Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When the smoke had settled and the battle was won, Clint “Hawkeye” Barton paused only long enough to take stock of the situation. The team had won-- no big surprise there; there was limited damage done to the city, which, okay yeah, that kind of was a big surprise. They very rarely pulled things off without taking down half the city with them. And somehow in the middle of everything he had fallen from his perch and landed smack dab in the middle of a shrubbery.

In the distance, he heard someone shouting his name, calling out for him and demanding he report in. His brain was fuzzy and his entire body felt like it suddenly wasn’t his own. He could feel the pokes and jabs of the shrub’s branches, but they didn’t scratch at his bare arms or face like he thought they should. In fact, it didn’t hurt at all. Fucking weird…

“I’m good…always wanted a shrubbery to break my fall,” He answered. Or at least, thought  he answered. Eyes wide, he stared out in front of him. A dark black nose was directly in front of him, at the end of a white and golden orange snout. Head slowly tilting down, Clint’s jaw dropped.

His clothes were puddle around him, short, stumpy white legs stark against the dark fabric. This…was not good. He tried to clear his throat, to try and call out to the others again, only to have a pathetic whimper escape his mouth, followed by another yip.Oh motherfuc---…

“Barton! Report!”

Blue eyes darting to the comm left abandoned on the ground next to his clothes, Clint flinched at the sound of Coulson’s voice. The man actually sounded concerned. It was a sound the archer had never liked hearing in his handler’s voice, and yet he was notorious for putting it there. With another whimper and quick glance at himself, Clint did the first and only thing to come to mind.

He ran.

----------

Tony frowned as he came to an abrupt landing next to the shrub. He could have sworn he’d seen Barton fall in that direction and land in the plant. He was positive of it. He’d had jokes lined up and waiting to be shot off at the archer because of it. His most spectacular one was sure to get him bitched out by Coulson, but it wouldn’t have mattered because any joke that involved Barton burying his face in a “bush” was just too epic to pass up.

Yet, looking down at the plant, there was nothing to indicate the man ever being there. Well, nothing if you didn’t count the archer shape indent from impact. And the uniform lying empty, tangled and torn in the leaves. That kind of gave it away that Clint had been there. Though it didn’t explain why the man suddenly decided to go streaking through New York City.

“Alright, Barton has officially lost his mind. Coulson, put out a BOLO or an APB or whatever it is you boys do when you’re looking for someone. Might wanna mention that the idiot is naked”

“Stark, your humor is not appreciated at the moment.”

“I’m not joking this time. I’m staring at that idiot’s uniform and comm., but there’s no Barton to be had in it.”

Silence fell over the channels. Reaching his hand out, Tony poked at the leather and Kevlar black uniform, eyes darting up and down the street. It wasn’t possible for Clint to have gotten very far; it hadn’t taken Tony that long to get down to street level, and honestly everyone would have known if the archer had gone running through the streets nude. There was bound to be an uproar or some poor little old grandmother screaming. 

“Stay at that location. We’re coming to you.” Steve’s voice was still in his command mode in his ear, leaving no room for argument.

“Believe me, I am not going anywhere.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Clint panted, literally panted, tongue dangling from his mouth and everything. God it was humiliating! Really, who came up with a ray gun that could turn a person into a fricking dog? Of all the animals in the world…a dog. And not just any dog, a short dog. With stumpy little legs and everything. It was some cruel joke on him, it had to be. It wasn’t even like he was the shortest of the bunch. Bruce, when he wasn’t Hulking out, was the shortest! Hell, Coulson was even shorter than Clint, so if this was a play on him being short, it was stupid and made no sense.

Glancing up and down the street, he groaned inwardly. Everything looked so different from ground level, and in various shades of blue, grey and yellow. Things were still sharp in his vision, but his hearing and his sense of smell seemed to have skyrocketed too. Smell especially. God he never realized how disgusting New York actually smelled. All he wanted to do was find somewhere safe to hide, at least until he could come up with a plan. The others could help him, sure, hell Tony and Bruce would probably have a fucking nerdgasm over what happened to him. It was the jokes and poking he didn’t want to deal with.

If he could find his way back to S.H.I.E.L.D, there was a chance he could sneak in and hide for awhile. Finding Coulson’s apartment would be even better, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen. At least not at that height. Hell, he couldn’t even read the street signs from that low.

Giving a low growl of frustration, Clint moved to step out into the middle of the sidewalk, totally unaware of the hands reaching down to scoop him up from behind. A muzzle was quickly wrapped around his snout when he opened it to cry out in surprise. Panic rose up in his throat, his eyes going wide as he twisted and squirmed in the man’s hands.

“Dispatch, this is Dobson. I’ve got a stray. Let Alexander know I’m bringing him in.” The voice sounded very official and very much like the cops Clint used to run from as a young adult, back in the days before the Avengers and before S.H.I.E.L.D. When he spotted the NY Animal Control pick-up truck it kind of made sense.

Well it’s a fine fucking mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time, you jackass, he thought to himself as the officer struggled to keep his hold on the squirming dog.You should have waited for the others. Fucking idiot, Barton!!

Being manhandled into the back holding container, Clint couldn’t help but whimper pathetically. He’d never been a big fan of police like people and the stupid animal control officer was close enough at the moment. They were basically police that arrested animals instead of people, so yeah, totally close enough. He paced back and forth inside the crate, glad the cop didn’t think up a way to restrain him back there. If that bastard had found the means to actually cuff him and keep him from moving around, muzzle or no, Clint would have found some way to bite him.

He glanced out the barred window of the container, fear and panic clear in his eyes as he realized the truck was driving further and further away from Stark/Avengers Tower; quickly leaving the nice side of town and heading towards the far more residential –albeit a bit lower class residential—side of town. Another whimper escaped him.

This was definitely not good.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Coulson stared at the screen, watching the images over and over again as if things would change if he watched enough times. He watched as Clint’s body fell into the bushes, completely engulfed by the green branches. Nothing emerged from the shrubs though. There was no blond-brown head popping up anywhere, no black and dark burgundy uniform attached to a muscled body rolling out. The only thing that came out of those damn shrubs was a terrified looking little dog.

A very terrified looking little dog.

“A Corgi.”

The voice behind him brought him back out of his thoughts. Grey eyes turning up, he blinked at the source.

“It’s a Corgi. My grandma had a whole herd of them when I was a kid. Annoying as hell. Seems about right for Barton, actually.” Tony waved his hand absently as he slumped down in the chair next to the agent and pointed back to the screen. “I’ve had JARVIS start going through all the street cams in the area he took off in. So far he’s been able to track him as far as West 117th St. and Lenox Ave.”

With a slight nod of the head, Coulson looked back to the screen, watching as a new image appeared on the screen. An image of that little dog –Barton—darting through crowds and around legs, no one giving him a second glance or thought, flashed in front of him.  He wasn’t an expert by any means about dogs, he’d only had one growing up, but he liked to believe he knew a great deal about the man he’d been working with for years.

“He was disoriented. Fight or flight kicked in.”

“Yeah well, I’d probably flip my shit too if I suddenly turned K-9.” Tony muttered, his eyes never lifting from the screen.

Coulson just stared at the monitor.

“Barton was heading away from the Tower,”

“Hey, you said it yourself. He was disoriented. I would be too at that level. Jesus, I don’t know many times I’ve woken up on the floor and had no clue where I was cuz things looked different from that angle.”

His eyes slowly peeled away from the footage and he leveled Tony with a blank stare. It wasn’t a secret that he and Stark weren’t exactly the best of friends, and that Coulson had, on a number of occasions, threatened to tase the man if he didn’t shut up. Oh how he wished he’d had his taser with him at that moment.

Pushing himself away from the surveillance console, Coulson moved to stand up, straightening his suit jacket as he did so. He was about to open his mouth and once again lecture Stark on his lack of compassion for situations when the level voice of the omnipresent AI cut him off.

“Sirs? It would appear that Agent Barton was last seen at the corners of West 117th and Manhattan Ave.”

Tony’s head shot back to the screens, Coulson moving to lean around the engineer to watch as new footage was brought up.

“What do you mean ‘last seen’? What the hell does that mean?”

“It means he hasn’t been seen since that intersection, Stark.”

“No. Fucking. Duh.”

The pair watched as Clint stood in the middle of the sidewalk, head swaying back and forth as if looking for anything that might be familiar. It was disheartening to know that the footage was already three hours old, nearly four, and that Barton was no doubt long gone from that particular area. Still, they watched in hopes of finding some sort of clue, anything that could tell them where their missing team member had disappeared to.

