curiously, trying to figure out where he thought he was going. Clint didn't acknowledge him until he tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed and Phil's position prevented it. Slightly hazy, fevered blue gray eyes snapped to his.

Phil just arched an eyebrow.

"Care to fill me in?"

"I gotta pee." Clint stated it plainly as if it were the most obvious thing in the world – as if Phil already should have known that.

The handler rolled his eyes and shifted out of the way. Clint pulled his legs around and planted them on the cool, hardwood floor. For a long moment he just sat there, eyes closed, breathing deeply, hands braced on the mattress.

Phil just waited, didn't want to draw the annoyed glare an offer of help would earn him. Finally Clint tensed and then was suddenly pushing himself to his feet. He wavered, heavily, and Phil caught his elbow.

"You good?"

Clint nodded.

"Just stood up too fast."

Phil rolled his eyes at the bravado and slowly released his grip on the archer's elbow. When Clint didn't immediately collapse, Phil let the moment pass.

Clint made his way across the small safe house to the bathroom and closed the door firmly behind him. Phil sighed and stood as well, heading for the kitchen. Clint needed to try and eat something.

And Phil needed some coffee.

Clint braced on hand on the sink and let the cool water from the faucet run over the other. Then he shook the hand of excess water and rubbed it across the back of his neck – sighing as it soothed his too-warm skin.

He hated fevers, hated the fluctuation between burning hot and freezing cold. Hated that they made his head fuzzy. Hated that they lowered his defenses and tended to let the one dream his subconscious usually protected him from get through.

He didn't always – or only – dream of Barney and that night when he had a fever. But something about a fever always made it worse, made it that much harder to separate reality from memory.

But who was he kidding? It was always hard. When it came to Barney, he knew it always would be.

The difference now, with a fever and with feeling like shit, was his ability to contain how much of that struggle he showed to the world. He had almost come apart, had clung to Phil's arm like a scared kid. He hated that even after ten years, Barney still made him feel weak.

He wasn't weak.

He wasn't fifteen anymore.

Even if sometimes that's all he felt like – a scared, hurt fifteen year old.

He sighed and leaned over the sink, rubbing the cool water over his face, as if he could wash away the memories, the feelings that still haunted him after all this time. Out of nowhere, a chest-deep cough forced its way out. Razor blades tore across his throat and something pulled and rattled in his chest.

God, he was already tired of being sick.

He heard Phil knock on the door even as the coughing fit continued.

"Clint?"

One final cough and he was spitting a substance he didn't want to identify into the sink. The water washed it away quickly and Clint was left to just lean heavily against the sink and try to catch his breath.

Phil was probably having a mild heart attack just outside the door. He didn't give the man a chance to knock again and instead levered himself away from the sink and pulled the door open.

As he'd expected, Phil was standing just on the other side of the doorway, eyes worried. Clint sighed and reached for the door jam to support his exit of the bathroom.

"I hate the fucking rain."

As he'd hoped, Phil's eyebrow arched in mild amusement.

"Rain doesn't make you sick."

Clint waved his hand dismissively and propelled him of away from the door and back towards his bed.

"The all-knowing 'they' says it does."

Phil followed in his wake, and Clint could feel his hand hovering near Clint's elbow – just in case.

"We'll 'they' would be wrong. That's an old wive's tale."

Clint smirked wearily and crawled back into his bed.

"Well, you would know about all things 'old,' I suppose."

He didn't have to see the responding eye roll to know it was there.

"Guess I walked into that one." Phil admitted as he crouched next to the bed and watched Clint burrow into the blankets. Warm concern was still shining in his gaze, but it wasn't as sharp as it had been.

Mission accomplished.

"Can you eat something? I've got a fantastic selection of canned soups."

Clint's stomach rebelled at the very thought of food and he shook his head. Phil's concern sharpened again. Clint knew the man was thinking it was dire circumstances if he was refusing food.

"You need to eat something."

Clint knew that, and he knew he needed food for a lot of reasons that went beyond his love of the stuff. There was the need to keep up his strength, and the fact that he was taking oral medication. The fact that soup helped you get better...

