#bartonstrickarrows

He was still heaving - something between panting and just shy of hyperventilating - as Clint knelt next to him in the fading remains of the mandala Wong had summoned. A magical virus had been playing hell with his blood for the past week, which had led to some swooning spells that nearly cost him his head until they figured out what was causing the precipitous - and malicious - drops in his blood pressure during important spellcasting. Getting said virus out of him had been an ever-increasing challenge given its concerted efforts to get in the way of the portions requiring his participation, but through patience and taking the magic in turns they’d finally gotten the sigil activated.

@bartonstrickarrows

It’s been a few weeks now, since they were married against their will. Balthazar has almost curbed the urge to walk on eggshells around his husband and every animal in his small menagerie has accepted Clint as their new dad. The chickens rush over to say hello every time the witch comes home from work at his tea shop and Galleytrot is forever sleeping across his feet.

It’s just Balthazar that isn’t granted the same liberties.

The angel tries telling himself it’s not his fault, that Clint is upset about the situation rather than the angel himself. It’s not working particularly well and he winds up hiding behind the cottage and texting Crowley. The demon is at first stunned, then amused, then upset for both the angel and the witch. For whatever reason, the demon seems most upset that they’ll be forced to bond. Balthazar doesn’t pry, just accepts the reassurances of the gruff demon and gets back to work in the garden, pulling weeds and gently encouraging the herbs and flowers.

Phil tries not to think about the time that’s stretched, and how out of control everything had gotten. And the inexplicable urge to go back and help. He can feel the universe schism like mirror shards, the juxtaposition of what might have been two lives. At least two deaths.

He’d woke up on a beach alone.

What else is there to say to that, laying there breathing and hating, hating, the sound of the fucking ocean.

But he’s free. So he abandoned his entire identity and walked away from it, minted himself new IDs and connected to his offshore accounts, and walked onto a SHIELD base and stole a fucking SUV. He knows how to break them, thank you very much, they don’t have time to figure out what happened to it before every single tracking device is removed and crushed, and the computer system is nicely, neatly, oh so sweetly hijacked. A few thousand dollars cash later and the SHIELD paintjob disappears under factory Honda blue. A partial offroad package and a dashboard makeover hides most of the rest of it, along with some interior reworking. Most of the weapons are removed and a neat little energy shield installed.

He calls in a lot of favors but he’s on the road and there’s no debts owed, no strings attached to him. Except, arguably, one.

North he goes, over the course of several days as he drives a meandering path to throw off anyone following him (there isn’t anyone). Eventually, he pulled up to the cabin, bearded and casually dressed and tired.

Maybe he’s here to die again. To offer the keys and a few sad last words as he does with an arrow through his chest.