Chapter Text
Clint Barton met his soulmate in the rain. Clint was straddling a steep-pitched gable, praying he wasn’t about to slip and break his neck on the ground two stories below while his soulmate held him at gunpoint from behind the old Victorian estate’s crumbling brick chimney. His soulmate glared at him down the barrel of his gun as Clint pointed his arrow right back at him, and that was how their eyes first met.
Even in the midnight downpour, Clint could tell his eyes were brilliant, bright blue.
Everyone described the Moment differently—the Moment of knowing you’d found each other. Some said it was loud and bombastic like a grand symphony; others said it was calm and peaceful as a silent Christmas Eve snowfall. For Clint, it was as though he’d been reduced to sand, dispersed, flying every which way in the storm, and then pulled back in—wholly transformed, remade, and solidified again in an instant. It felt as though every atom in his body had realigned just so, and now, he was settled, where he suddenly realized he never quite had been before.
He let out a shaky breath. He’d never wanted a soulmate. He’d practically begged the universe to save him from the pain of it for years, even as he got older—even as he slowly started to understand what a useless piece of shit his dad was and that being his angel mother’s soulmate would never have changed him.
Now, staring at the man in front of him with his whole being rearranged, Clint couldn’t imagine a world without him.
Clint didn’t realize he’d lowered his weapon until his soulmate lowered his. His soulmate let out a sigh as he leaned heavily into the chimney.
“C’mon,” his soulmate said. “I’ve got a van down the street and a safehouse a few blocks from here. Let’s get out of the rain.”
Twenty minutes prior, Clint never would have done it; he’d have used the man’s hesitation as a chance to make a break for it. He probably would have gotten away, too. Now, following him seemed like the only sensible thing to do.
They shimmied off of the roof down a trellis with long-dead vines collapsed in a soggy heap at the bottom.
Clint had been using the old abandoned home as something of a base of operations while he scoped out the neighbor’s property for the heist his soulmate had interrupted. He had been successful—the jewels he’d been hired to acquire still sat heavy in the pocket of his cargo vest—but as his soulmate led the way and Clint followed behind two paces to the left, Clint couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be giving them up by morning.
His buyer and their middleman would both be irate over it if he did, but he’d been in stickier situations with more dangerous people.
And his soulmate was worth the trouble—probably.
They didn’t say a single word to each other as they got in the van or as they drove in a haphazard pattern a little ways across town. They pulled up in front of a nondescript duplex, and Clint’s soulmate just gave him a look and nodded towards the leftmost door before getting out of the van himself.
Clint followed his lead straight into the kitchen at the back of the small home. They regarded each other for a long moment before Clint’s soulmate nodded, as if to himself, and then cleared his throat.
“Mister Barton,” Clint caught his soulmate’s hands trembling slightly before he folded his hands in front of himself, “I am Agent Phil Coulson, from the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. I am certain you are well aware that we at SHIELD have been following you and your work for some time.”
Phil raised his eyebrows, clearly waiting for Clint’s confirmation. It seemed like a strange place to start their conversation, though it was true: Clint was well aware, and he’d been watching them, too. Phil, as he’d introduced himself, was just one of a handful of SHIELD agents that had been tailing him for months. But Phil was the best of them; he had gotten close more times than Clint wanted to admit, on top of being the one to finally snag him.
In short, the thing Clint was most well aware of was that his soulmate was a fucking badass.
Clint nodded, and that seemed to meet Phil’s expectations. His shoulders relaxed a little, and he kept going.
“What you may not know is that I have been given express authorization by my Director to offer a pardon of all crimes previously committed under your various aliases,” Phil’s eyes darted to Clint’s front pocket, and Clint had to stop himself from blanching, “and an exclusive, full-time contract of employment with SHIELD, as one of our premier Specialists.”
“I—no? Wait…we’re not going to talk about—”
“Yes, well. That does create a wrinkle, but not something that we can’t sort out. Our…situation does not and will not hold any bearing on our offer or any future employment you might have with SHIELD; I can assure you of that.”
It seemed fair enough that Clint heard him out, and the deal was too good to not sign the papers. When all was said and done, he turned to look at Phil expectantly.
“There’s a diner across the street,” Phil said,” if we wanted to continue the rest of this conversation there?”
They kept the conversation light through the walk across the street and ordering their late meal. Finally, Clint cleared his throat. He’d had plenty of time observing Phil—since Phil had started chasing him months ago and in the hours since. Phil was objectively attractive, but Clint knew himself well enough.
“So,” Clint swallowed hard, “this is probably where I tell you I’m not gay?”
Phil blinked at him a second and carefully straightened the fork and knife on the paper placemat in front of him. “Well, that does put a…damper on things, now, doesn’t it?”
Clint’s heart sank a little bit. For as much as he had never wanted a soulmate until he realized how much his soul had missed Phil, he’d especially never wanted to be a disappointing soulmate for someone else. Phil deserved better than that.
“Doesn’t have to,” Clint offered, trying to keep his voice light and unbothered. “My parents were soulmates. They both sucked at it, and I’ve been shit in any relationship I’ve ever been in—can’t imagine the apple falls far, ya know? But platonic doesn’t have to be bad. Might be better, even. Besides, certainly the mind-meld thing—” Phil chuckled at his choice of words, which was exactly what Clint had been going for, “—would be helpful for…work?” Clint kept things vague as their waitress approached to offer them coffee. They both immediately slid their empty coffee mugs to the edge of the table for her and exchanged amused smirks as she walked away again.
“Yes,” Phil admitted as he took his first sip, straight black, “a few of my colleagues say that it does.”
“Well, there you go then. Friends?”
Clint extended a hand across the Formica table, and with an almost imperceptible twist of his lips, Phil shook his hand. “Friends it is.”
“Nice to meet you, soulmate.”
“You too, Clint.” Phil shook his head and forced a laugh. “Nick’s going to love this.”
Their plates arrived, and Clint reached over to pluck a piece of bacon off of Phil’s plate. Phil raised his eyebrows in the most expressive show of emotion Clint had yet been able to pull out of him. Internally, he cheered—they could be friends; they’d be fine; they’d make it work. “Who’s Nick?”
“Director of SHIELD, Nick Fury. You’ll meet him soon enough.”