The crowd surrounding Clint thickened, blocking him from view of the traffic camera for just a moment. When it cleared, Tony let out a string of curses as Coulson’s grip on the console tightened. A muzzled and squirming dog was being carried in the arms of a man Phil assumed to be an animal control officer. Perfect. Just what the archer needed, to be picked up in his current state and hauled off to some pound.

“JARVIS! Find me a different camera angle. Where’d that dog catcher take him?”

“Absolutely, Sir.”

In an instant, the angle changed, the images switching positions until they finally focused and settled. The footage showed the man carefully placing the dog into a crate in the back of a pickup truck, New York County Animal Control the only words visible to the camera. Tony turned his attention to the keyboard in front of him, his fingers flying across the keys in an attempt to change the camera angle manually.

“Stupid, fucking taxis! Get the…why the hell are you so close to that…Goddamnit…” Tony let out a few more curses before his fist hit the surface of the console.

Coulson’s eyes remained on the screen as the officer climbed back into the truck and moved into the flow of traffic. There was no clear shot of the license plate, or the truck number. Without either of those, it’d be next to impossible to find out where Clint had been taken.

“How many shelters and rescues are in Manhattan?” Coulson’s voice was flat and calculating.

“There are roughly 200 rescues, shelters and humane societies in the Manhattan area.”

“How many within a five mile radius of where Barton was picked up?”

“Approximately 115, Agent Coulson.”

Tony let out another string of curses as he raked a hand through his already mused hair. This was not going to be an easy find, especially not in New York. Lips pressed in a tight line, Phil turned on his heels and started for the door.

“Send the list to my phone.”

”It is already done, Agent Coulson.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The holding cell, or at least that’s what Clint was calling it, was cold and noisy. There was a pathetic excuse for a blanket lying on the hard concrete floor. It had clearly been washed and fluffed recently but, well, it had definitely seen better days. A bowl of water was in one corner next to a shallow dish filled with brown kibble. Right, like Clint was supposed to eat that? Not a chance. No matter how hungry he was, there was no way on God’s green earth he was going to subject himself to eating dog food! Tony would never let him hear the end of it!

There weren’t even any toys in the cell with him. Nothing for him to distract himself with. Instead he was left to pace the cell nervously and back his butt up into a corner, head lowered and glaring out through the bars at whoever approached. He wanted to growl at them, to lash out and bite their fucking faces off if he was totally honest, but he wasn’t dumb. He knew what happened to animals who got labeled ‘human aggressive’ and frankly? That was one label he really didn’t want to get stuck with. Even though he wasn’t happy about being manhandled and checked over for typical canine diseases (and he definitely did not approve of having that fucking thermometer shoved up his…well, you know where it got put), he made sure to behave himself. Boy, Coulson’s never going to believe that one…

Time seemed to go by differently for him. It was disorienting and confusing. He would fall asleep at random times, and not even because he was tired or anything. He’d just lie down and the next thing he knew he was blinking himself awake and standing to stretch his legs. Was it hours he’d been there? Days? It didn’t feel like it’d been weeks or months, so at least he didn’t have to worry about that. Plus, he was pretty sure they would have moved him into a different pen if it had been more than a few days. Last he’d heard, shelters usually gave people three days to come claim their pet before said animal was tossed into the “adoption” pile.

Clint’s stomach roiled uncomfortably at that thought. At the whole situation, actually. He hadn’t done so well the first time around when he’d been up for adoption. Him and Barney both forced into baths and nice clothes, their hair combed respectfully and told to be on their best behavior during the orphanage’s “Open House” days. They’d watch as their friends were picked and taken home, the few kids under the age of five who were all just so precious and adorable were almost always the first to go. Clint had been pulled aside by a couple once when he was seven. They’d seemed nice enough and really interested in adopting him. When he’d asked if Barney was coming along, their face’s shut down and he knew their answer was going to be a no.

No one approached the Barton Brothers again after that.

Now he was stuck in a shelter. An orphanage for wayward, lost or abandoned animals.

Moving to the back corner of the cell, Clint emptied what little he had in his stomach. Well, at least he’d get a new blanket out of the deal. Maybe one that was even just a little bit fluffy and comfortable.~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As much as SHIELD liked to boast about their near perfect track record, very few things ever went according to plan. Ever. Most times it was easy enough to blame it on bad intel, or an agent who was too stubborn to listen and obey orders (that agent wasn’t always Barton, amazingly enough), or even sometimes on the weather. Now Phil got to blame things on aliens, mad scientists, and emo-hipster-college brats with too much time, money, and supplies on their hands.

Which, in all honesty, was why it didn’t surprise him when his plans to visit each and every one of the shelters and pounds on his list got pushed back two days. He had to deal with the flying pie tins (at least, that’s what he thought they looked like) that were attacking the Lower East Side; and not three hours later a fleet of genetically enhanced, three foot tall geese that invaded from the Hudson River. He really hated geese. Then, on top of all that, he had to spend the following day completing the paperwork and debriefings for both those battles. It was all time that he could have spent trying to track down his missing agent, because despite what Stark believed, SHIELD did not embed their agents with tracking devices.

Coulson was seriously starting to reconsider this for special cases, though.

Barton being the most special of them all.

On the third day of Barton’s disappearance, Coulson rose earlier than usual, wanting to get an early start on the day so that he could get to as many shelters as possible before anything happened to the man…uh…dog…whatever. Dressed in his favorite pair of perfectly broken in and worn out faded jeans, he pulled his sweatshirt on over his head, barely even bothering to smooth down his hair before he headed out the door.

Just like when he’s in his suits, Phil Coulson was the picture of unassuming. He could blend into the crowds of New York seamlessly no matter how he’s dressed. With a purple collar in his hand, complete with name tag and fake vaccination tags, he patted his back pocket to ensure the forged proof of ownership papers were still with him as he moved into the first of many animal shelters on his list. It was easy enough to play the part of the distraught, middle-aged, middle-class dog owner, traveling all over the city looking for his beloved pet. No one questioned him as he presented the collar and proof of ownership before shaking their heads at him to say no dog matching his description had been brought in. It was both a relief and a frustration for him every time he heard those words.

The sun was already down below the skyline by the time he shuffled into the last shelter of the night. It wasn’t anything fancy, maybe even a little small and quaint, and the walls were painted a cheerful pale yellow. Noting that he only had ten minutes before they were supposed to close, Coulson took a deep breath—there was no more pretending to it now, he was tired and possibly a little discouraged—as he stepped up to the counter and leveled the younger woman with a weak, pathetic smile.

“Hi,”

Blue eyes shot up from behind a pair of red-purple glasses, tendrils of red hair fell from a ponytail around her face. She couldn’t have been any older than twenty-five, possibly, and had a pleasant enough smile that just barely reached her tired eyes. Yeah, Coulson could relate to that look.

“Hi. Is there something I can help you with?” The girl, Logan if her name tag was correct, asked, shoving herself away from her desk as she moved towards the counter.

“I hope so,” Coulson gave a tired half-laugh as he set the collar down on the counter and lifted his eyes back to her. “My dog slipped his collar a couple of days ago. I’ve been trying to find him. A little Corgi? Blue eyes? About 5 years old. I…don’t suppose you’ve had any dogs come in like that, have you?”

The key to a good lie or con is to give just enough information, but not too much. He could have easily spun a tale about how they’d been going out to play ball in Central Park when the dog caught sight of a rabbit, wiggled out of his collar and took off after it. How he’d been searching the city high and low calling for him. All of that would have been too much though. No, it was better to stick with the basics and fill in the details as needed later.

A spark came to life in Logan’s eye though that made a coil of hope wrap itself around his stomach. When the girl pressed a button on the intercom and called for her co-worker to come to the front of the shelter, Coulson suddenly felt more awake than he’d been in the past few hours.

