Archive of Our Own

Clint’s a photographer. A professional photographer. A pretty decent professional photographer with a career that’s been spent mostly overseas covering war zones and disasters (when he was young, hungry and idealistic) and then shoots for magazine articles and commissions for celebrity portraits (now that he’s old(er), still hungry but more pragmatic). He’s made enough of a name for himself to be able to pick and choose his assignments and to open a small but successful studio/gallery where he exhibits his work, and gives a start to up-and-coming photographers. After all these years, he still enjoys it. He always will.

But nowadays his first love is taking images for thedogblogger, his photo-commentary of dogs in the city of New York. He loves walking through the streets and parks, talking to people about their dogs, finding out their stories; like Jasper, a six-year old pitbull with a gorgeous head who survived being hit by a truck after being thrown from a moving car and despite permanent damage to his hip, loves chasing squirrels in the park; or Hulk a large (very large) Tibetan Mastiff who’s as gentle as a kitten, however most folk tend to avoid him because of his great size which is a shame as it makes him shy around people; and then there was Captain, a handsome two-year old golden retriever who fell through the ice last winter and despite being clinically dead for over a minute survived to wag his tail. There are many, many more and Clint loves it.

Clint’s been running thedogblogger for three years now and has published two books based on the photos he's taken. Most of the money he makes from it goes to dog shelters ‘coz they need help too, y’know. He’s currently pulling together material for his third book. And that’s when he sees Phil and Agent - although at that moment he's just a guy and his dog. The dog, a shaggy beast of a thing (he's not sure of her breed which is unusual for Clint) is adorable and clearly has eyes for no-one but the man she’s with; understandable as her owner is also adorable, late forties maybe, with broad shoulders and a nice ass. So sue him for noticing.

Clint stops to watch them play for a while. He’s conscious the guy uses hand signals a lot and never shouts or whistles to attract her attention. Odd and it sets him wondering. The dog's obviously well trained and always returns with the ball he throws for her receiving lots of hugs and smiles when she does. Her tail wags constantly and her tongue lolls out the side of her mouth. They're happy. It's nice. Clint's seen a lot of shit in this world so when he sees genuine happiness it tends to give him a warm feeling in his chest and gut. It’s got nothing at all to do with a random good-looking man playing fetch with his dog in the park. That would just be weird, right?

Suddenly the guy stiffens as though he knows he’s being watched. The next time the dog comes back the man gives her a different signal and she drops the ball at his feet and immediately sits to attention. He gives her a gentle scratch under her chin and fastens her lead to her collar then puts a vest on her. Oh! So she's a service dog. For some reason it makes Clint feel bad for watching as though he's intruded on a private moment. The guy picks up her ball putting it in his pocket and they head off without looking back. Clint sees the owner has a pronounced limp as he moves. There’s obviously a story there. He’d be interested to find out what it is.

Sighing, Clint gets on with his day, chatting to other owners explaining about the blog and his books. His mood soon picks up. Most are really excited and delighted to have him take their dog’s / dogs’ photo to be added, swearing they’ll look it up when they get home. Some actually look it up there and then...all hail the smartphone generation. Others know who he is as soon as he mentions the blog and go wild telling him how much they love site and what it means to them. They tell him they've spread the word to all their friends too.

It makes Clint’s day knowing that his work is enjoyed by so many people. He considers himself fortunate to have such a keen eye and talent for timing along with endless patience - dogs are not considered to be the easiest of subjects to photograph especially outdoors with so many sights and sounds and smells to distract them. Still with a squeaker toy and a cooing tone he generally gets the perfect image.

Although he knows he’s captured some really great shots, his head just isn’t in it today. His mind keeps drifting back to the guy from earlier and he finds it a little distracting even though he’s not really sure why.

***

It’s almost a week later when Clint sees them again. Apparently the guy’s even more skittish this time and as soon as Clint stops, he signals to the dog and they’re gone. The photographer has never had this reaction before. He’s not entirely sure what he’s done to deserve it. He doesn't believe he was hassling the man or his dog but okay. Not everyone likes having their photo taken or being watched, which kinda does make him sound like a creeper when he thinks about it like that. It’s a pity though and more than that it’s making him curious.

