Birds of a Feather

Clint Barton has always known he's not worth the air he breathes, the space he takes up. But somehow, he still manages to fnd himself on a team of superheroes and in a very stable relationship with Phil freakin' Coulson. Which... It's great. Really great. Seriously, he couldn't be happier. Except then the universe (or, really, a jilted demigod) has to screw them all over. Clint thought he was ready - he's seen so many teammates die in the line of duty - but nothing could ever have prepared him for all of this.



It’s no surprise, really, when Clint opens the door to see a smartly-dressed Coulson on the other side, bland smile and neutral expression in place. Clint doesn’t really need to bother asking what brings his supervisor around his part of SHIELD’s living quarters – he’s well aware that he managed to escape the debrief without filling out his post-op report; it’s a talent of his, one that neither Coulson nor Fury seem to appreciate. So with a wide, careless grin, Clint steps away from the door and goes back to attaching fletchings to arrow shafts on his bed.

“Nice to see you, sir.” He glances up through his lashes as Coulson closes the door behind him. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

When Coulson doesn’t respond immediately, Clint takes a sharper look. There’s no amusement on Coulson’s face, no visible reaction to Clint’s words. Clint sets the arrow on the mattress and examines Coulson closely. That’s when he notices that, unlike every other time that Coulson has tracked Clint down for missing paperwork, Coulson’s hands are empty of files and clenched in loose fists at his sides.

“You okay?” Clint asks quietly, not joking around any more.

“What the hell was that?” Coulson bites out. “Explain to me, Barton, exactly what was going through your mind on that op, when you decided free-falling from a twenty-story building was your best choice, especially when you didn’t have a clear shot.”

“I did have a clear shot—”

“Only after you jumped! You risked your life for a shot you weren’t even sure you could make. It was dangerous and unnecessary and reckless.”

“Sir, I’m fine. It was the right call. I calculated the risks and acted accordingly.”

Clint flinches when Coulson’s reply comes on a near shout, much less composed than usual.

“That’s the problem! Barton, you think doing insane things, things that will someday get you killed, is acceptable because you’ve calculated that your death is a foregone conclusion and necessary to the win.”

“Whoa, where is this coming from?” Clint rises to his feet, perplexed and starting to get angry at the unexpected argument; Coulson never participates in arguments, let alone starts one, but Clint can’t back down now that his judgment is being questioned. “You’ve never had a problem with my methods before, sir. You’re never really happy with them, sure, but you’ve never made a big deal about questioning them. You’ve never taken an issue with them since I’ve always gotten the job done. So why now?”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

And that… That doesn’t sound like Coulson. The words themselves do—there have been many times Coulson has said that exact same phrase—but the tone is unfamiliar, completely unlike the senior agent. Soft, pleading. Clint’s anger fades; he slumps slightly but doesn’t take his eyes off Coulson.

“Sir?”

“I must be an idiot,” Coulson mutters before taking a deep breath.

Between one blink and the next, Coulson is there, crowding Clint against the wall, his mouth sealed firmly over Clint’s. Clint gasps quietly, his hands rise only to settle on Coulson’s waist, and he kisses back enthusiastically. He’s a little confused, to be honest—this isn’t typical handler-asset behavior—but damn it, he is not going to question this. This is the closest he’s ever come to having his wildest, wettest dreams come true, and if Coulson keeps kissing him like this, hard and desperately and tasting of coffee, Clint won’t be able to be held liable for his reactions, mainly because his hands are burning to shove themselves up Coulson’s shirt and his stomach is tight with anticipation. He whines when Coulson pulls back just a bit, just far enough that his breath ghosts over Clint’s lips.

“I don’t give a damn about the win if you don’t come home. The win means nothing, nothing, if it means losing you.”

Clint swallows past the sudden lump in his throat at the unrestrained emotion in Coulson’s voice. Clint knows that, contrary to the rumors floating around SHIELD, Coulson isn’t an android or Life Model Decoy (though this encounter is slightly, slightly, making Clint doubt that last one), that Coulson has feelings just like every other human, but hearing that voice thick with those emotions, witnessing the way the other man isn’t holding himself back, seeing the cracks in the composed facade… That’s unusual. Unheard of. Coulson has always been stoic and solid. Never once, in ten years, has Clint experienced anything other than Coulson’s unflappable demeanor. He kinda really likes that he’s the reason.