“Oh I really hope the baby we’ve got in the back belongs to you. He sounds like he might be yours. Corgi’s with blue eyes are pretty rare. We just might be able to help you, Mr—“

“Barton. Phil Barton.” He wasn’t about to give them his real name. Besides, Sitwell had been a jackass and thought it funny to put ‘Phillip J. Barton’ on the proof of ownership documents. Apparently there was some joke floating around HQ that it was hard to tell who had control over who in his and Clint’s particular handler/asset relationship, and supposedly there were rumors of some hidden romantic relationship. Which, no. Definitely not. He might let Barton get away with a lot more than he does anyone else, and yeah, okay, so he lets Clint sleep on his office couch when the man can’t get to sleep in his own quarters…and there may have been more than a few times where the two stood a little too close to each other, or laughed a bit too loud and long together (and no…the fact that Jasper had somehow managed to change Coulson’s ringtone for Barton to Bonnie Riatt’s “Something to Talk About” was not lost on him), but that didn’t and shouldn’t mean anything.

They’d known each other for over ten years. They’d been working together for nearly as long as that. They’d were every bit as professional as they ever had been and that was it. No secret pining; no longing, wistful gazes to each other. They were co-workers. Friends at best and nothing more. At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

A door to his right opened a moment later, letting another woman come sweeping into the lobby. He couldn’t help but give a slightly amused quirk of an eyebrow when he realized the one too was about the same age as the other, and like her co-worker had blue eyes, stylish framed glasses, and a sort of quirky-yet-fashionable cut red hair. Must be a requirement to work here: mid-twenties, blue eyes, glasses, red hair. All others need not apply. He thought to himself as the woman moved up to greet him.

“Nicole, this is Mr. Barton. Pretty sure we’ve got his little guy cowering in the back.” Logan’s smile was brighter than it had been when he first approached the counter, lighting up her eyes completely as Nicole’s own eyes widened hopefully.

“Really? Which one?”

“That Corgi that got brought in.”

The second woman gave a soft, wispy sigh as she turned her smile back to Coulson. “The one with the most gorgeous blue eyes I’ve ever seen on a dog? And believe me, dogs with blue eyes creep the hell out of me, but this guy’s eyes…they’re just so…”

“Human,” Logan finished the thought for her.

“Yeah! Exactly!”

Coulson’s eyebrows nearly rose to comical heights as he glanced back and forth between the two. He wasn’t even going to lie; the energy coming off both of them was enough to restore some of what he’d lost throughout the day. Allowing himself an honest smile, he chuckled softly as he nodded.

“Yeah, that sounds about right for him. Would you mind if I took a look at him?”

“Oh! Yeah, no, c’mon! This way. He’s in the back, I’ll show you.”

It wasn’t a long walk through the shelter, noisier than one of Stark’s infamous parties though. The sound did little from dissuading Nicole from talking, explaining to him how it worked when a dog was brought in off the street and the three day claiming-window before the animal was put on the adoption list.

“We actually would have been putting him on that list first thing in the morning. You’re both lucky you got here when you did.”

Coulson’s stomach lurched at that thought. He knew about Clint’s past, the orphanage and bad experiences with adoption days. Something tugged hard at his chest, forcing him to swallow thickly and give a small nod.

“Very lucky…” he murmured softly, more to himself than anything else as they turned one last corner and came upon a smaller room. There were a dozen or so cages cleaned and lining the wall, with only a handful of animals occupying them.

 “We’ve all been kind of worried about him.”

“Worried?”

“Yeah…his first day here he threw up in his cage and since then we haven’t really been able to get him to eat or drink. We tossed some chicken pieces in there with him earlier today, he ate those, but he won’t touch any of the kibble we put in the dish for him. He’s just been laying on his blanket, staring out at us and looking--it’s gonna sound crazy but, he’s been looking really sad. I’ve never seen a more expressive dog.”

The tightness in his chest spread down to his stomach, twisting it painfully. He remained quiet though as he was lead to one of the last kennels. There was an empty kennel on either side of the one they stopped at and Coulson felt all the worse for it. Isolated, alone, trapped, all of the things Barton hated most. Add on top of that being trapped in a dog’s body for three days, in a strange and unfamiliar place, and he could see why they’d had problems getting him to eat or drink. They were lucky he hadn’t lashed out and tried to make a break for it.

Taking a deep breath, Coulson slowly lowered himself to a knee, ducking ever so slightly to peer into the back of the bed. He could see the lump of a body, its back to the kennel door, and chest rising and falling in only the subtlest ways. Oh Barton…I’m sorry…

“Hawkeye?” His voice was quiet and gentle, filled with hope and affection. There was a moment where nothing happened, where even the dog’s breathing seemed to stop. “Hawkeye, c’mon, I’ve come to take you home.”

He watched as the dog’s ears twitched, head lazily lifting from its resting place and turning to stare out sadly through the bars. Coulson felt his throat tighten at that look. Hell be damned if people hadn’t been right about Barton; he had the most pathetic puppy-dog face and eyes of anyone employed by SHIELD. The fact was made even worse now that the man was, in fact, a dog. The lost look and sadness were evident in those familiar blue-green eyes for a suffocating moment. Until recognition hit.

His body was in the air and twisting around in an instant. Clint stumbled over his own stumpy legs in his attempt to rush the door and break free. Coulson couldn’t help but laugh when he saw the disgust and indignation flash through the dog’s eyes. He knew just from that look alone the man trapped inside was cursing up a storm at his traitorous legs.

Next to him, Nicole gave a bright laugh, her own knees coming down to the floor next to him. Her hair swayed back and forth as she looked down into the kennel and reached out to open the door.

“Ya know, he hasn’t hardly moved the whole day, not even for the chicken. If he’s not yours then you must be some kind of dog whisperer or something.”

The lock on the gate had barely clicked open before Clint dove out of it and straight into Coulson. The fact that Clint literally leapt into his arms was enough to throw the unflappable agent for a spin. Sure, he’d held Barton before, but it had been for missions: like when the man was too stubborn to put a coat on and wound up shivering up a storm once the objectives were met, or when he’d been shot and needed to be helped to a safe house, or even possibly for those few undercover ops that required two grown, consenting adult males for…well, he wasn’t going to think about those times.

He forced himself to blink back his surprise at suddenly having a bundle of wiggling, squirming gold and white fur all over him. The impact had been enough to catch him off balance and send him straight onto his rear, arms instinctually wrapping around Clint to make sure he didn’t drop him. There was a startled smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched the dog squirm out of his arms, sit back to study his face for a moment, and then lunge once more. He had to admit, even in compact Corgi form, Barton was stout and solid and had enough force behind him to send Coulson from sitting up to flat on his back in a heartbeat.

From beside him, he heard the two women laugh out loud as Clint moved to stand firmly on his chest, those very human eyes glaring down into his own. Coulson didn’t need to hear the words to know what he must be thinking and conveying with that glare.

It fucking took you long enough! What? Stop off somewhere for those fucking donuts you love so much? Three days, Coulson! THREE DAYS!

Giving a snort right in his handler’s face, Clint turned his head and stumbled ungracefully down off the man, officially giving him the ‘Fuck you. I’m not talking to you’ attitude. And if Phil happened to feel incredibly guilty and properly chastised then, well, no one but his own conscious had to know.

He shoved himself back up into a sitting position, the collar falling from his pocket and clanking against the cold concrete floor. Clint’s eyes turned to look at it, narrowing slightly at the object like it was somehow going to attack him before looking back up at Coulson. The agent lofted an eyebrow as he picked it up and moved to wrap it around Clint’s neck securely.

“C’mon Hawk. Can’t have you running around the city naked.”

Coulson astutely ignored the ‘Fuck you very much,Sir!’ glare.

Logan stepped forward, her hand outstretched as she crouched low enough to be more on the little Corgi’s level. The smile from before was still on her face as she wiggled her fingers out for Clint.

“Hey little guy,” Her eyes turned back to Phil’s and her head tilted questioningly. “What’s his name?”

“Hawkeye.” Coulson didn’t even skip a beat, the code name rolling off his tongue with practiced ease.

“Like Iowa Hawkeyes? The team?”

“Like ‘M*A*S*H’ Hawkeye. Named after Hawkeye Pierce. Stubborn, insubordinate, a trouble maker, doesn’t like to obey orders,” His arms folded over his chest as he turned his gaze back to where Clint had reluctantly moved to so the two women could pet and scritch behind his ears. “But loyal to a fault and all around good guy.”

No, that hadn’t been how Clint had come to have the nickname, but he couldn’t very well tell them the real reason, could he?

“I bet you’re ready to go home, now, huh Hawkeye? We’re glad your daddy was finally able to find you too.”