Despite Mr Adorable’s apparent lack of interest, Clint finds himself searching for him when he visits this particular park. In a city of five boroughs and 8.5m inhabitants, give or take, it's the only place he’s ever spotted the guy even fleetingly and he’s looked...frequently. It's almost becoming an obsession, much to his best friend’s annoyance. She's already told him if he throws himself on her couch again heaving yet another dramatic sigh, she will hurt him. But she ruffles his hair sympathetically and hands him a cookie anyway. Tasha's good like that. Still when he does it the next time he makes sure she's not chopping food or has anything in her hands that could be considered a weapon (and for Tasha that's a lot of things).

***

It's been so long since he’s seen Mr Adorbs that Clint’s practically given up. Of course that's when he feels a nudge a against the side of his leg. He looks down and sees a friendly pair of brown eyes gazing up at him. It’s the wirehaired pointing Griffon (yes, he looked her up). He smiles at her and puts his hand down for her to sniff. She does so and, apparently finding him agreeable, wags her tail allowing him to crouch down to scratch her under the chin. He looks up wondering where her owner is...not in a weird way, thank you...but she’s wearing her vest and it says US Army Rangers Vet. PTSD/EPILEPSY. She's on her own and he hopes the guy’s okay.

“Hey, beautiful. Where’s your pop, huh?”

“Here. She wanted to come say hi.” The voice is quiet with a slight huskiness which Clint's dick finds enchanting. The rest of him just about shits itself however as he didn't hear anyone approach. Heart racing he looks up into an incredible pair of intense blue eyes framed by black thick-framed glasses both of which his dick is also attracted to. He also notes a vicious scar above his right eyebrow; it’s kinda hot and strangely enough, his dick doesn’t object to it either. Figures.

He tries to think of something witty to say but apparently the blood that’s gone south to the aforementioned organ has removed all intelligent thought along with it. The best he can come up with is “Uhhhh...hi?” Mentally he punches himself in the face. Tasha will probably do it for real for him later and put him out of his misery.

Mr Adorbs gives him an amused look which, in turn, gives him tiny crinkles at the corner of his eyes. Well could the fucker get any sexier? Perhaps if he was naked, his dick answers not at all helpfully. Clint is now officially done with his nether regions trying to take control of the situation and he forces his brain to take over.

“So you decided I’m not some weird stalker then.” Oh fuck! Seriously? Where was Tasha when he needed her to kill him. Maybe he should let his dick do the talking.

Mr Adorbs smile falters for a second then deepens as do the crinkles. He tilts his head and he looks down at Clint. Adorable.

“I haven’t decided anything yet,” he says carefully then indicates to his dog. “It’s Agent who makes the snap decisions in our relationship.”

Ha ha touché, thinks Clint. He snorts out a laugh and rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. He gives the dog another scratch under her chin which sets her tail wagging again, not that it really stopped. Agent huh? The names people give their pets. He guesses there must be story behind that too. In fact, he bets himself Mr Adorbs is just full of them.

“Well thank you for your confidence, Agent.” He gives her a last ruffle under the chin and stands up. The dog immediately returns to her owner’s side and presses herself against his leg. He drops his hand to the back of her head gently rubbing it with the tips of his fingers. She nudges him and he uses his nails making her sigh with contentment. Clint watches kinda envious and almost misses what the guy says.

“She won't hear you. She's deaf.”

Clint frowns. That explains all the hand signals then. “Unusual for a service dog, isn't it?”

“Unheard of,” Mr Adorbs deadpans. Clint raises his eyebrow at the pun. Seriously?

“She and I will get on just fine then.” The photographer turns his head so that the guy can see his ear and nestled behind it, the hearing aid. He turns his head back and grins.

Mr Adorbs doesn't say anything; doesn’t say he’s sorry or ask what happened, just nods. Clint respects that.