Though that was an old wives tale too.

Didn't make it any less true.

"Fine."

Phil looked unreasonably relieved that he'd conceded so quickly.

"I've got chicken noodle and tomato."

Clint frowned.

"A 'fantastic collection,' huh?"

Phil shrugged unapologetically.

"Feel free to run to the store."

Clint rolled his eyes, barely holding back a wince when his head throbbed at the motion. He managed a weary scowl at his handler.

"Chicken noodle."

Phil nodded, a certain amount of triumph in his gaze, and stood.

"I'm also calling in to scrub the mission. I'll send in the intel you got and they can send out another team to wrap things up."

Clint frowned and levered himself up to a quasi-seated position again.

"I can finish the mission."

Phil arched a critical eyebrow.

"I mean I will after I get over this," he waved vaguely at his chest and throat, "bug."

"Bug? Dan says it's most likely strep and you've managed to get a nasty little chest cold on top of that...a little more serious than a 'bug.'"

Clint shrugged dismissively.

"I'll still get over it. I can still do my job."

Phil sighed and rubbed his hand over his face.

"It's not about whether or not you can do your job. I know you can." Phil fixed him with a serious look. "It's about realizing that you can take a sick day and let someone else do the job every now and then."

Clint frowned thoughtfully. That idea had never even crossed his mind. He was hardwired to do his job no matter what – always had been.

"Look, I'm enacting a forced vacation. You're taking the week, at least, and we're going to do nothing but relax until you're over this."

Clint opened his mouth to argue, but then paused. A weeklong vacation didn't sound that bad now that he thought about it. He dropped back against his pillows and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders.

"Okay."

Phil drew in a breath, as if he were preparing to lay out his case more firmly, only to pause and just go silent for a moment. Clint held back a grin when he realized he'd taken the wind right out of the man's sails.

"Well, okay then…"

Phil shifted his weight and looked for a moment like he wasn't sure what to do now that he didn't have the expected fight on his hands. Finally he nodded slightly and shifted a step towards the kitchen.

"I'll just go make the soup."

Clint shifted deeper into his nest of blankets, unable to fight off the cough that rose from somewhere deep in his chest. When the fit finally tapered off, he just stayed curled into the ball his body had shifted into and focused on dragging air back into his lungs. He tried hard to ignore how each breath of air felt like someone was taking razors to the inside of his throat.

Phil dumped the contents of the freshly-opened can of soup into an old sauce pan and set it on the stove. He forced himself not to turn and run back to Clint's side like a hovering mother-hen when he heard the kid break into a coughing fit. It was just strep. Just strep with a regular old chest cold on top of it.

Nothing to worry about. Clint had been through worse.

So instead, Phil focused on lighting the gas-run stove, turning the gas knob and then striking a match and holding it under the burner.

A moment later the gas ignited and Phil pulled the match back, shaking it out and tossing it in the sink. He glanced casually over his shoulder when Clint's coughing tapered off. The kid was curled into an impressively tight ball with his face all but buried in his pillow.

He looked pale and miserable.

But it was just strep – just strep and a chest cold.

He turned back to the soup, dug a spoon out of the drawer next to the stove and stirred it briefly. Then he fished his phone out of his pocket and hit speed dial two.

"Fury."

"Clint's got strep. I've gotta scrub the mission." Fury never did appreciate beating around the bush – and it wasn't Phil's style.

He heard his boss sigh deeply over the line.

"How is it that he's OFF the carrier and STILL manages to get what's going around?"

"He's just that lucky, I guess."

"Send whatever intel he managed to gather and I'll put someone else on it. You guys gonna head back?"

Phil leaned against the counter and looked out the small kitchen window – blinking in surprise at the thickly-falling snow. When the hell had it started snowing?

"No, I think we'll just stay put until he's on the other side of this." He moved to the door and tossed a glance at Clint before pulling it open and stepping outside. "Plus I think we're about to get snowed in."

"Snow? You know, it's a nice 98 degrees here."

"Thanks for that." Phil sighed and slid back inside, shivering.