Coulson nearly choked on his own tongue at those words. Oh hell no. His surprised and slightly horrified grey eyes darted down to meet blue-greens and he could easily see the shit-eating smirk lurking behind them. He was never going to hear the end of this. Ever. Maybe he could knock the girls out and leave. Pretend he’d never been there and just leave Barton to find his own way home. Or to be picked up again?

A throat clearing cough next to him brought him out of his thoughts and he couldn’t help but flush just a bit. It wasn’t often people caught him lost in thought and had to repeat themselves for him. It was just one more embarrassment to add to the list of things he was sure Clint would harass him about once he was back to normal.

“You know Mr. Barton,”

Fuck. Maybe he’d just better go throw himself down the next subway entrance he found. Of even the third rail. He’d have better luck dying if he tossed himself onto the third rail, right?

“You should really consider having Hawkeye neutered. We’re not allowed to do it ourselves until after the three day reclaim period, otherwise we would have taken care of it already, but…you should really have it taken care of. Hawkeye’s a cute little guy but, not so sure you want it on your conscious of him fathering a bunch of adorable part-Corgi puppies somewhere. The city’s abandoned and stray animals population is already too high as it is. We all need to do our part to keep it down and get the ones already in shelters and in danger into good, loving homes before we can think about allowing anymore to enter the world.”

Coulson stared at Nicole for a moment, maybe a moment too long in serious consideration. The woman did have a point; the stray and abandoned population was depressingly high. A smug and possibly even slightly sadistic smirk crossed his features as he turned to look back down at Clint. Murder was written all over the little dog’s face. A deadly promise that Clint could and would kill the man, slowly and painfully, if he allowed the women to come even remotely close to his family jewels.

“Thank you,” He started, his eyes still engaged in a calculating stare down with ‘his’ dog. Blinking once, he looked away first (don’t read too much into it. He just didn’t want the women to start wondering why he was glaring down his dog). “That won’t be necessary. I already have him scheduled for an appointment with my vet.”

They didn’t need to know it was a lie. Of course, if Clint wasn’t careful, he felt confident the doctors on the helicarrier could easily perform a simple procedure. Clearing his throat, Coulson heaved a heavy, exhausted sigh. He was so glad the day was finally over. Well, mostly over. He was still going to have to get Clint the countless number of blocks back to Avengers Tower. And from there, the next few miles back to his apartment in Chelsea.

Logan gave a small pout as she moved to stand back up, her hands tucking into her pockets as she turned her attention from Clint to Coulson.

“Darn. We’ll just have to find some other excuse for you to bring him back in then. He kind of won over the hearts of all the women working here. Definitely a little heartbreaker.”

If it were possible for Clint to stand a little taller and for his chest to puff out smugly, he did it. The shit-eating smirk returned to his eyes as he moved to smoothly (or as smoothly as short little legs could allow for) glide up next to Coulson. His shoulder pressed into the man’s leg and he looked up at the agent arrogantly.

His own eyes looking down at Clint’s, Phil frowned and sighed.

“Yeah. That doesn’t surprise me at all.” Barton had been breaking hearts left and right his whole life. Why should it be any different now? Reaching down, Phil scooped Clint up and held him close. He didn’t have a leash to attach to the collar, so he was going to have to carry the dog, at least until he got them back to the Tower.

“Thank you very much, ladies, for all your help. And for taking such good care of Hawkeye for me.” The hand not supporting Barton’s wiggling body came down to land heavily over those glaring blue eyes, pressing his large ears back slightly and causing him to squirm all the harder.

The women both nodded happily as they motioned for Coulson to follow them back up to the front of the shelter to fill out the proper paperwork and pay for the stay. He could feel Clint go still in his arms, tensing almost painfully as they walked back through the obnoxiously loud adoption and viewing areas. The noise was a bit overwhelming, but Phil couldn’t help but wonder if the reason Clint froze up was because he knew how close he’d come to being put in one of those viewing kennels with a name that wasn’t his written on a placard and taped to the window so visitors had something to call him.

He tried to play it off as simply readjusting Clint in his arms to get a better hold on him, but Coulson’s arms tightened just a bit more than acceptable. A comforting and maybe even protective level of strength applied as they stepped back into the lobby. Stooping down, he carefully set Clint back on the ground, surprised a bit when the dog moved to sit directly on one of his beat up old sneakers and just tilted his head back to stare up at him. There was pure exhaustion evident in those eyes, one that Phil was fairly certain was mirrored in his own eyes.

It didn’t take him long to sign the forms and pull enough cash from his wallet to cover the bill he was given. Giving Nicole and Logan both a very appreciative smile and thank you again, Phil looked back down to where Clint was still sitting on his foot.

“C’mon Hawk,” His voice was that soft, gentle tone again, the one from earlier in the holding area, as he bent back down to pick him up once again. “Let’s get you home.”*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The entire cab ride back to the Tower, Clint spent sitting on the seat next to Coulson, his white paws on the door and snout pressed to the window. He felt six shades of humiliated and the last thing he wanted to do was sit on his handler’s lap for the twenty-minute drive. It was bad enough the man had carried him and held him while waiting to finally catch a taxi. He just wanted to get back to the Tower, go find his floor and hide under a bed until Tony came up with some way to reverse what had been done to him.

When the doors to the elevator opened out onto the common area, and Coulson took a purposeful stride out into the room first, Clint suddenly retracted his previous thoughts. He didn’t want to be at the Tower at all! The burst of laughter (full out guffaw, more like it) that greeted them was enough to make him want to simultaneously bite Tony’s foot off and hide behind Coulson’s jean clad legs (which, okay, the casual clothes may have been another reason he hadn’t wanted to sit on the man’s lap in the cab. There was only so much torture a guy could handle and that would have broken him, no doubt).

“Oh, oh this is…this…JARVIS! Tell me you’re recording this. This is just…I knew! I knew you were a dog. I knew what kind of dog you were. I prepared myself but this…this is just…I just…”

Clint’s fur actually bristled, his muscles tightened threateningly as his newly acquired sharp teeth flashed into view. Did he mention they were kind of sharp and shiny and pointed? Perfect for tearing into soft fleshy areas or ripping apart designer slacks that cost probably more than his first apartment in New York had. Tony being Tony though, just thought it was all the more hysterical and had to actually excuse himself from the room.

Bruce gave an apologetic smile and shoulder shrug as he stepped forward, hands fidgeting nervously in front of him.

“Tony’d said you’d found him. I uh…admit I wasn’t quite as prepared as he claims he was. Uh…this is…definitely interesting.” Clint watched as Bruce squatted in front of him and reached out to gently, hesitantly touch the tip of an oversized ear. He tried not to flinch away, and finally, reluctantly, stepped closer so Bruce could get a better look. At least Banner was used to dealing with skittish animals and knew to use slow, calm motions. Clint figured the man had plenty of practice, what with needing to remain calm and Hulk being much like a skittish animal too.

“Stark is an infant. What have you found out about the weapon that did this?” Coulson’s voice was back to the flat, level tone it always was when dealing with the Avengers. Jesus fuck, how was it possible to be dressed like some average Joe coming home from a parking lot basketball game and still sound and look so commanding and in control?

“Well,” Bruce scratched behind Clint’s left ear once before he pushed himself slowly back into a standing position and took his glasses off to fiddle with. “We found out that the gun shouldn’t have even worked to begin with. The kid had the right idea, but the mechanics didn’t make sense. Tony’s been going crazy trying to figure out how the guy actually got it to work. He called it a ‘glorified marshmallow shooter’.”

There was a quirk to Banner’s lips that told them he was far more amused with his colleague’s choice of words than he was letting on.

“We’ve been trying to reverse engineer it, but it’s such a mess that…” The physicist trailed off, his hunched shoulders shrugging gently as he looked to his feet.

Clint was too busy watching Banner and trying to wrap his head around what was just said (what kind of black magic was it that two of the world’s greatest scientists and self-proclaimed geniuses couldn’t figure out one loser kid’s ray gun?! …better yet, what had his life become that he’s not the least bit concerned by the fact there actually are ray guns?) that he hadn’t even realized Coulson had moved further into the room. His cell phone was in his hand, fingers flying over the screen for a moment before he tucked it back into his pocket.

“We’ll arrange for you to speak with Pavlov; see if he can shed some light on how he was able to make it work.”

The quirk and twitch was back to Bruce’s lips, this time a spark twinkling in his dark brown eyes as he lifted his head and looked between Clint and Coulson. When the soft chuckle escaped his mouth, his hand coming up to cover his lips carefully, Clint tilted his head and took one cautious but questioning step forward.