“I’m Clint by the way.” He holds out his hand. The other man hesitates and the photographer could kick himself; PTSD, maybe he’s not a big fan of being touched. Just as Clint’s about to lower it, Phil takes his hand in a firm grip. It’s not particularly cold but he notices the other man’s wearing black leather gloves. Interesting...or kinky. Clint’s dick knows which one it prefers.

“Phil.” He does that head duck thing again but this time there’s a faint blush that spreads across his cheeks. He’s gone from adorable to totally fuckable. Before his nether regions try to take control again, Clint’s brain kicks in...sort of.

“Look, I really haven’t been stalking you. I run this blog…”

“Thedogblogger. I asked around,” Phil tells him with a shrug when Clint looks surprised.

“So you’ve been asking about me?” Aw, mouth, no!

“Just to find out what sort of weird stalker you are.” Again with the deadpan. The photographer’s pretty much half in love already.

“So…?”

Phil frowns and tilts his head to the side slightly with the unasked question. So what?

Clint sighs but plays along. “So what do you think?”

This time Phil raises his eyebrows and tips his head forward in an encouraging nod. So what do I think about what? There’s a half-smile playing on his lips - he’s taking the proverbial. Either the older man is used to asking questions with his facial expressions or Clint can read his shorthand after a few moments of meeting him. Either way it’s kind of unnerving.

“Ah c’mon. You looked at the site. What do you think and…” Clint goes quiet. Once again he touches his hand to the back of his neck. “And can I take Agent’s photo for the blog. She sounds like she has an interesting backstory.”

Phil suddenly looks uncertain. He drops his eyes to the dog who rolls her tongue out of her mouth and lazily wags her tail at him. He smiles softly at her gently touching his fingers to her head.

Clint hurries on not wanting him to say no which looks like what’s going to happen. “Think about it, okay? I’m usually here every few weeks unless I’m on assignment somewhere. Maybe the next time we see each other you can let me know. I’d really like to hear more about Agent...and you...maybe...if y’know.” Shut up mouth. Shut up right now.

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. I...I’m not someone people generally want to be around long enough to get to know.” There’s genuine regret in Phil’s tone as he speaks and a sadness in his eyes that tears at Clint’s heart. “Goodbye, Clint. Good luck with the blog. You really do a great job with it; it’s... Agent’s favourite."

He gives Clint a gentle smile before turning and limping away with the dog close by his side as always.

Clint’s stomach is in knots. He’s going to lose him. They’ve only just met and he’s going to lose him already. But he has no idea how to fix things, how to convince Phil to change his mind. Instead he watches them leave feeling absolutely gutted.

***

“Clint? I care for you very much but if you squeak that ball again…”

The implication is left hanging. Natasha is pretty much done with Clint’s shit for today. He’d ended up at her apartment after Phil walked away from him. After throwing himself on the couch, he started squeaking the ball he carries around when he takes photos for the blog. He’s been doing it almost non-stop and Tasha's last remaining nerve is beginning to fray; she swears she can hear the fibres twang as they snap one by one.

“It's a stress reliever. The sound makes me happy,” he pouts. He gives it another squeeze before it's removed from his hand and replaced with a freshly baked cookie. Tasha is the best friend ever but he feels it's his duty to protest.

“Aw, squeaky, no.”

“It is an irritation for everyone else, little bird. On this you must trust me. Tell me again.”

She lays a mug of coffee beside him on the table and slaps his foot for him to move. He sighs but lifts his feet and she gracefully she drops onto the couch. His feet are placed in her lap, carefully; he likes his own balls where they are thank you very much. She takes a sip of her drink and listens while repeats his idea.

“So I thought Sam could maybe take a look for Phil and...I dunno…maybe have a search through his records and...y’know…” Gloomily, he sighs. “It's a dumb idea, isn't it?”

Tasha agrees. “It's one of your dumbest. Why though? He's told you he's not interested. Why pursue him?”

“He told me he doesn't think it's a good idea,” Clint corrects her. “Totally different.”

“Semantics.”

Clint pouts. Again. It's really not a good look.