"Just think warm thoughts, Phil."

"Your concern and sympathy are overwhelming."

Phil looked over at the radiator when it sputtered and then shut off. Perfect. He stalked towards it and picked up a shoe. One sharp hit and it sputtered back to life again. He turned back around to see Clint watching him with mild amusement.

"Do I want to know what the hell is going on?"

"Damn radiator."

He swore he heard Fury chuckle and rolled his eyes as he headed back to the kitchen.

"Phil, take some time off and get your boy healthy again. Give a heads up when you're headed back."

"Yes, sir."

"You really enjoy making me feel old with all of that 'sir' stuff, don't you?"

"Well, Clint makes me feel old on a regular basis – figured I should pay it forward."

"Then I'll just be annoyed at HIM for starting the whole thing and skip the middle man."

"Works for me."

"Enjoy your time off, Phil."

"I'll make every effort."

He pocketed the phone after the line went dead and stared down at the soup, watching the steam rise from it. He stirred it slowly and then started digging around in the cabinets for a bowl. He finally found a small stack of metal bowls and pulled one out. He filled it carefully with the steaming soup and stuck the spoon in it.

He carried it carefully back towards Clint, who had apparently found his iPod somewhere in his mass of blankets and was currently shifting through tracks. His eyes shifted to track Phil's approach, made me made no move to sit up.

"I'm really not hungry."

"You not hungry? Now I'm starting to worry." He forced levity into his tone, as if he hadn't started worrying hours ago when he heard the first cough. "You're gonna eat anyway – sit up."

Clint sighed – a painfully dramatic put-upon sigh – and started to push himself into an upright position. Phil wasn't sure who was least prepared for the sudden coughing fit that had him hunching over a moment later.

Phil shifted the bowl to his right hand and reached with his left to grip Clint's nearest shoulder.

"Okay?"

Clint raised a hand to wave him off and a moment later the coughing ended and the archer straightened. He shifted slowly so he could lean back against the wall next to his bed. When he finally raised his eyes to Phil, he held out the soup.

Clint reached for it and just stared at it for a long moment before finally spooning a bit into his mouth. He swallowed through what seemed to be a great force of will and then slowly spooned more.

Satisfied, Phil went back to the kitchen and got a second spoon. He dished the rest of the soup into the second bowl and started in on it himself. He pulled a chair over towards Clint's bed with his foot and sat down, propping his feet on the edge of the bed.

They ate in silence for several minutes before Clint suddenly lowered the bowl.

"Shit."

Phil pinned him with a worried look.

"What?"

"It's the 12th, isn't it?"

Phil felt the worry that had swelled recede again. He relaxed in his chair again and went back to his soup.

"It is. Happy eight years."

"I'm sorry." Damned if the kid didn't sound guilty as hell. "You had stuff planned…"

Phil cut him off by sharply waving his spoon through the air.

"I'm gonna stop you right there. What are you sorry for? Getting sick? You prove to me you had control over that and maybe I'll hold a grudge – for now I'll let you off the hook. Eat your soup."

But Clint was abandoning the half-full bowl at the foot of his bed.

"But I got you something."

Phil lowered his feet quickly and shifted to catch Clint's bowl before it could spill. He gave the kid a half-hearted glare that went ignored as Clint leaned over the edge of his bed and dug through his bag – shoving aside wadded clothes and various weapons.

A moment later he pulled out a book and extended it to Phil.

"This is the book that made me love reading. It was the first book Brit and Kara read with me. You've fed that addiction impressively, so I figured I'd return the favor. You've probably read it."

Phil set both bowls on the ground and took the book, taking in the book's worn blue hard cover. He recognized the illustrations on the cover immediately – the name written in matching blue letters across the top confirmed it.

"Treasure Island" by Robert Louis Stevenson

"Kara gave it to me when I left – told me not to forget the ten year old who she'd read it with." Clint's lips quirked into a sad little smile. "I forgot him anyway – until you came along. I want you to have it."