“Something funny, Doctor?”

“It uh…actually, a little bit, yeah.” Bruce’s smile grew to a soft, shy grin. “The kid’s name; Derek Pavlov.”

At two blank stares, Bruce continued.

“Well, more his last name, Pavlov, actually. Ivan Pavlov was a Russian scientist. He’s credited for coming up with some pretty fascinating theories, actually, but his most famous one is conditioned reflex. Also called,” His dark eyes landed for a moment on Clint, and his smile grew just a little bit bigger. “ ‘Pavlov’s Dog’”

Clint wasn’t sure if it was possible for dogs to roll their eyes, but he gave it a try anyways as he spun his body away from the two men. A groan escaped from his mouth as he turned his back to them both and started off towards the couch. He did not want to hear about some guy and his dog. Bruce, on the other hand, felt it was his duty to expand on what he’d been getting at.

“Pavlov and his assistant were able to train dogs to drool on command using just a bell. The dogs came to associate the sound of the bell with being fed and would automatically start to salivate. It’s actually a great psychological theory. Pavlov’s conditioning has been credited to be a huge part of how humans perceive themselves and their behavior and learning processes.”

“Which explains why Bird-Dog here is suddenly overly attentive any time you walk in the room, Agent.” Tony’s amused and slightly mocking voice was back, filling the room just a moment before he reappeared from around a corner. His eyes landed to where Clint was flopped over the arm of the couch, snout resting on his paws and eyes staring at the three men.

“If you shed on my sofa, Barton? I’m having Dummy and Butterfingers hold you down while U shaves off all your fur.”

“Stark—“

“Ya know, the irony here isn’t lost on me. This Pavlov kid creating a gun that turns people, or person rather, into a dog. Barton literally has become Pavlov’s dog. Figuratively he already was and probably has been for years. But this—“

“Tony,” Bruce’s voice cut through the engineer’s little amused rant. The slight shake of his head was even enough to get the other man to quiet down.

Clint felt his eyes fall shut as the three men continued to talk. Coulson sounded far less amused than Tony and Bruce was doing his best to keep the eccentric engineer from pissing the agent off enough to be tased (though, the chances of Coulson having his taser on him at the moment were pretty damn slim). The sounds of their voices provided a lulling noise in his head, a comforting sound after spending three days listening to all sorts of animals crying out twenty-four hours a day. As if the whole experience wasn’t going to be enough for him to need more therapy, the sounds of that shelter definitely wasn’t going to help things any.

“Barton. Let’s go.”

Suddenly wide awake and on his feet, he hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep. Or that enough time had passed by that the lights of the tower had come on and the night sky was pitch black. Damn, how could dogs fall asleep so completely so quickly?

Without even giving a questioning twitch of his brows (which, he found out he could do. He could feel them moving and by God he was going to use that to his advantage!), he tumbled down off the couch and moved to follow Coulson back to the elevator. He’d missed the whole conversation the man apparently had with Stark regarding where Barton would be staying. Hell, he figured Coulson would dump him off at his floor and be done with it. The snickering from behind him distracted him for a moment as he followed Phil.

“See? Pavlov’s dog. Coulson says three words and Barton’s on his heels in an instant. No questions asked. No hesitation. No—“

“Tony, let it go. We’ve got work to do.”

The polished brass doors slid silently closed just centimeters from the tip of Clint’s nose, causing him to stumble backwards and land with his butt once again resting on Coulson’s foot. Looking up at the man, he felt his embarrassment rise once more before he moved to stand next to the agent. He was too busy trying to resist the urge to sniff around and explore all the strange, overpowering smells that filled the Avengers private elevator, that he missed the fact they’d traveled past his floor and were being deposited back out into the lobby.

Without even thinking about it, he found himself following Coulson once again out of the elevator and into the grand entranceway. The crowds had thinned some, making it easier for him to trot alongside the agent’s stride and not get cut off or stepped on. The disadvantages of being a foot tall. He hated it. As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Clint began to seriously question whether Coulson even realized he was still right there with him. He wondered if maybe the man had forgotten he hadn’t dropped Clint off at his floor and was going to leave him standing there on the sidewalk to try and get back into the Tower on his own. Even with leaning into Coulson’s leg, and standing on his foot, the man didn’t acknowledge him.

It wasn’t until a cab pulled up next to them and Phil opened the door, that he knew the man hadn’t forgotten.

“C’mon, Barton.”

Tail shamelessly wagging, Clint took a flying leap into the backseat and plopped his butt down as soon as the door closed. He felt ridiculous. Like an actual dog! He didn’t know where they were going but it didn’t even matter. He was getting to go for a ride and Coulson was with him.

“9th Ave and W. 21st Street.” Coulson instructed the driver as he settled back against the seat, head lulled back against the head rest and his eyes gently closing. Clint didn’t recognize the address, though he figured it was safe to assume it wasn’t another shelter.

Turning on the hard faux leather seat, he adjusted himself so that he could watch Coulson silently. The poor guy looked exhausted and yet still slightly tensed. He’d been on missions before where they’d taken turns sleeping so one could stand watch. Clint had always liked to watch his handler during those times. He’d lost count of all the night’s he’d sat in a window, alternating his gaze from the bed where Coulson slept to the world outside. There was always something about the way Phil slept that made Clint believe that the man didn’t actually sleep. He never seemed to be relaxed, no matter how tired he was. There was always a tightness to his shoulders that told Clint the man could be awake and ready for action in an instant.

He wanted to ask where they were going, but the longer they were in the cab, and the longer he watched the pale yellow-orange glow of the street lights above pass over his handler’s face, the less important that question seemed to become.

Clint wasn’t stupid enough to even try denying to himself that he’d been harboring maybe just the slightest bit of a crush on the man. If by ‘slightest bit of a crush’ that meant late night fantasies and long moments of watching him from the vent above his office. Then yeah, it was just a little crush. Was he going to admit that to anyone else though? Hell. Fucking. No. Stark had enough fodder to use against him, he wasn’t going to let this one slip too!

Around them the skyscrapers dwindled away, replaced instead with five or six story apartment complexes, the occasional fifteen or twenty story one thrown in here and there. Trees began to spring up along the streets and the general hubbub of the city quieted down to a distant memory. Shops and boutiques shone their store lights welcomingly as people milled about in the pleasant mid-May evening air. There was a much calmer sense to the air when the cab finally pulled to its final stop. Phil handed the driver a couple of bills without really looking at them, an action that told Clint the man had done this enough times to know how much the trip would cost him without being told.

He hopped from the backseat and moved to stand on the sidewalk, head turning every direction possible, trying to take everything in. There were apartments above shops, none of the buildings going much more than five stories up, all around him. Directly across the street from them was a little three story red brick building with a delicious smelling deli underneath. Clint really hoped that was where they were heading! His stomach twisted and churned hopefully. The dozen or so pieces of grilled chicken he’d been given for ‘breakfast’ had long since left his stomach and God he felt like he was starving!

When he suddenly found himself back in Coulson’s arms though, pressed securely against the man’s chest and moving away from the deli, he let out a yip of protest and whined pathetically as he squirmed in the man’s arms.

“I’m sorry, Barton, but there’s laws against not having a dog on a leash.” Phil muttered, clearly mistaking the squirming for protest over being held.

Clint whined again, his body twisting around so he could watch the deli get further away as they crossed the street and moved for a larger building. Black awnings hung over the shop windows, sleek and contemporary against the white of the limestone structure. White metal fire escapes decorated the front, adding an almost nostalgic feel to the picture. Clint strained his neck trying to see where they were going and nearly yelped when they started to approach the shop on the corner. Chic’ Clique definitely did not sound like a place he wanted to go. Hell it sounded like it was someplace tween girls would populate!

Coulson’s grip seemed to tighten just a bit on him as they drew up short of the shop and turned, instead, to a plain black door with gold numbers above it. He couldn’t read the numbers, not from the angle he was at, but the fact Coulson produced a key to unlock the door was enough to tell him it was the entrance door for the apartments above. The stairway was a bit narrow but not enough to cause any unexpected bouts of claustrophobia, and the lighting was just bright enough that they could see where they were going and no one could lurk in the shadows.

It wasn’t until they reached the second landing that Coulson finally put Clint down and allowed him to walk on his own. He followed on the man’s heels as he stepped up on a door and again produced a key that would open it. No fancy, hidden security measures, no bio-tech-checker in the knob. Just a simple, unassuming sand colored door to match the other one across the hall.