Tasha sighs dramatically, something she’s apparently picked up from Clint, and rolls her eyes in a way that's all her own. She picks up her phone and dials a number putting it on speaker. A few minutes later following the photographer’s request, a disembodied voice shouts, “You want me to what ?”

“Aww, Sam…”

Sam Wilson, their friend and a counsellor for the Department of Veteran Affairs, takes a few calming breaths. He really should be used to Clint’s half-arsed plans by now. “No really, Clint. Tell me again. Tell me why I should risk my job and pension with the DVA for you?”

“So...you...can...tracksomeonedownforme?” Clint buries his face in one of Tasha’s cushions. The owner of the cushion smirks behind her coffee mug taking a perverse pleasure in Clint’s discomfort.

“Oh! Right. Well that’s okay then. So long as they know it’s to further your love life, I’m sure they’ll be very understanding when I’m caught.”

Clint is quiet for a moment before responding in a dejected tone. “His eyes were so sad, Sam. He seems like a really nice guy and I don’t think he has anyone, except maybe his service dog. Her vest says he’s an ex-Army Ranger with PTSD and epilepsy. It’s a kinda tough break, y’know? I just thought...” He exhales a deep breath and lets the rest of the sentence trail off.

There’s silence on the other end of the phone followed by an exasperated sigh in return.  "Ahhh... shit! Clint, you know I can’t, right? All kidding aside, legally and ethically I can’t tell you anything about this guy. Certainly not without his permission and even then, I’m not sure how comfortable I’d be.”

When his friend puts it like that Clint realises he should probably have thought about it a little more. Nah - fuckit! A lot more. Him and his fucking impulsiveness. The last thing he wants to do is jeopardise Sam’s career…or his friendship.

“I...I guess didn’t think it though, huh? I’m sorry, man.”

“Nah, we’re cool.” Sam pauses for a moment as an idea comes to him. “Tell me one thing though. How serious about this are you?”

“Dude, I’m on the phone to you asking you to break the law and client confidentiality and fuck knows what else. How serious do you think I am?”

“Point. Okay...look. You mentioned his service dog’s vest says the guy has PTSD, yeah? How much do you know about it?”

Clint straightens up on the couch. When he was covering war zones, occasionally soldiers in the unit he was assigned to would talk about it. They’d tell stories about army buddies they knew who suffered from it and how it fucked up their friends’ lives sometimes but they never went into any great detail. He always got the impression it was a taboo subject, almost a jinx if it was spoken about too often.

“Some but not much. Just what I’ve been told about flashbacks and nightmares. Why?”

“Okay, that’s a start. Look, even if I knew who this guy was I wouldn’t be able to give you any information about him. I can’t even confirm if he’s one of ours but if you’re serious about this, about him, I can give you some pointers on PTSD. Some things you should know; things you should think about before you go any further. I’ve got one more scheduled appointment. Unless I get any walk-ins, I should be finished in an hour or so. How about I come round?”

Clint glances over at Natasha who nods. “Sure. We'll get takeout.”

“Hey Tasha, you been baking?”

“Clint's here,” she reminds him. Natasha always bakes when Clint’s stressed (and sometimes when he’s not). It helps him cope with his problems and it helps her cope with him. It’s a win, win.

He laughs. “Save some for me. Seeya later.”

***

With the smile sliding off his face, Sam hangs up the receiver and slumps back in his chair. Even if he had been willing to look the vet up in his database for Clint, he wouldn’t have needed to. He knows exactly who the man is. Phil Coulson.

“Sonofabitch !” he breathes, astounded. The former US Army Ranger is one of the hardest cases he’s had at the DVA. Hardest but also one of the most rewarding...

Phil had been attending Sam’s branch of the DVA since his release from hospital. For the first few months of rehab he rarely spoke. He attended his therapy sessions, physical and counselling. He did his rehab exercises and, physically, he made slow but steady progress. Mentally however he seemed to be trying very hard to keep things together. If he came to group sessions he listened, he watched, but he didn’t take part. Every visit he seemed to get more withdrawn. From what Sam had read in his file, this Phil Coulson was a very different man to Coulson, Phillip J - Platoon Sergeant in the US Army Rangers. It wasn’t unusual for a survivor of severe trauma but it was worrying. He would never give up on him but Sam just wasn’t sure how to help him.