Before he can say anything stupid to ruin this—whatever ‘this’ even is, he closes the distance between their lips, hoping this kiss can help Coulson make sense of the feelings that are swirling through Clint. A small part of his brain prays that this isn’t just a particularly realistic dream; he tells it to shut up and gives in to the urge to feel Coulson’s skin. He groans as his fingers brush along thick curls. Clint’s always known that Coulson doesn’t have a smooth, hairless chest, this knowledge courtesy of the many decontamination showers taken in side-by-side stalls, but no amount of seeing could ever compare to actually feeling it beneath his palms.

Coulson, the utter bastard, yanks away with visible effort. He’s breathing heavily, Clint is pleased to see; he reaches out and brushes his thumb against Coulson’s lower lip, relishing the way Coulson’s lashes flutter at the contact. But then Coulson is stepping out of reach, sighing, turning away, and something in Clint’s chest is twisting, sharp and hot and ugly.

“C-Coulson?”

“That...wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Oh god, he regrets it, of course, he does, what do I do now?

Coulson sighs, peering at Clint like he’s reading Clint’s mind—and maybe he is. He’s always had the ability to know what Clint is thinking or feeling, often before Clint himself knows. Exhaling heavily, Coulson scrubs a hand over his face. “I had this whole speech planned about the reckless risks you take and how you need to stop being so careless with your life.”

“I think you made that clear, sir.”

“And how much it drives me crazy for you to have such blatant disregard for whether you live or die, when it… it would kill me if something happened to you. And you don't even care.”

“I…”

Clint doesn't know what to say. He stands there, leaning against the wall, his mouth opening and closing, but no words come to him. He wants to reassure Coulson that it won't happen again, that Clint does care whether he survives the stunts he pulls on ops, but he can't. Because Coulson is right. Clint hasn't ever really given it a second thought when he makes those decisions—he just does what he thinks is right for the mission – but if he walks away, he walks away, and if he doesn't... Well, he's always known that he's expendable, to SHIELD and everyone else. It's been that way his entire life, and he doubts it'll ever change.

Except here’s Coulson, telling him he’s not expendable, that he’ll be mourned and missed, and Clint really isn’t sure what to do with that knowledge. So he does the only thing he can do—he steps into Coulson’s personal space, hands coming up to cradle Coulson’s jaw, and kisses him. He takes his time, memorizes the taste and feel of Coulson’s lips parting and tongue entangling with his own. It’s not as rushed as the last one, but it still sends Clint’s head spinning. The world feels right like this, he feels like he’s coming home.

Of course, the world’s a giant dick, because as soon as Clint’s fingers have found the buttons on Coulson’s jacket and undone the bottom one, a phone beeps loudly, cutting through the haze of arousal that’s taken over Clint’s brain. Clint jerks his head back with a loud curse, and Coulson is no better. The string of expletives that fall from his lips is truly impressive; Clint would grin with pride if he wasn't so damn frustrated. He’s even less enthused when Coulson reads the message and grimaces.

“Gotta go?” he asks on a quiet murmur, and whoa, is that his voice?

Coulson pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes, unfortunately. Do I have to?”

And Clint’s laughing at the uncharacteristic whiny in his superior’s voice. Tonight is just full of surprises. Still chuckling, he darts forward and presses his lips to the corner of Coulson's mouth.

“Go, before Fury decides to destroy the world because the only sane person in SHIELD isn’t there to stop him.”

“We still need to talk.”

“I know, sir. I’ll be here.”

Coulson exits the room as quickly as he entered; Clint is completely unashamed as he stands in the doorway and watches Coulson walk away. Once Coulson rounds the corner and is out of sight, Clint closes the door and buries his face in his hands, laughing at the absurdity of the situation. He never actually gave thought to what the hell he would do if this ever happened—mostly because he never thought this would happen. Coulson was never, ever supposed to—to want to kiss Clint; he was only ever supposed to ride Clint’s ass about not filling in the proper paperwork, for being an idiot while on ops (even though the job always gets done, no matter what), about making himself a nuisance when Natasha is around (“She’s going to stab you one of these days, Barton, and I won’t be able to muster up a level of sympathy that you would appreciate”). But he was just here, kissing Clint like their lives depended on it, and he’d enjoyed it. Clint knows Coulson did.