Phil ran his hand across the cover, seeing in his mind a blonde-headed ten year old sitting in rapture as he listened to a story of an equally young boy caught up in a tale of pirates and treasure. He suddenly longed – not for the first time – to have known Clint back then. Back before the sins of his brother – and later his own sins – had stolen his innocence.

He carefully opened the front cover, freezing when something the size of a playing card slid partway down the page.

"And there's that."

Phil stared opened-mouthed at the Captain America trading card. The good Captain was decked out in his red, white, and blue – tossing a salute at whoever held the card.

It was the last one – the only one that had been keeping him from a full set. He'd been searching everywhere and hadn't been able to find even one for sale.

"Where did you find this?"

Clint pulled his nearest blanket up around his shoulders and leaned back against the wall.

"Remember when I was in Tokyo a few weeks ago for that thing with the robot?" He waited for Phil to nod. "I found a guy who knew a guy and convinced him that was better off in my possession."

Phil chose to ignore how extremely shady and dangerous that sounded – Clint had obviously come out on the winning end of whatever had gone down. Instead, he focused on the card.

"I can't believe you found it."

Clint huffed a weary laugh and Phil shifted his eyes to take in the exhaustion that still lined Clint's features.

"Neither can I."

"You should try to get some more sleep."

"I'm not tired."

He said it so firmly, with a suddenly hard edge to his tone and Phil's eyes narrowed. He nodded slowly – apparently not enough time had passed since the dream. Phil wasn't surprised – Clint rarely went back to sleep at all after a nightmare, much less one that included Barney in the cast.

"Then we'll have to figure out a way to commemorate the day that doesn't involve you having to get out of that bed." Phil already had an idea. Something he'd been saving for the flight back. "But first…I have something for you too."

Clint looked suddenly gleeful – and monumentally more aware than he had been a moment before. Phil smiled in fond exasperation and stood, moving over towards his own bag with the book still clutched in his hand.

He shifted his neatly-folded clothes aside and pulled out the small, thin, rectangular black leather case he'd been looking for. He gripped it tightly in his own hand for a moment before turning back to Clint and returning to his chair.

He waited until he was seated again, book resting on his knees, and Clint looking like he was about ready to start bouncing with anticipation, before finally holding the small case out to him.

Clint stared for a moment at the intensely serious look in Phil's eyes before reaching for the small black case. He waited to see if Phil would say anything and when he didn't, he pulled the case open.

Any air in his lungs seemed to vanish.

Pinned inside on a black cushion was a medal – striped rainbow-colored fabric for the ribbon with a bronze medallion hanging from it. The front of the medal featured a winged and armored version of what looked like the Statue of Liberty holding a sword in one hand and a shield in the other.

Clint felt his jaw go slack as he carefully lifted the medal and turned it – wondering if there was something inscribed on the back. One phrase was etched in the bronze.

The Great War For Civilization.

"Jesus…"

"That's the World War I Victory Medal." Phil spoke up softly, drawing Clint's eyes away from the medal and to Phil's face.

"You can't give me this."

"I can do whatever the hell I want." There wasn't anger in Phil's tone or even annoyance like the response suggested. There was instead nothing but affection.

Clint clenched his jaw and stared at Phil, demanding an explanation with his eyes.

"That was my grandfather's. He fought in World War I and gave that to my dad, who then gave it to me when I turned 18. He told me to give it to my kid one day." Phil paused, something so deep and suddenly emotional in his gaze that Clint felt the breath leave his lungs for a second time. "I'm giving it to you."

Clint's throat was suddenly painfully tight – and it had nothing to do with the strep. He forced himself to draw a breath in and lowered his eyes back to the medal – trying to hide the sudden moisture in his eyes.

Phil was a brother to him in every way that mattered. He was his best friend and one of the two people in the world he was fairly certain he couldn't live without. But there were times – for both of them, he knew – that Phil was also the father that Clint had been robbed of as a child.

"And I hope…" Phil cleared his throat and it drew Clint's eyes back to him. He wasn't prepared for the amount of emotion he saw in Phil's eyes. "I hope that one day, you get as lucky as I have and get to pass that on to your own child."