Several weeks into Sam’s period of unease at Phil’s state of mind, a new guy began to attend when he moved to New York from Boston. He had a service dog and when he saw it, Phil seemed to relax and at the same time, come alive. His eyes brightened for the first time. He still didn’t join in and he didn’t make first contact with Trip or his dog, Commando but when the young man with the wide grin allowed his equally cheerful springer spaniel to approach, Phil smiled and made a gentle fuss. That night before he went home, Sam completed the forms recommending that Phil get his own service dog.

A few months later, following the completion of a shit load of paperwork, and with telephone and personal interviews behind him, Phil was accepted to enter the service dog programme and added to their waiting list. Within fourteen months he was invited to attend his three week team training class to be matched and trained with his service dog. It was a good thing as Sam knew Phil’s bad days were beginning to outnumber his good.

After one near disaster early on, Phil came on leaps and bounds when he was paired with Agent. In the beginning, he remained quiet but not subdued but soon he began conversations instead of merely responding to questions and finally he even started to join in with some groups sessions. Gradually, Agent seemed to be helping him regain some of his old confidence. He was certainly becoming more self-assured than when he first arrived at the DVA. He even started to help out with the more traumatised vets; his quiet competence having a calming influence on several of them. As far as Sam was concerned it been an amazing transformation.

Sam is well aware Phil still has setbacks and it can take him days to bring himself back again. But he also knows Phil gets there. He fights his PTSD with Agent at his side helping him through it. And now, finding out that he’s approached Clint, a stranger, to begin an actual conversation… well shit ! As far as Sam knows, he’s never done that before, not outside the DVA anyway, and he’s pretty sure that means something. He’s a good guy who deserves to be happy and fuck it, if he can do something about it - without breaching Phil’s trust - then hell yeah, he will.

And for all that Clint has a reputation for jumping into things without fully considering the consequences, he usually does it because he cares. If Sam can arm him with enough information about PTSD it might help him understand what he needs to be able to build a relationship with someone who suffers from it. God knows, Clint’s had a pretty shitty life in his early years; he deserves to be happy just as much as Phil does.

And with that thought, he’s pulled out of his reflective mood by a knock on the door; Sam’s last appointment for the day has arrived.

***

Although he’s trying not to let it show, Clint’s like a five year-old on Christmas Eve waiting for Sam to arrive. He’s driving Tasha to distraction, so much so she sends him out on three separate occasions - once for groceries, the second time for things she doesn’t actually need and finally for takeout. The takeout she admits could be a disaster as Clint’s given up all pretence of being cool and is bouncing with anticipation by this time - he could literally come back with anything. Fortunately, he’s not so far gone that self-preservation doesn’t kick in and he has everything Tasha’s asked for...more or less. Sam’s already there when he returns triumphant.

They get settled with their food and have five minutes or so of guzzling mouthfuls of Thai food before Sam finally starts the ball rolling. One last time he asks the photographer how serious he is about getting to know the guy he met in the park. If he gets the wrong answer all bets are off. He has his takeout, Tasha’s homemade cookies and goes home. His vets are his priority, no matter what. He’s not running a dating agency after all. Ha! No seriously...he’s not.

Clint stares at him for a moment. When he puts his plate down and leans forward looking the other man straight in the eye, Sam realises how damn serious about the whole thing he is.  Clint would usually talk with his mouth full and end up wearing half his meal.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot, Sam. Him, me, the situation. I’d like to try to get to know this guy. He...I...” He breaks off, suddenly self-conscious and his hand goes to the back of his neck.

His friend nods but his face remains serious. He doesn’t doubt Clint’s sincerity but in his experience a lot of people starting a relationship, or even in a relationship, think they can handle severe scars or burns or prostheses but in reality it’s just too much. Same goes for PTSD. Some partners can't come to terms with the vivid flashbacks, the nightmares, the changes in behaviour or character of someone they love. He doesn’t judge them, it must be hell for both, but again his first priority is his vets.