Letting out another bark of slightly-hysterical laughter, Clint decides he can’t sit still, he has to move, so he grabs the completed arrows off his mattress, gingerly places them in the quiver, and scoops up the strap and his bow. His door locks automatically after he steps out into the corridor, and he turns his feet in the direction of the elevator that will take him to the range.

There is no sound to betray her appearance, just the subtle shift of the air as Natasha ambles up to Clint’s side. She doesn’t speak, and he continues to let loose arrow after arrow until all of the targets have been pierced. When he’s shot at the last one, she follows him closely as he steps forward to yank the arrows out of the center of the rings. Of course, she doesn’t help him retrieve the arrows, that’s not her style, but she’s a friendly presence, so he accepts it.

“You seen Coulson?”

He glances at her over her shoulder; the question is unexpected and easily answered if she just thinks. “Uh, no?”

A minuscule nod is her reply, and he relaxes slightly. “I’m shocked. He’s usually chasing you down to get your after-op reports.”

“Yeah, well, maybe he gave up on me this time.” He shrugs. “It’s not the first time I’ve, ya know, ignored responsibilities.”

“Okay. Well, I’d heard he had come to you, but maybe Fury’s got him in a meeting instead.”

“Possibly.”

“If that’s true, then he’ll be there for a while. Damn,” she sighs.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. Give me that,” she snaps, taking the arrow from his hand and examining it. “You idiot, it's bent.”

“Easily fixed. Nat, what's going on?”

“Nothing. Guess what I heard.”

Jesus, whiplash much? he thinks but doesn't say; contrary to what people think, he actually does value his life. A little. Enough to not want to die at the hands of his best friend. He settles on shrugging as he heads back to the line. She follows closely behind; he stumbles a bit when her hand darts out and shoves at him.

“What the fuck?”

“I said guess what I heard.”

“I don't know, that Coulson's an alien life form who's studying Fury so that his race can come to Earth and take over the planet and no one being any wiser?”

“No, that was months ago. No. I heard that someone ate the last of the peach yogurt in the cafeteria, which is shocking considering that someone knows the peach yogurt is the only thing I actually like eating.”

“It was delicious?”

Natasha's eyes spark in the way that only he knows means she's amused and glad that he's going along with the ploy. He's also aware that she really hates the peach yogurt, but she loves having people afraid of her—she says they're less likely to treat her like a fragile woman if they're terrified that she'll feed them their balls for looking at her wrong. But what he doesn't expect, even though he really should, is her suddenly launching herself at him, her body slamming into his solidly and knocking him off his feet.

He scrambles to get out from under her before she can pin him, but it does no good; Nat straddles his thighs, pushes her body against his so he can't get leverage, and slams his wrists to the floor. He notices, though, that there's something new in his pocket. Thankfully, being partnered with her for so long means they can have conversations without speaking, and he stares up at her, knowing she'll understand what he's not asking.

“Stay out of my peach yogurt, because Coulson won't be back in time to save you if you touch it again.”

She squeezes his wrists meaningfully, and it clicks in his brain. He nods, swallows hard, and she rises fluidly to her feet. She's just reached the door when she slows to a stop.

“And fix that damn arrow, Barton, before I take away them away.”

“You're not my mom!” he calls back, and her laughter echoes in the room even after she's gone.

He stays there for another half-hour, shooting at the targets though his mind isn't on the task. It's almost too simple, really; he wishes there was an obstacle course with targets of various sizes that didn't move in a predictable pattern. Finally, when enough time has gone by, he gathers up his arrows, puts them away, and heads for the door.

Agent Hallen passes over the clipboard with a bored expression. Neither of them makes small talk as Clint jots down the time, the reason for his sign-out (Agent Romanov is threatening me AGAIN, which will help secure Natasha's reputation as a frightening man-eater while also making Fury laugh, just a little), then signs his name with a flourish. Clint gives Hallen a lazy salute before turning about-face and ambling out the front door of the building.

