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Phil gasps his way out of a nightmare and clutches the sheets so hard his fingers hurt as he tries to will his racing heart to slow down. He stares at the dark ceiling, each in- and exhale shaky as his breath comes and goes in bursts and stutter-stops. He's twelve years old. This shouldn't be a problem anymore.
But twelve years old or not, the nightmare is still as familiar as the shadow of the tree outside his window. He's Captain America, trying to save the world from Nazis. He and his friend Bucky are on a train. Things go wrong, and Bucky falls, and dies. Phil can't save him.
Only, this time it wasn't Bucky – or Phil's nebulous idea of him – who fell.
It was Clint.
Phil swallows hard. Clint is ten and has been with them for three months now, angry and stubborn and so scarily quiet sometimes Phil doesn't know if he wants to kick Clint so he'll make a noise or try to learn that sort of stillness himself. Clint's brother is in jail, so Phil's parents decided to take him in. Or rather, they'd decided to take someone in. That Clint ended up being that someone was just coincidence.
Phil hadn't expected to like him as much as he does. Clint is angry, yes; at his parents for dying, his brother for leaving him behind, Phil's parents for not being Clint's, Phil for... well, for existing, probably. But he's also... when Phil brought home a Hawkeye comic, because Clint likes archery and Phil had some money left over and basically just because he could, Clint had stared at him like Phil really was Captain America. And when Phil had bet his friends two packets of chocolate cigarettes that Clint could make it up that tree on the playground in under a minute, he was just that good at climbing, Clint's tiny smile had been so sweet Phil's heart had done some really weird stuttering thing in his chest. Clint is pretty okay when he's not sulking.
And now Clint's fallen off the train.
It's stupid. Phil knows Clint isn't... that he didn't fall. Clint is on the other side of the room, sleeping in the bed Phil's parents bought for him. It still smells new. If Phil listens very carefully, he can hear Clint's soft breathing. Clint is fine. Phil doesn't need to check. He knows it. Clint is fine.
He's fine.
Phil's breath hitches, and he clenches his fists a little harder into the sheets. Stupid. It was just a dream.
Above him, the ceiling blurs.
"Phil?" The voice is quiet, hesitant, and Phil has to close his eyes and swallow again because if he doesn't, he'll get out of bed and into Clint's, and he has no idea how to explain that without sounding like a complete idiot.
"I'm fine," he manages. It comes out harsh and mangled, barely sounding like himself. His breath hitches again.
There's silence from the other side of the room, so long that Phil thinks Clint has fallen back asleep. His eyes fly open as his mattress dips and the sheets are tugged out of his grip so Clint can wiggle underneath them. Clint twists and mutters and flops around until they're both cocooned like strange caterpillars, with Clint's head on Phil's shoulder and Clint's arm around Phil's middle. Clint's breath puffs against the side of Phil's neck. He's very... Clint's very warm.
"What are you doing?" Phil croaks. His heart, which had begun to slow down, has picked up speed again. He coughs, trying to let out the pressure that's building up in his chest.
"Nightmares suck," Clint mumbles, and presses his nose against Phil's neck. "It's better when someone's there."
Slowly, not quite sure what he's doing, Phil slides his free arm around Clint so his hand is resting between Clint's shoulder blades. Clint doesn't object, so Phil very carefully moves his leg so it rests on top of Clint's. Clint sighs. The warm gust of his breath makes Phil shiver.
"I dreamed you'd fallen off a train," he confesses in a rush, and then he bites his lip because that's still a stupid thing to be upset about. Now Clint will think he's weird.
Clint, though, just rubs his nose over Phil's neck like he's a cat or something. "Didn't I roll when I landed?"
Phil shakes his head, just a little, so Clint won't have to move away. "It was a really long way down."
Clint hums and seems to think about that.
"Next time," he says eventually, his voice soft and sleep-rough, "dream me a bow and an arrow with a grappling hook. I'll be fine."
And that's not how it works. Nightmares are bad dreams because you can't change anything. Phil could no more dream Clint a bow than he could dream himself a pair of wings so he could catch Clint and fly them both to safety. But Clint's right there next to him, boneless warmth along Phil's side, and he was right. It's better when someone's there.
Phil closes his eyes, lets himself relax into Clint's presence.
"I'm glad you're here," he whispers into the dark. "I'm glad they picked you."
Clint's lips brush against his skin as they smile.
"Me too."