Eventually Sam exhales a sigh and puts his plate on the table in front of him to demonstrate his own sincerity. “Okay. Good.”

Clint lets go of a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. He’s relieved obviously but there’s something Sam’s holding back. “You say ‘good’ but what is it you’re not telling me?”

Sam takes a second to gather this thoughts and then begins to share his knowledge and experience working with vets who suffer from PTSD. As an ex-USAF Paratrooper and Pararescueman he’s seen plenty of trauma in his years of service and knows exactly how badly it can affect someone. He suffered his own loss, that of his friend and wingman, Riley when he was hit by an RPG during a routine PJ rescue op and there was nothing he could do; nothing but watch him die. It was that event that made him feel he could no longer continue to serve in the military and so he left, finding a new purpose by joining the DVA and helping those suffering from the disorder.

“PTSD is a bitch, Clint. A mean, nasty bitch of a thing that fights dirty, no holds barred. People feel grief-stricken, depressed, anxious, guilty and angry after a traumatic experience. And these are all understandable emotional reactions. Most people eventually come to terms with what happened to them and the symptoms disappear over time. But for some it’s like… it’s like the process has become stuck and they can’t get past it and that’s when PTSD becomes a problem.

Take flashbacks. You could be having the best conversation in the world with someone, everything’s good, everything’s cool and then bam! Flashback. Something triggers it, probably something ordinary and every day; a sound, a smell, a sight, a touch but the person that was hanging on your every word is gone. They’re right back re-living every moment, experiencing each feeling of pain and fear, screaming and fighting back as they go through it all again. And it can happen anywhere - in a busy restaurant, a crowded shopping mall, the park, a night out with friends, watching TV at home...wherever.”

Clint’s been pushing the remains of his food around his plate while he listens to Sam. Now he takes forkful of Cha-An, and chews it slowly, thinking over what he’s been told. He nods. He gets it. And it fucking sucks!

“Nightmares are similar but I don’t need to tell you that, huh?” Sam knows Clint has them sometimes thanks to his asshole of a father who was free and easy with his fists when Clint was a kid. The photographer gives him a weak smile. Yeah, he knows nightmares.

After taking a long pull of his beer, Sam talks about other symptoms of PTSD - avoidance and numbing which are pretty much as they sound. A sufferer will keep their mind busy with work or hobbies or whatever else helps them to avoid situations that may trigger an event. They’ll do anything to keep away from places and people that remind them of the trauma and they’ll try not to talk about it. They could also become emotionally numb, communicating less with family and friends or colleagues or anyone at all, shutting themselves off from contact with others making them difficult to live with or work with or interact with at all. It’s tough and Sam has seen it tear couples and families apart on many occasions.

Another indicator of the disorder is hypervigilance; they suffer from periods of extreme alertness, constantly looking for danger. The person can’t switch off or relax making it difficult for them to sleep. People round about them will see that they’re anxious and maybe jumpy or irritable. Again it makes it hard to communicate or be in contact with people.

Although they’re less frequent, Sam knows from experience Phil still suffers from some of the symptoms he’s described to Clint and Natasha. He also knows with counselling, therapy and meds the ex-Army Ranger’s condition has improved a lot - to the point of approaching a stranger in the park to start a conversation apparently, which still amazes the hell out of Sam.

He’s had some success with recommending EMDR and CBT therapy for flashbacks and nightmares for his vets. But for Phil, his service dog, Agent has shown herself to be his best source of support; not for preventing them perhaps - EMDR has proved useful for that - but controlling them certainly.

Sam notices Clint’s poised as though ready to ask something but he’s not quite sure how to. Sam holds back, and instead, makes a big deal of taking a break to eat the last of his food so that his friend pull his thoughts together. Natasha notices what he’s doing and she’s grateful for his perception and kindness.

Chasing a piece of chicken round his plate with a fork, Clint casually asks, “So...is there anything that can help? Anything maybe, y’know, if I was to get to know him...I could do? Or maybe not do?”