The city outside is alive. Not like New York where no one ever sleeps, but still, there's a decent bustle of crowds as he weaves his way through the streets. His walk is lazy, ostensibly aimless wandering, but Clint's on high alert. He doesn't actually look over his shoulder—he's too well-trained for that—but he doesn't relax until he's down at the far end of an alley that he knows isn't under surveillance. He continues through alley after alley, paths behind buildings, and finally comes to a halt out back of a five-story apartment block. He stares up at a dark window on the third floor, grimacing before getting to work. He keeps his body pulled flush against the brick as he tugs down the fire escape. The ladder squeals under his weight, but it holds, shaky though it may be, long enough for him to climb up.

People really need better security, he thinks while he pries open an unlocked window; the flat just beyond the glass is dark, unfurnished, and empty when he steps through. He's careful to keep his footsteps light on the hardwood floors, and the door shuts with a quiet snick behind him. The security camera swivels on its joint the opposite way, so he takes the opportunity to dart across the hall and pull the key Nat had given him out of his pocket. He pushes open the door just as the camera starts turning his way. He's just crossed the threshold and shut the door when he looks up.

“Whoa, whoa, I'm unarmed!” he shouts, and Coulson stares at him like he's grown three heads in the last couple of hours even as he lowers his gun, flipping the safety on.

“Damn it, Barton!”

“Hey, Coulson.”

“Why are you here?”

“Not gonna ask how I got in or how I found out where you live?” Clint asks with a grin, one that he's been told promises he's up to no good.

“I would if you weren't friends with Agent Romanov.” Coulson hesitates but puts the weapon down on the table; Clint isn't surprised when the barrel points in the direction of the door. “Again, I must ask, why are you here?”

“Nice jammies.”

Coulson barely glances at the cotton sleep-pants and ratty t-shirt he's wearing. “Yes, they're the best. Barton, need I remind you that I've little to no patience for mind games?”

“Nah. Just…”

And suddenly Clint's courage is gone, dried up in the face of the situation. What the hell was he thinking? So what that Coulson kissed him like the world was ending? Doesn't mean the man meant it or that he wants a repeat. Clint shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and forces himself to stand still though he can't get the words out.

Coulson's lips twitch, just a little, and he reaches out a hand for Clint who grasps it like a lifeline. He lets Coulson lead him to the couch, lets Coulson push him to sit before walking away. Clint hears the sound of glasses clinking in the cupboard and the tap turning on. He takes the glass that Coulson hands him and sits still as a stone as Coulson collapses onto the couch beside him.

“If you're going to be here, there are some rules. I choose the show, you cannot talk during Supernanny, and you tell me if anything I do upsets you.”

“You couldn't upset—”

“Clint. It's non-negotiable. If I upset you, I want you to tell me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Coulson shifts closer, one arm coming up around the top of the couch, and Clint finally lets himself relax. There's something comforting about the solid warmth of his handler next to him, their bodies mere centimeters apart; Coulson smells clean, like safety and—and home.

It doesn't take long before Clint's lost track of the plot of whatever movie is on. He's much more interested in the sounds he can coax from Coulson as they kiss, soft and searching. Coulson's body is strong, sturdy, under his palms, and Clint revels in the feeling. Even after they pull away from each other, they don't go far, and they don't stop touching and, every minute or two, sharing gentle kisses. One movie bleeds into the next, but Clint can't remember what the first one was about, let alone telling someone the title of the second one.

As with all good things, however, the night has to come to an end. Clint knows it's time to leave when Coulson starts leaning heavier into him, his mouth moving slower, and eventually, he yawns into a kiss. Clint laughs quietly, pressing his lips to Coulson's forehead before standing up.

“I'd better get back to base.”

“What?” Coulson struggles to sit upright. “Why?”

“Because as much fun as this is, if I don't get back ’til morning, someone’s gonna find out I was here, don't try to deny it, and poof goes your reputation.”