That is so fitting for him; it’s just not even funny… Clint thought almost sadly as Phil opened the door and motioned for the Corgi to go inside. He hesitated for a moment, unsure about what would happen if he did. He’d never been to Coulson’s apartment before, hadn’t even known where the damn place was, honestly, and the fact that the agent was now opening it up for him was kind of scary. He could have easily have been left at the Tower, yet…

“I’m not going to stand here all night, Barton. I’m tired. I’d like to go to sleep at some point, if it’s all the same to you.”

Clint jumped at the voice and he scurried to duck into the dark room. The light from the street lights drifted in through the windows, casting eerie shadows around before Coulson flipped a switch and chased them all away. He heard the lock click behind him a moment before the agent breezed past him and moved further into the spacious apartment. It was pleasant and airy, and had nothing more than a couple of mahogany pillars that separated the living room from the small dining room. A wall did keep the kitchen out of sight for the most part, even with its wide archway.

Clint slowly made his way around, taking in the sights. It wasn’t exactly what he’d imagined it’d look like. There was a stack of mail tossed carelessly across the top of an end table, and a coffee mug was still resting on the coffee table in front of the couch. It wasn’t all sharp corners and crisp, sleek contemporary style like Tony had often said it would be. It was soft, rounded and comfortable. It held a warmth in its walls that spoke volumes for the man that owned it (and Clint had no doubts that Coulson did in fact own his little home. He just couldn’t image the man paying rent). There were a few scattered piles of discarded magazines or books here and there, shelves with a layer of dust over them that said the man hadn’t gotten around to cleaning them recently, and even a couple pairs of shoes just strewn around the place.

It was a bit untidy, but then, if it’d been anything but that Clint would have felt insanely uncomfortable. As it was he felt, well, he didn’t feel quite as much like an intruder.

Coulson reappeared by his side a moment later, his shoes discarded and jeans replaced with a pair of dark grey sweatpants. When that had happened and how he’d missed it, Clint didn’t know, but damn was he cursing himself for not noticing before! He watched as Coulson padded softly across the polished hardwood floor, his socks slipping ever so slightly against the wax as he moved into the kitchen. Carefully following, he slipped silently into the bright room and watched as the agent moved to pull a small metal dish from a cupboard and set it in the sink. He flipped the faucet on and turned to take a plate down next. It was interesting to watch the man move about the kitchen. Clint almost felt like an explorer watching a dangerous animal in its natural habitat.

The water turned off a moment before the bowl found its way down to the floor. Clint eyed it for a moment before turning an unamused gaze up at Coulson. He could feel his brows lift and knew that his look had to show just how unfunny the situation was to him. He knew this because he saw the way Coulson’s mouth twitched at the corners, like he was forcing himself not to smile and laugh at the indignant look.

“When you can figure out how to hold a glass and drink from it normally without making a mess everywhere, you can have a glass of water. For now, deal with it.”

Clint huffed and plopped his butt down on the cold ceramic floor to pout. He didn’t want water anyways. He wanted a beer! Hell, he’d even settle for something carbonated or even coffee! His eyes settled to stare at the bowl like it had personally offended him. At least, until a plate appeared next to it. Chopped potatoes covered in some kind of gravy was suddenly in front of him and the smell of real food was enough to lurch him forward and shove his face shamelessly into it. To hell with dignity! He was hungry!!

Coulson gave a soft huff that could have been maybe taken for a quiet chuckle, maybe. He leaned heavily on his elbow against the counter, lazily taking a few bites out of his ham sandwich. Clint wasn’t sure he wanted to risk a glance up at the man, afraid to see just how worn out and vulnerable he’d be. It’d been over a year since the Loki incident, but even so he knew how easy it was for Coulson to push himself through his own exhaustion, just to try and make things go back to how they used to be.

When half of a sandwich found its way onto his plate (torn in half again so it was a bit more manageable), Clint lifted his eyes and watched as Coulson just quietly turned and padded back across his apartment. He disappeared behind another light tan door (Clint had the feeling Coulson’s color scheme was browns and tans. At least, from what he’d seen so far anyways) only to reappear a moment later with a large, fluffy blanket in his arms.

Clint chewed his meal slowly, his eyes never lifting from where his handler was arranging the blanket down on one corner of the couch. There was something that tugged at Clint’s chest, twisting his heart and finally forcing him to look away. Of course Coulson wasn’t going to share the bed; he’d be stupid to even consider it. They’d never shared a bed (at least not together, at the same time) while on missions; why should this be any different?

He picked his last clump of sandwich up off the plate and turned to slowly carry it into the living room to investigate further.

“Food stays in the kitchen, Barton.” Coulson didn’t even look up from where he was doing his best to fluff the blanket up to a more acceptable level. Clint couldn’t help but stop dead in his tracks and raise a brow. Dropping to his haunches, he opened his mouth, letting the pieces of bread and meat fall to the floor in defiance. A laughing glint sparked to his eyes as he looked from Coulson, to the mug on the coffee table and back to Coulson.

Really? Bullshit. It seemed to say (no, not seemed. DID say)

“That’s a drink. It doesn’t get crumbs all over. Finish that up before the grease and slobber gets all over the floor.”

Clint gave a low growl/grumble as he bent down to gobble up what was left of the sandwich, even going so far as to lap up the crumbs that might have been left behind. When he was finished, he looked up to find Coulson silently retreating back behind that damn door (a door that Clint had a total dislike for because it meant that the man’s bedroom must be located behind it and would be closing to keep him out of it shortly).

“Try not to scrape up the couch, Barton.” He called over his shoulder before closing the bedroom door behind him.

No “Goodnight, Barton”. No “Sleep well”, or “Pleasant dreams”, or tucking in. Not that Clint really expected there to be but…well…he’d just spend three horrible days alone in a shelter. Some kind of comforting remark before shutting him out would have been nice.

Standing alone in the living room, Clint suddenly felt even lonelier than before. His sharp eyes glanced around the room for a moment before he quietly made his way to the bedroom door. He knew he couldn’t open it, at least not in the conventional way, but maybe…

He pressed his head to the door and mentally frowned when it refused to budge. Trying again, he gave a soft whine of protest. He waited a moment before he carefully scraped the pads of his paws against the wood. It wasn’t enough to cause any damage, but it should have been enough to get Coulson’s attention and open the door for him. He didn’t want to be alone. It was pathetic but, true.

“Barton. Stop it. Go to sleep.”

Coulson’s voice was firm, as if he were giving orders in the field, but slightly muffled –either by the door or a pillow, Clint didn’t know. He gave another soft whine, a bit more desperate this time. When he got nothing in return, he heaved a heavy sigh and trudged back to the couch. He’d appreciated the gesture, giving him permission to sleep on what was no doubt a sinfully comfortable couch, but from that angle and from his height, Clint wouldn’t be able to get a clear view of the door. There was a spot, under the dining room table, that he felt confident would give him a better view of his surroundings.

Taking hold of the blanket carefully in his teeth, he tugged and pulled until it fell to the floor and he was able to drag it under the table. It was embarrassing how little he could actually do without the use of opposable thumbs and he swore he was never going to take them for granted ever again. The blanket was a pain in the ass to get just how he wanted it. He’d never laugh at another dog that rutted and circled and pawed and circled at their blankets again for as long as he lived. It was a cruel way to learn sympathy and humility.

By the time he got it just the way he wanted it, Clint fell in a pathetic lump across the top of it. A clear sightline of both the front door and Coulson’s bedroom door. Nothing was going to get past him. He’d make sure of it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Warm light was pouring in through the windows by the time Clint finally opened his eyes and stood to stretch his legs. The apartment was quiet save for the sounds of the city outside. A back paw came up instinctually to scratch at his ear before he shook his head and crawled out from under the table.

Coulson’s bedroom door was still closed. Turning for the kitchen, Clint went in search of that damn metal bowl for a drink. He couldn’t deny that he was thirsty, no matter how hard he tried to tell himself he wasn’t. Taking a few laps from the bowl, his eyes turned to spot a couple pieces of toast and half a strip of bacon on his plate. Screw drinking! When had food magically appeared on his plate? He sniffed them cautiously for a moment before going in for the bacon.

Oh Coulson, a man after my own heart. He thought as he happily chewed the cold piece of meat and turned to start for the toast. It was then that a grey Post-It caught his attention.