Not do. That’s a great point and it’s not something people always think about. Sam takes another sip of his beer. “Sure...plenty if you’re willing.”

Clint looks up and nods with a shy smile. Sam grins at him and gives him a list of dos and don’ts. He tries to be general, being careful not to let anything slip that he knows who Clint’s talking about.

“Don’t push him; if he’s not willing to talk, if he doesn’t want to be touched leave him until he’s ready. Don’t interrupt him if he starts to tell you about what happened and for fuck sake, don’t tell him you know how he feels or he’s lucky to be alive. Trust me, you don’t and it won’t feel like it to him. Be supportive; there’re gonna be days when he’s going through a bad patch and things turn to shit. When you get to know him, watch out for changes in his behaviour; anger, irritability, depression, lack of interest or concentration - anything like that. It’ll mean something’s going on with him and he might need help. Oh and try not to take any shit he gives you personally; the likelihood is he’s frustrated or angry with himself or he’s bottling something up and it’s beginning to leak out but don’t ignore it either or avoid him.

“Look, there’s a lot of this you’re going to have to figure out as you go along, that’s if you decide to do something about this guy. A lot of it’s going to depend where he is with PTSD although it sounds like he’s maybe had it for a while. A lot of it’s going to depend on you too.”

Clint goes quiet again so Sam takes the opportunity to ask something that’s been eating at him, “So this guy approached you in the park, huh?”

Clint at least had the decency to blush. Once again his hand strays to the back of his neck, a sure sign he was nervous about something.

“He did, didn't he?” asked Sam warily. It was the main reason he came tonight figuring it was a major breakthrough for Phil.

“He did. I swear he did, Sam.” Clint paused realising how the next part was probably going to sound. “But I guess I’d kinda been watching him. The first coupla times he high tailed it outta the park. It was the third time he spoke to me.”

“Oh shit, man! You were stalking him?”

“No. Well...not deliberately.” He glances over at Tasha for some support but suddenly she seems to be having too much fun at her friend’s expense and refuses to collaborate his story. Damn the squeaky ball incident from earlier! Clint carries on quickly before Sam can get the wrong idea or the right idea but the wrong way.

“First time I saw him I thought he looked...kinda nice. And Agent would have been perfect for thedogblogger . It was all innocent, I swear. The second time, okay I admit, I was watching for him. For them. And for a few weeks when I went to the park I did keep a lookout but I didn’t see them again. By the third time, Sam, I’d really kinda given up so it was as much as surprise to me when he came over and said hi. But when he did, we talked about Agent and the blog, and I asked him if I could take her photo ‘cause she sounded interesting and so did he and that's when he thought it wasn't a good idea. He said people generally didn't stick around long enough to get to know him. And then he left. Up ‘til then things had been going fine. He was really funny; well kinda dry humour but… Ah, I fucked up, Sam. Maybe if I'd just let him talk. Maybe if I hadn’t pushed.”

Clint flushes bright red although he’s not entirely sure why. “So...what now?”

“I suppose that’s up to you...and the guy. He’s warned you that he doesn’t think it would be a good idea to get to know him, so I guess...bear that in mind. It sounds like he’s kinda private so be careful with him. Aside from being left with PTSD and epilepsy, did you see if he has any physical injuries?”

Clint frowns as he recalls their meeting. “He has a limp and a scar over his right eyebrow. The other thing I noticed, he wears gloves. Do you think that might be to cover an artificial hand or something?”

“You think maybe he wears a prosthetic?” Sam narrows his eyes. “Would that matter?”

Clint snorts. “Not to me.”

Sam nods, happy with his response. “Well, like I said before, some things for you to think about.”

Clint has gone quiet again, picking at the food left on this plate as he mulls things over. Time to change the pace for a while. “So, Tasha…” Sam grins, “...you mentioned something about baking? I don't suppose...?”