Coulson is suddenly wide awake, staring at Clint like he's the dumbest thing to ever exist. “Are you serious? Barton, fuck my reputation.”

“Coulson…” Clint starts but is interrupted by Coulson climbing to his feet.

“No. You don't think I know that the only reason I get any respect is because everyone thinks I'm an automaton that Fury has programmed to hunt and kill dissenters? There's nothing, literally nothing, that you could do to my reputation that I give a damn about.”

“You have read my psych evals and reports from other handlers, right? Because pretty much everything says if I wasn't so good with a bow, my ass would never have been recruited into SHIELD. So yeah, there's a lot that I could do to your reputation.”

“And that's true, the evaluations and reports. For them. My assessment of you, your capabilities, your worth, tell a much different story. And, not to boast or be uncouth, but my opinion holds a lot more water than what they say.” He sighs. “It's...true that if you and Natasha didn't work so well with me as your handler, Fury wouldn't be giving you so much as a chance to breathe, not with what you two know. But Clint, you're still breathing, yes? So that should serve as a reminder that Fury sees something in you, and not just what you can do, that's worth keeping you around.”

“Only because you do.”

“Of course I do.” His hands come up to squeeze Clint's bicep, and Clint can feel the strength, the security in that grip. “And that should mean more than what some other jackass says, especially since Anderson can't keep his own assets from walking away for more than six months.”

“So…” Clint swallows thickly, his throat right. “You want me to stay?”

“Do you want to?”

Clint can't speak, so he answers the best way he can: He crashes into Coulson, kissing him hard and insistent; his heart is pounding in his chest, and he feels like he's about to burst. The kiss is messy and inelegant, but if Coulson doesn't mind, then Clint sure as Hell doesn't. Clint wraps his arms around Coulson's waist, tugs him closer, and steps into the other man's space. This forces Coulson to take a step back, and Clint takes advantage. He steers them both down the short hall.

They don't separate at all, hands constantly roaming over the other's body, and Clint's barely able to breathe, can't get his brain to register beyond the sensations overwhelming him. It promptly ceases any kind of higher function when Coulson's fingers move along his sides, deftly undoing the button on Clint's jeans. Clint gasps into Coulson's mouth when he feels fingers sliding along the zipper, tugging it down, before Coulson slides his hands into the waistband of Clint’s jeans to wriggle them loose enough that they slide off of his hips, pool on the floor at his feet. They both laugh when Clint stumbles over the pile of denim, but they don’t stop—they just keep moving across the room toward the bed.

At the last possible second, Coulson moves, faster than Clint anticipates, and he’s falling onto his back, landing across the mattress, staring up at Coulson who’s grinning down at him. Clint laughs breathlessly even as Coulson moves to straddle his thighs. Clint’s hands shove up the front of the other man’s shirt, rucking it up so he can stare unabashedly at the expanse of skin and hair.

“Jesus, sir, you’re fucking amazing.” He leans up to press kisses along Coulson’s collarbone. “So damn amazing.”

“You’re talking far too much, Barton.”

Clint smirks. “Then why don’t you get down here and shut me up? Sir?”

Coulson’s hips jerk forward, and Clint groans loudly at the sudden pressure. Clint files away the observation of ‘sir’ for later examination, reaching up to wrap a hand around the back of Coul—Phil, Clint is pretty sure he can call him Phil, especially in this situation—Phil’s neck and tug him down into a filthy kiss. He isn’t sure who makes the first move, but within moments, their shirts are on the floor, and Clint’s hands are down the back of Phil’s pants, and oh god, Phil is going commando. Clint’s brain melts out of his ears at the revelation, and the noise he makes causes Phil to chuckle and pull away.

“That, that's literally the opposite of what I want you to do,” Clint manages to say, panting heavily, and Phil ducks down for another kiss.

“Patience, Barton.”

Clint can't catch his breath, his head is spinning and his heart is pounding in his throat, and Phil is easing Clint’s boxers down, his hands like fire against Clint’s skin. Clint sucks in a gasp when his cock springs free; he’s aching deep down to his bones, and the sensation just grows when Phil presses open-mouthed kisses along his hipbones. He murmurs Phil’s name, but it comes out more of a beg, a plea, and isn’t it just like Phil to know what Clint is needing. Phil wastes no time in wrapping his fingers around Clint’s shaft, and Clint lets out a high keening noise at the touch. He’s searching for a kiss, for something to ground him before he floats away into the clouds, but Phil isn’t giving it.