Barton,

Behave yourself. I’ll be back later.

Clint stared at the note for a good long while, trying to figure out when it had gotten there and when the hell Coulson could have snuck out without him noticing! Jesus, he’d better not ever meet a real guard dog, they’d laugh him under the nearest picnic table!  He was clearly even more pathetic than he’d thought! He didn’t even know what time it was or when Coulson left!

And if that weren’t bad enough?

Nature was starting to call in the worst way possible.

I am not going to piss all over Coulson’s floors. I am not going to piss all over Coulson’s floors. I’m not. I’m not not not. He whined as he wandered through the man’s apartment, the rest of his breakfast forgotten. There were far more pressing matters to take care off. Matters that were only starting to press harder and harder the longer he was awake.

There were no windows open anywhere (not that it mattered, they were on the third floor and he’d never make it up any fire escapes to use the roof), not even an old newspaper laid out anywhere. Clearly, Phil Coulson was not even an amateur when it came to pet owning. He couldn’t even be considered a beginner or novice! He was plain ol’ fucking CLUELESS!! Maybe Clint should just take care of his business all over Coulson’s nice, clean floors. It’d teach him a lesson anyways!

Moving down the only hall, Clint poked his head into each room he came upon. One guest room that was nicely made up and pleasant enough looking --definitely not the place for Clint to use; another door that wouldn’t open and he just assumed to be a closet of some kind; and finally, blessedly, a guest bath. Complete with shower instead of tub, and curtain instead of door.

Not the first time you’ve pissed in the shower, Barton. Won’t be the last.

Of course, that really didn’t help ease the bit of shame and guilt he felt over doing it. It was really Coulson’s own fault though! Never once had the man asked if Clint had needed to go for a walk around the block! At least the agent would never have to know what happened.

Slinking back out of the bathroom a moment later, Clint carefully crept back out to the kitchen, relieved to find that Coulson hadn’t returned home while he’d been taking care of things in the bathroom. He finished his last piece of cold, dry toast and dejectedly shuffled back to his blanket under the table. Two of his needs had been met and now that his stomach was full and his bladder empty, he made himself comfortable once more to wait for his handler to get home.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Gooooooooood afternoon, Barton!”

Clint’s whole body jerked at the new voice that appeared out of nowhere. Jesus fuck! He really needed to stop falling asleep! Or at least falling asleep so hard.

From his place under the table, he watched as a pair of flare jeans and bright pink Chuck Taylors went walking by. Unless Coulson randomly turned into a teenage girl during the day and Clint was totally and utter blind to that fact, there was definitely someone new and different wandering around the man’s home. And whoever this new someone was, she seemed to know who he was and that he was there somewhere.

He watched silently as the girl moved for the other side of the dining room table and popped the lid to something.

“Did’ja’s miss me? Oh I bet’cha’s did. Yes. Here ya’s go. Lunch time. Hey! Natasha! Be nice! That was Barton’s piece!”

Confusion so powerful it practically had him stumbling over his own feet coursed through him. Who was this girl and who the absolute fuck was she talking to?! The jangling of his tags gave him away before he could make his move and pounce at her. The sound startled whoever she was enough for her to stumble and drop whatever she’d been holding. Container falling and scattering across the floor, in turn, scared the living bejebus out of Clint and sent him flying into the defense (hey! The world is a lot scarier when you’re suddenly small enough to be squished like a bug, okay?!).

A pathetic growl rumbled through him as he crouched low and glared up at the girl.

“Who are you!? What are you doing in Coulson’s apartment? What do you want?” He demanded, even if it did come out as a series of pretty vicious sounding barks and growls.

“Oh God. Oh God…please…n-nice doggy. Nice…p-please don’t…”

Clint’s nose twitched thoughtfully. Something smelled fishy. Seriously. Something smelled like fish. Or really crappy fish food more like it. Turning his attention away from her for a moment, he spotted the container that’d fallen, its contents scattered across the floor.

Fish food.

Fish food?! Since when did Coulson have FISH?! And more importantly, why were they named ‘Barton’ and ‘Natasha’? It was pretty sad to think about and yet…maybe a bit endearing too. After all, it proved the man cared enough about him and Natasha to name his pets after them. Of course, on the other hand, they were fish…and fish were known to not exactly have the best track record when it came to survival…at least if the goldfish he’d had in the past had been any sort of indicator on the matter.

“N-nice doggy. G-Good doggy. It’s okay…it’s okay. Right, it’s okay Hailey, it’s okay…not all dogs are mean and vicious and wanting to tear you to shreds. R-right little guy? Y-you’re not going to…I mean I’m not…”

Clint’s head whipped back around as a hand suddenly came back into his line of sight. He could literally smell the fear and panic rolling off the girl. Suddenly, he felt really pretty bad for scaring her. Maybe he could blame it on the fact she’d scared him first? Yeah, that sounded good.

Lowering his head, he felt his fur flatten down as he moved to lie down on the floor. He tried to make himself as non-threatening as possible. He looked up at her from under his lashes, legs moving slowly to creep him closer to her hand. When he was close enough to let her fingers brush the tips of his ears, he lifted his head to give her a calculating look. She didn’t look threatening and she didn’t smell threatening.

“Good doggy…I’m not gonna hurt you…I just came by to feed Mr. Coulson’s fish for him…”

Turning his snout, Clint’s tongue struck out to lick against her palm. Someone came to take care of Coulson’s fish for him? Wow…that really kind of makes sense given what Clint’s gathered of the man’s pet skills.

When the girl gave a slightly more relaxed laugh at his wet kiss to her hand, Clint moved to stand up and come closer to her. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Phil arrived home a half hour later, he opened his door to the sounds of…giggling? That was definitely giggling…and barking. He’d forgotten to tell Hailey –his neighbor’s daughter—that he was home and she wouldn’t need to come over and collect his mail or feed the fish for him anymore.

With a sigh, he closed the door behind him and hung his keys on the hook. A plastic bag from the local pet shop was in one hand, and his suit jacket was swung over his other arm. He’d left that morning with the intentions of going into work to gather a few papers, tie up some loose ends, and put in for some of that vacation time he kept getting bitched at by HR for having so much of stored up. No one was sure how long it would take for Barton to return to normal, if he ever did, but Coulson still had wanted to take at least a week off anyway.

Glancing into his living room, he froze for a moment at the sight in front of him. Hailey was on the floor, her face red with laughter as Clint pounced at her playfully, leapt over her stomach and crawled all over her. It would be innocent enough if Clint was a real dog, but he wasn’t, and Hailey was the only one to not know that. This was all kinds of wrong.

“Hawkeye. Off.”

Clint skidded to a halt –or at least attempted to. His paws slid across the smooth floor and legs went out from under him in his struggle to stop. Blue-green eyes darted up past the couch, staring at Coulson in surprise and then in aggravation. He was still a bit bent out of shape about not being let out earlier. Head lifted and chest puffed just a bit, Clint moved to flop himself across Hailey’s lap and ignore Coulson.

Hailey’s eyes lifted with brightness as she moved to pull the dog into a tight hug, his head pressed against her chest and Phil could almost see the smug smirk on Clint’s face. Oh was he in for it once the girl went home again.

“Hi, Mr. Coulson! I came by to feed Bart and Nat and this little guy sprung out at me.” Her voice was light and melodic as she kissed the top of Clint’s head and let him back down onto the floor. She pushed herself up to her feet, straightening her dark pink baby-T as she went.

“He’s really cute! I didn’t know you’d gotten a dog.”

Coulson’s eyes fell back down to where Clint was watching him intensely from Hailey’s side. He shook his head and moved further into his home, dropping the bag and his jacket onto the couch before he turned his attention back to the pair.

“I didn’t. He’s not mine.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you were dogsitting then. Doesn’t change the fact he’s really cute and such a sweetheart!”

He could almost see Clint preening at the praise, his head rising just a bit higher. He forced himself to resist rolling his eyes at the dog. Instead, he leaned forward to dig around the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pull a thin folded checkbook out. Using the back of the couch as a table, he quickly scribbled across the piece of paper before tearing it out and holding it out to Hailey.

“If you say so. Thank you for taking care of the fish while I was gone. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was home sooner.”

Hailey’s smile never faltered as she reached out to take the check from him. Her shoulders lifted in a carefree shrug before stuffing the paper into her pocket and moving for the door. Clint was sad to see she was leaving. He’d actually kind of grown to like her. His paws moved across the floor to follow her, tail swishing faintly.

