He blinked, stunned at the sheer, fucking balls, as the kid snatched the small cup of cheap, black coffee from his grasp, downing a hasty gulp before shoving it back with a grimace.

"Tastes like shit."

Clint snorted. He should have suspected the kid would be mouthy. Mouthy wasn't something he was called in for; mouthy, Coulson could deal with on his own. Even so, mouthy or not, there had to be SOMETHING to this Shadowing gig; Fury wouldn't have asked him to tail his Handler, otherwise. Not on something as routine as this.

The boy gave a sigh and leaned back in his chair, looking for all the world as if he wasn't uncomfortable as hell slouching in the rigid, ironwork frame. A flicker of flame and the crackle of paper as he lit another cigarette...his third or forth, since the meeting began. It was kind of pitiful how this made the kid look so much younger than he was, his cigarette perching between two slender fingers of his thin hands.

FUCK, but he felt old. This guy was practically in diapers compared to him.

"So, Mr...?"

A flicker in his unnerving green eyes and a twitch of his pouted lips told Clint that this kid was a liar before his tongue could form the lie. "Lilison. Evan Lilison."

"So, Mr...Lilison, was it? Hm. You said you had information for us about the-" Clint drowned out Coulson's unfailingly pleasant tone. He knew the that seasoned Handler could, well, handle this guy. Fuck, after the shit he and 'Tash pulled, ole Phil was practically a Blood-hound for bull-shit. Besides, that wasn't why Fury had asked him to come. There was something else. There fucking had to be...better be...if he was giving up his weekend to this routine questioning bull-shit.

When the Big Boss had pulled him into his office and given him the details for this job, he'd given him that FUCKING annoying Look. It wasn't the first time that Fury had given him That Look, as if he knew something that Clint didn't. Hell, aside from his 'Don't Fuck With Me' default expression, Fury only had that other 'I Know Shit You Don't' look. It was rarely, if ever, used on his Agents, though. Most of S.H.I.E.L.D. knew that Fury knew shit he wasn't saying, so if he bothered to give you a Look that broadcast the fact, some weird (well, weirder than normal) shit was going down.

Clint scowled into his paper coffee cup, staring blankly as the luke-warm liquid stained the waxed paper, before knocking back a gulp of the bitter coffee with a grimace. Fuck, that shit was nasty. At least the kid wasn't lying about that...

He felt so fucking distracted, which was not cool for a man of his position. Distraction meant death in the field, but there was just something...

...there was something about this kid who was, what, all of fifteen...sixteen...years old that was practically beating itself against Clint's brain, shouting 'You know me!'

He knocked back the rest of his bitter coffee with a scowl. Fuck if he knew.

...and then he saw it, that wry, secretive little smirk that lit up the kid's face and made those familiar green eyes gleam. In that second, that face was so familiar it was eerie.

"Natasha...you're Natasha's kid."

Coulson's mouth snapped shut and he turned to give his Agent one of his blank, pleasant looks, one of those blank looks that usually meant Clint was about to be really fucking upset, and the boy...the boy just stared and took another drag of his cigarette.

[End Prologue]

Chapter One: A Spider, a Hawk, and their Mutant-Hybrid Hatchling

Harry, or Evan, as he'd been calling himself since going "underground" in the muggle world, could only stare as the one that Clint called "that fuckin' Stark" laughed. He had no idea what could be so funny about this total cluster-fuck, but then...he didn't understand a lot of people, especially rich geniuses with egos to put the Malfoy family to shame.

It was supposed to have been a quick meeting with a contact about the "Voldemort Situation," all nicely covered up with secret phrases and bull-shit. Supposed to have been, being the key phrase. Well, whoever this Hawk-eye bastard was, he'd screwed Harry over royally. One mention of Natasha, though Harry didn't know her either, and Coulson had dragged his skinny arse back to his fancy jet. The situation sucked, but at least the transport was much nicer than the giant sardine cans most civvies were shoved into for International travel.

He'd tried not to seem too over-whelmed by the rushed flight to New York, or his being secreted from their landing site to an obnoxiously big and obvious-as-fuck-all tower in the middle of Manhattan, but he knew that he had probably failed. All this led to now, him sitting, slumped, on an uncomfortable stool in the middle of a giant lab, while "fuckin' Stark" laughed at whatever the hell he was reading on his high-tech thing-a-mabobs.

Obviously, Stark was immune to scowls and sneers pointed in his general direction, as he seemed perfectly content to flit about the place like a hummingbird, laughing at something only he knew about. The other person in the lab, a slightly taller, stockier man with graying hair called Dr. Banner ("just call me Bruce, Mr. Lilison"), had the decency to look a bit apologetic about his lab partner. On Stark's third lap around the admittedly enormous lab, Harry snagged the sleeve of the man's worn cotton tee.

"Seriously, Mr. Stark. I'd like to go home in the next year, so could you please tell me what's going on or at LEAST stop laughing at me?"

Stark's gaze was frightening in how it went from mocking to intense with no warning. "I'm not mocking you, kid. I'm mocking Clint...and Tash, though mostly Clint, because Tash could kick my ass."


Bruce seemed to deflate with the size of his sigh. "We're just trying to figure out how you ended up in England, considering..."

"Considering, what exactly?"

Stark and Bruce's quick exchange of glances was almost too brief for Harry to catch...almost. Strangely, Stark moved to the other end of the lab and pretended to look busy as Bruce awkwardly shifted and gave him a rather worrying look. "Well, considering...considering that our tests show that you're the biological son of Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff."

Harry blinked, once...twice. He wasn't sure what to say. He was angry, no...furious that these people were suggesting that he wasn't his parents' child, but he did not know them well enough to judge how they'd react to his explosion of temper. Just...just keep calm until you can contact Hermione or Sirius and we can figure this out, figure out what the hell is going on...


I hate to fall into the cliche, but I just wanted to post this teaser of the prologue and part of chapter one to see if there is interest. I am going to school and working, so I would be posting in my limited free time. I would be happy to share this story as it develops, but if not I am just as happy to keep it to myself on my laptop for a bit of fun. As Favorites do not tend to show up in my email (I don't know why), I would need an actual response (PM or Review) from you if you'd like to see more of this.

...and yes, the title did come from that bit of dialogue between Natasha and Clint during the Chitauri battle in "The Avengers."