Clint sucked in a shuddering breath and blew it out just as haltingly, giving Phil a look that was on one half full of equal emotion and affection and on the other half almost comically scolding for bringing that emotion into the light.

Clint didn't know if he'd ever have a kid of his own – if he and Nat had that in their cards. But that Phil wanted that for him – that he had somehow seen how Clint longed for that so secretly that he had never even acknowledged it – it cut his defenses off at the knees.

As if Phil not so subtly declaring that Clint was son enough to him to warrant a family heirloom, hadn't already done that.

Phil's mouth quirked into a warm smile as he took in Clint's reaction. He'd hoped giving Clint the medal would mean as much to him as it meant to Phil. If the emotion written all over the kid's face was any indication, it didn't just mean something to Clint. In this moment, it meant everything to him.

Phil hadn't planned to give Clint the thing while he was sick, while his defenses were still weak from a nightmare about his real brother who had betrayed him in the worst way.

He hadn't expected Clint to let him see his reaction to the gift.

He couldn't help but be secretly thrilled – even if he did feel a little guilty about it. He may be able to read Clint better than anyone – though Natasha was quickly becoming a worthy competitor there – but even he couldn't always see behind Clint's walls when he had them firmly in place. And when it came to anything emotional, he usually had them reinforced with steel.

But those walls were down now – and he'd apparently knocked Clint so far off balance that he was having trouble getting them back in place. It took every ounce of restraint he had to resist reaching out and gripping the kid's shoulder – a measure of comfort he'd done a million times before but that he knew wouldn't help Clint rebuild his defenses.

Phil watched Clint draw in another shaky breath and opened his mouth to lighten the moment – to give Clint a chance to get his equilibrium back.

He didn't get the chance.

Halfway through his inhalation, Clint's chest seemed to remember it wasn't free and clear at the moment. The air seemed to catch somewhere in his chest and then he was coughing.

At first Phil wasn't any more concerned than he had been the last several times the kid had coughed. But the coughs didn't taper off, instead grew deeper. He shifted forward, reaching for Clint's shoulder now without hesitation. The hand Clint wasn't using to cover his mouth shot out and latched onto his forearm before he could complete the gesture.

Clint didn't initiate contact without a reason and it had Phil's eyes narrowing and analyzing everything about Clint's posture and expression with sharp intensity.

He saw the first gag in Clint's shoulders, watched them roll and hunch forward abnormally, and not in time with the coughing.

"Shit."

He scanned the immediate area quickly, saw a cardboard box filled with a few radiator parts – parts Clint had been absolutely certain belonged somewhere IN or ON the radiator – sitting against the wall.

He lunged for it and dumped its contents as he pulled it back towards him. He got it in Clint's lap just as the soup made its reappearance.

Phil winced and looked away as Clint continued to dry-heave and cough intermittently over the box. He rested his hand – forearm now freed of Clint's bruising grip in favor of gripping the box instead – on the back of Clint's neck. He felt heat soak into his hand and winced again in sympathy.

Finally – mercifully – Clint seemed to get control of his lungs and stomach again. He coughed one final time and spit out something tinged yellow that Phil didn't have any desire to identify further. Then Clint just breathed and made no effort to dislodge Phil's hand on his neck.

"Here." Phil crouched and snagged Clint's water bottle from the floor. "Rinse."

He uncapped it and pressed it into Clint's shaking hand and watched closely as Clint brought it to his lips – ready to jump in if the bottle wavered. Clint seemed to be able to handle it okay – and a moment later was swishing a mouthful of water around before spitting it into the box.

"I'll take this." Phil pulled the box from Clint's lap. "You keep that." He used his other hand to screw the cap back onto Clint's water bottle and pushed it towards him. "I'll be right back, don't move."

Clint, for his part, just listed sideways and curled into his pillows, pulling the blankets tightly around his shoulders.

Phil went to the front door and pulled it open. He stepped out and quick stepped his way to the small dumpster at the end of the walkway. The ground was freezing on his socked feet and the snow cover was at least half an inch thick already. He dumped the box in the dumpster and jogged back to the door.