“It’s no big. I’ll see ya later, Mr. Coulson.” She flashed a blinding smile as she leaned down to pet behind Clint’s ears and murmured a goodbye to him before straightening and slipping out the door. Clint watched the door click closed before he turned his attention back to Coulson and let his eyes light up happily. If he were any more pathetic he’d let his tongue hang out and tail go nuts over Phil being home, but no…he wasn’t that pathetic, and plus…the bathroom incident? Yeah, still not forgiven for that.

Though, it didn’t matter because the look he was getting from the man was not one that he was overly fond of. It was one he was given after a mission when he would make his own calls and ultimately risked his life because, well, his calls weren’t always the smartest ones in the book. It was a look that was a cross between anger and disappointment, and it froze him where he stood every time.

“I don’t know what you thought you were doing, Barton,” Coulson’s voice was cold but level, the no-nonsense tone he gives when the Specialist has done something overly stupid that time. “But do not go near Hailey again. Especially not like you were. She’s only just eighteen. She doesn’t need you climbing and putting your paws all over her.”

Clint couldn’t believe what he was hearing. There was no way it was possible. Coulson was actually accusing him of, what? Putting the moves on a teenage girl? Trying to use his position as cute, adorable, sweet little puppy dog to cop a feel? Oh, the agent was lucky that he couldn’t talk. So very lucky.

 He could, however, hunch down and growl.

Lips curled back to bare teeth and hair standing on end, Clint narrowed his eyes at Coulson, but made no attempt to charge at him. He just wanted to make it known that he could still understand every word spoken to him and he in no way appreciated those accusations. For cryin’ out loud, the girl was still a kid in his mind! Plus, on top of that, yeah, boobs were soft and squishy and made nice pillows…but they were so not what he was interested in.

The pair stood in the middle of the living room, Clint snarling and glaring Coulson down, while Phil folded his arms calmly over his chest. Only, he wasn’t as calm as he looked. With the wonderful heightened sense of smell, Clint was able to pick up on something that distinctly smelled of apprehension. Coulson was actually a little bit afraid of Clint at the moment.

Clint was the first to break the stare this time.

His shoulders lifted and his fur fell back down into place as he turned his head away and down from Coulson’s gaze. Without so much as a glance back up at the man, he moved past him to crawl back under the table and lay back down on the blanket, his back to the rooms. He listened as Coulson rustled around in the bag for a moment before things fell silent again.

God, he’d never wanted to go throw himself across Natasha –his Natasha, not that fish that’s supposedly swimming around somewhere out of his sight—he’d never wanted to throw himself across her bed and vent so bad in his life.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Clint didn’t see Coulson again that night. Or maybe, Coulson was the one avoiding Clint? It didn’t matter. The point was they didn’t see each other at all. There was food laid out for him at some point, the Post-It from before having been picked up and discarded, and when he had to take care of business again? Well, he slunk himself down the hall to the guest bathroom and took full advantage of that shower again. He wasn’t proud about it, but hey! The agent seemed to have forgotten that Clint was in fact a dog and couldn’t exactly stand up straight enough for target practice. The toilet was kind of out of the question.

The following morning, before the sun could warm the apartment, the sound of a chair sliding out from under the table and a pair of shoes falling to the floor nearby startled him out of his sleep. It’d been done on purpose, Clint was sure of that, as he grumbled and stretched the sleep from his limbs. Coming out from his blanket bed, he blinked up at Coulson’s stern face (or, it could have been still half-asleep…it was a well kept secret that Agent Phillip J. Coulson was not a morning person) and gave another pathetic groan.

The man was dressed in a pair of dark basketball shorts (Jesus! Really!? What the absolute fuck!? Clint didn’t even think the man owned any shorts!) and a heather grey, threadbare sweatshirt. Oh that sweatshirt, Clint knew it anywhere! He’d been trying for months to steal it from Coulson! Every time he’d make a play to steal it from the man’s locker at SHIELD or out of his gym bag or wherever he’d last seen it, it’d been gone. There wasn’t even anything special about the damn thing! It was just a plain old sweatshirt. That Coulson just happened to wear every time he worked out. And it looked incredibly comfortable and well loved. Might even be soft from all the times it’d been washed. One day. One day Clint would get his paws (maybe even literal paws) on that sweatshirt.

He watched as Coulson pulled his sneakers on, tightened the laces and moved to stand again. Clint fell back onto his rear and stared up at Phil sleepily. It was too early to be up and functioning. And of course, since he was still in a canine body, all forms of caffeine had been taken away from him. Mornings fucking sucked without a coffee.

Clint turned, expecting Phil to start for the kitchen to make breakfast, not move for the front door. The man wasn’t even going to say where he was going? He’d planned to just leave? Clint shook his head as he took off after him. His teeth dug into the back of one of Coulson’s sneakers and he hung on for dear life. There was no way that man was leaving without him again!

“Barton! What the—Let go of my shoe, Agent. That’s an order.”

He growled as he glared up at Coulson and continued to clench his jaw down on the leather and fabric of the sneaker. When the agent finally stopped moving and just folded his arms over his sweatshirt covered chest, Clint let go and sat back to glare back at him.

“I’m going for a jog.”

Clint continued to glare.

“I’ll be back in an hour.

Blue-green eyes narrowed and his snout wrinkled in a slight snarl. He was just about to show teeth and dig into the shoe again when the lights finally turned on in Coulson’s eyes. Clint watched as the other man’s eyes widened to almost comical proportions before he whipped his head around in every direction. He was no doubt trying to figure out where Clint had been taking care of things and he had to admit, it was a bit satisfying not being able to answer and just leaving the poor guy to wonder. Maybe someday he’d tell him. Maybe.

Raising both his dark tan eyebrows, he gave a sharp nod of the head before standing and going to wait by the door. He was possibly a little surprised when Coulson moved for the bag on the couch and returned a moment later with a very nice, probably pretty expensive, purple and black braided leash; the loop padded with a soft leather. There were so many things going through Clint’s mind, none of them appropriate, when Coulson crouched in front of him and snapped the clip onto his collar.

Swallowing hard, Clint turned his attention back up to his handler’s face. Right. Leash laws. Of course Coulson went out to buy a leash for him. It wasn’t anything at all. He gave a quick full-body shake before he turned to stare up at the door knob. He was quite ready to go out for a run.

Coulson gave a small huff before he opened the door and let Clint lead them out of the building. Taking control again, the agent turned to go opposite of where the archer-turned-canine was wanting to go (yes, the deli was opening. Yes, it smelled delicious. No, they were not going to go investigate it) and gave a swift tug to the leash. It was all he needed to do to have Clint fall into line next to him, no matter how begrudgingly the dog acted about doing so.

The pair walked down the street for a few moments, Clint sniffing and snuffling at a few random spots as his little legs worked quickly to keep up with the agent’s strides. And when Coulson paused by a fire hydrant and motioned to it, Clint gave the best ‘You’ve gotta be shittin’ me’ glare he could muster before turning and yanking the leash, and Phil, into an alley. There was no way Clint was going to do what he needed to do right out in the open like that! He may look like a dog, walk like a dog and bark like a dog, but that sure as hell didn’t actually make him a dog!

He ducked behind a dumpster, one that already smelled of old urine and other bodily functions and returned a minute or so later feeling both better and incredibly embarrassed at once. Coulson lifted an eyebrow at him, but Clint refused to meet his gaze as he slunk back out onto the sidewalk.

“I’m going to have to carry plastic bags when I take you for walks, aren’t I?”

Even though Clint heard the light, teasing tone, it still embarrassed him to no end. God was he glad dogs couldn’t blush! He was positive he’d be red from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Sure Coulson was no stranger to cleaning up Barton’s messes…but those were entirely different messes. These were…actually, Clint really just didn’t want to think about that. At all.

Head turning up to finally look at Coulson, he allowed his mouth to open just enough for the tip of his tongue to drop out and a spark to take in his eyes. It was a challenging look. If Coulson wanted to go for a run, then that was just fine by him. With a single warning bark, a Catch me if you can, Boss look, Clint tore off down the sidewalk like a bat straight out of hell. He yanked the leash free from Coulson’s slacked hand and paused only once at the end of the block to glance and make sure the man was in fact following him.

Oh yeah, Clint was in trouble. And for more reasons than just because he took off.