***

After matching Clint cookie for cookie (no mean feat, Clint’s a pig when it comes to his friend’s baking) and pretty much cleaning Natasha out of her supply, Sam tells them he has an early appointment the next morning so he’d better be off. He gives Natasha a peck on the cheek and thanks her for the food, especially the cookies. She rolls her eyes promising to make a batch for especially for him next time which makes him grin that much harder.

Clint also announces his intention to leave. Tasha gives him a hug. “You sure you don’t want to stay?”

“Nah. I got some stuff I need to do.”

By that she understands Clint will probably be on the internet all night researching service dogs, PTSD, loss of limbs...anything that would help him understand a little more about Phil. She did the same thing when Clint became partially deaf a few years back and she wanted to learn how the loss of hearing in one ear was likely to affect him. She is his friend and a friend should know these things.

She nods and kisses his forehead. “Remember to sleep,” she tells him as a parting shot. He smiles aware that she knows how the rest of his night will go. It’s not until he’s walking down the street with Sam that he realises she’s slipped the squeaky ball and the rest of the cookies into the pocket of his jacket. Sneaky scarlet-haired Ninja!

***

It’s another month before Clint makes it back to the park. He takes two new assignments; one in California - some spy / superhero show where the lead looks a lot like Phil by awesome coincidence. He has trouble concentrating when he has to do the guy’s personal shots but it works out fine and he doesn’t make too much of a dick of himself. The guy’s enthusiastic and seems genuinely interested in Clint’s work especially when he hears about thedogblogger. Apparently, he has two of his own and mentions that pretty much the whole cast and loads of the crew have dogs; he should stop by afterwards and meet some of them. He seems like a really nice guy and Clint warms to him and the rest of the cast. Before he leaves, he’s dragged over to meet the dogs that are on set by one of the female members of the cast. She gushes over her own, a cute little mop of a thing and chats away to him as he takes photos for the blog. He does his best not show his disappointment it’s not the Phil lookalike who's brought him here which isn’t too hard as the kid and her dog are really sweet. He hopes the show’s a success and figures he’ll give it a try when it airs in a few months.

The other assignment is a few days in Flatrock, Michigan doing a shoot for the launch of a new muscle car which is pretty fucking amazing thank you! Like the T.V. studio, the car manufacturer makes him welcome taking him round the race track and surprisingly, for such an enormous company, bends over backwards for him giving has much access to the car and the factory as he requests. In the end they’re pretty damned pleased with the results. It’s been a pretty good month and the wolves are kept from the doors again leaving him time to spend on the blog.

He gets to the park at 7am when there are plenty of people taking advantage of the off-leash times playing fetch and chase with their pets. A few of the dogs race up to him, tails wagging and then tear off again in search of new adventures and playmates. Some of the owners know him from previous visits and ask him how the blog’s doing and when the new book’s coming out. He chats to them in between taking photos. But there’s no Phil.

At ten he decides to call it a day and takes a stroll over to one of his favourite places, Lullwater Bridge. He loves the stillness there and at this time of the morning on a weekday there’s not so many people around. He’s been there for maybe ten / fifteen minutes enjoying the tranquillity of the lake, enjoying the view and watching dragonflies dart in all directions while he thinks, when he smells the unmistakable scent of brewed coffee and realises someone’s standing beside him.

“I didn’t know what you take but I guessed you're a coffee guy.”

It’s that same warm husky voice that sends shivers down Clint’s spine. He turns to face the owner who’s doing that cute head-duck thing with a small smile playing across his lips. Fuck he’s still adorable! Beside him, as always, is the wire-haired pointing Griffon gazing at him with her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. Phil’s holding a coffee carrier with two takeaway cups and offers it to Clint.

Heart thumping in his chest, Clint carefully takes one and snaps off the lid to take a sip...black and strong. Perfect! He leans his hip against the cast iron rail of the bridge and does a head duck of his own trying not to let the grin split his face in two.

“So you decided I’m not some weird stalker then?”

“I haven’t decided anything yet...but I’d...like the chance to try.”

Clint holds out his free hand, "Hi. I'm Clint, thedogblogger."

Phil puts the tray down and takes Clint's hand in his own. "Phil, and I guess I'm The Dog Soldier."