Once inside, he hopped back and forth from one foot the other and stripped his now-wet socks off. He tossed them aside and headed for the bathroom. He snagged a washcloth and ran it under the faucet for a moment, making sure the water was cool, but not cold.

Then he returned to Clint only to find him in the same position he'd left him in.

Phil sighed and folded the washcloth as he crouched next to the bed.

"How're you doing?" He reached and pressed the cool washcloth against the back of Clint's neck.

"Imagine shit," Clint began roughly, "and then imagine it got dropped off a cliff onto jagged rocks, promptly rolled over by a steam roller, caught in a stampede of wild buffalo, and then left to roast in the deserts of the Sahara….that's probably a good estimate of how I feel."

Phil couldn't help but grin slightly at the creative description.

"You really need to try and sleep."

"I don't want to sleep."

The refusal wasn't firm this time, wasn't sharp. It was just miserable and sad and hurt and begging Phil not to make him all at the same time. Phil sighed, couldn't resist shifting the hand on the washcloth to Clint's hair instead. He wished so badly at times like this that he could just erase Barney from Clint's life – could eliminate every part of him.

But he couldn't. All he could do was try to make it hurt less.

"Okay, kid. I think I have an idea then."

Clint's eyebrows rose curiously and his eyes lit up a little. Phil smiled slightly. Clint's curiosity was never dampened – not even by miserable illness, apparently. He held up one finger to tell Clint to wait right there and then stood, moving over to his bed. He retrieved his laptop from the floor and turned it on.

He started back to Clint even as it booted up.

"I was going to surprise you with this on the flight back – but it seems we have some time on our hands."

Clint lifted his head a little from his pillow, eyes still alight with that familiar curiosity.

"What is it?"

"Ever since I've known you, you've been obsessed with reading. Something you seem to be aware of." Phil nodded at the gift Clint had given him, sitting at the foot of Clint's bed.

Clint arched an eyebrow, clearly not seeing where this was going.

"Sometimes, Hollywood takes it into their hands to translate books into movies. Sometimes they do an absolutely horrible job…but sometimes they don't."

Phil clicked into a folder on his laptop labeled 'Movies.' He shifted the laptop so Clint couldn't see it and clicked the first icon. The screen went black and then his media player icon lit up the screen. He placed the laptop on the chair he'd abandoned and made sure Clint could see it.

"I know your job doesn't give you any time to see movies, and I know you'll probably always prefer the books, but I know you're gonna love this."

They watched the "New Line Cinema" logo come together on the screen – low ominous tones playing in the background. Blue lettering appeared on a black screen, giving credit to New Line again and then to a production company.

Then a voice came out of the speakers – a woman, speaking brief words in an unknown language before switching to English. Phil watched Clint's face closely for a reaction as he listened to the words and stared at the black screen.

"The world is changed…I feel it in the water…I feel it in the earth…I smell it in the air…much that once was, is lost…for none now live, who remember it…"

Clint's eyes grew large and then unreasonably gleeful when the black screen gave way to gold lettering and music filled the speakers. Clint smiled widely.

"No way?"

"We've got twelve and a half hours to go – there're three of these. So you better get comfortable." Phil advised with a grin as he retrieved his blankets from his bed and made himself a comfortable spot on the floor next to Clint's bed.

Clint was still smiling even as he shifted lower on his bed and bundled his blankets around him. Phil couldn't help but smile too.

Eight days later…

Phil rolled over with a groan, pulling his blankets higher on his shoulders and not bothering to open his eyes yet. He wasn't sure at first what woke him. But then there was a sudden thud followed by a low curse that he'd recognize anywhere. He opened his eyes and pushed himself up on his elbows.

"Clint?"

Then Phil got a good look at the scene before him and just blinked in dumb shock.

The archer was crouched next to a very large flat-screen TV – a TV that hadn't been there when Phil had collapsed in bed eight hours ago, with strict orders from Dan to rest. Clint was also rubbing his elbow – which Phil guessed he'd hit the wall with and caused that thud.

"Hey, Phil." Clint greeted innocently – as if nothing about this picture were odd. Phil stared at him in confusion, his mind still half asleep and unable to connect the dots.

"What the hell is that?" He immediately cleared his throat, frowning when it felt like he'd swallowed razors.

"It's a TV." Clint smirked and reached for a cord lying on the ground next to him. He plugged it into the wall and then plugged a few more cords into a small box resting next to his feet.

"I can see it's a TV." Phil pushed himself up fully and frowned again. "Where did it come from?"

Clint's smirk turned mischievous – and he reached for something out of sight.

"I liberated it." Clint put a disk in what Phil had finally realized was a DVD player and stood. "If anybody comes asking, you don't know the details."

"I don't know the details." Phil felt like Clint was talking in riddles.

"Exactly."

Clint nudged him with his knee until Phil shifted over on the bed and then Clint sat down, producing a thermometer out of thin air.

"Dan told me to take your temperature so…" he waved the plastic thermometer demonstratively.

Phil held his hand out and Clint slapped the thermometer into it.

"Good, my job is done." He grabbed a remote control off Phil's nightstand – a remote control Phil had never seen before – and started pressing buttons. "I figured since I slept through a lot of this the first time – and you're gonna sleep through a lot of it this time – it wouldn't hurt to have a repeat performance."

Phil listened as a familiar opening line filled the room from the TV speakers and even more familiar golden words lit up the screen. There was a sudden thud at the door and Clint sprang up from the bed.

"That'll be Nat. She brought you soup."

Phil rested back against his pillows and watched Clint let Nat into the room. He heard the thermometer in his mouth beep and pulled it out but before he got a chance to squint at the digital readout it was snatched from his hand.

Clint shook his head in mock disappointment.

"Only 101.1. Go big or go home, Phil. I don't think you're trying very hard. It's hotter outside than the temp you're running."

"Clint, shut up." Natasha scolded as she held out a bowl to Phil, whose fevered brain was still trying to keep up with Clint's chatter. Much to Phil's surprise, Clint did shut up.

He reclaimed his seat next to Phil on the bed and gave the man an assessing look.

"You know, I'd build you a snowman, like you did me in Tasmania, but it's 102 degrees outside so…" Clint shrugged and settled in more comfortably. "How are you feeling?"

"Well, considering you got me sick, probably about the same as you did a week ago." Phil said it with a grin to take any heat out of the words.

Clint still put his hand on his heart like he was deeply wounded.

"I did no such thing." He smirked suddenly. "It's all Tasha's fault since she's the one that got me sick."

He was still smirking when Natasha's fist slammed into his bicep even as she forced him to shift over so she could sit.

"You got sick because you're a stubborn идиот– and no matter how I try, I can't cure you of that."

Phil chuckled slightly and sipped his soup, ignoring the fact that he was now only occupying a small section of his own bed. He listened to Natasha and Clint continue to bicker until Clint suddenly shushed them both – as if they were the ones doing all the talking – and zeroed his focus in on the TV.

He set his soup on the bedside table and rolled onto his side. He had at least four hours before Clint would allow conversation again, which meant he had four hours to get a nap in.

He needed to take every advantage he could get.

End of Year Eight :)

I personally love this milestone - love everything it addresses and particularly that we see a little more of what happened that night with Barney and how that affects both Clint AND Phil.

And Kylen and I would like to take this opportunity to tell you YES - you DID read that there's a new doctor in play - Webber...you're probably wondering who that is, and why Dan is supposed to hand Phil off to this person...and let us just tell you...that you'll find out :D and we're both going to laugh evilly while you all go "WHAAAATTT?"

Now before I go, anybody out there that's the praying kind, or even just the sending happy thoughts kind...my husband is leaving for boot camp tomorrow and it's gonna be a tough time for me at home. NOT as tough as HIS time lol, but still tough. So send the prayers and happy thoughts my and HIS way.

Anyways as usual thanks so much for reading :) I'll give you an air hug if you drop a review cuz seriously...I like love those - reviews AND air hugs :D

See you next time!