Instead, his mouth is lowering, his lips part, and Clint clenches the comforter in his fists tightly at the wet heat enveloping his cock. His hips jerk upwards, but Phil’s hand is strong, secure, as he keeps him held down. Clint closes his eyes and swallows thickly, revels in the suction and silky glide of Phil’s tongue. His thighs tremble and his gut clenches. He feels like a goddamn teenager again—one touch, and he’s near exploding.

“Phil, oh god, Phil, you’re so good,” he knows he’s babbling, but the words keep pouring out, he can’t stop them.

Phil knows, of course he knows, that Clint is close—too close, really—and he pulls away after one last teasing lap of his tongue to the slit of Clint’s cock. Clint groans pitifully at the lack of Phil, but it doesn’t take long before Phil is shifting, moving over Clint. He barely gets accustomed to the weight of Phil on top of him before his cock is nudging against Phil’s entrance, and the other man is slowly pressing down. Phil lets out a moan, moving ever slower, his hand going behind him to help guide Clint into him. Finally, Phil is trembling over Clint, hot around Clint’s cock, breathing heavily, and Clint is quickly losing his mind with how fucking amazing this is.

Phil starts moving, steady and unhurried, and Clint grabs onto Phil’s thighs and plants his feet into the mattress, meeting thrust for thrust. Phil leans forward, his hands on Clint’s chest; there are no sounds beyond their breathing and skin against skin. The air around them is humid, charged with whatever this is between them, and Clint could cry with it.

Unfortunately, this doesn’t last nearly as long as he wants it to; as if by unspoken agreement, their movements quicken, and Phil drops down to kiss Clint hard, their tongues dancing as emotions drive higher and higher, and Clint slips his hand between them to slide his fingers softly along Phil’s cock. The skin is heated, silky, and he presses his thumb against the bottom of the head before he wraps his fingers around the shaft, stroking in counterpart to their thrusting.

Phil comes first, his guttural moan being swallowed by Clint, and Clint follows quickly after; there's no way he can stave off his orgasm with the way Phil is clenching and spasming around his cock. Phil keeps moving until Clint is going boneless beneath him, whimpering softly at the overstimulation. Clint groans when Phil finally pulls away. He knows they're both messes, that there's cum drying in stripes across his belly and chest, but movement sounds like the least desirable thing right now. He just wants to roll over and hold onto Phil as they fall asleep.

Phil has other plans: He clambers off the bed with an uncustomary gracelessness and walks to the attached bathroom. Clint watches him go, appreciating the view of Phil's naked ass. When he comes back, Phil has a damp washcloth in hand, and he gingerly cleans the mess off of Clint before tossing the cloth into the hamper by the closet. Clint helps as much as he can as Phil manoeuvres him into lying on the bed properly, head on pillow and feet at the opposite end.

“Thank you,” he whispers as soon as Phil is under the covers with him; he curls into Phil's side, letting one arm drape over the other man's waist.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

Phil presses a soft kiss to Clint's hair. “You're welcome. Get some sleep, Barton.”



And so it goes. The next six months are fucking amazing. Clint spends his days working for SHIELD, going on missions as required, and training with the Strike Team. At least twice a week, he goes for lunch or dinner or both with Natasha. His nights involve pizza at his apartment and going to bed alone or home-cooked meals with Phil and whiling away hours exploring each other's bodies before falling asleep twisted up together, sated and happy and at peace.

It works. Clint finds the sharp edges inside of him smoothed away by Phil's touch, the camaraderie between teammates, the sense of home and belonging that he's been yearning for since he was just a baby. He barely remembers his mother's smile or anything of his father beyond a hard hand and stinging reminders that he's never going to be good enough for Harold Barton. Clint is less burdened by his past; it's still there, it always will be, but he finds it's easier to be in his skin than it was before.

Then Fury calls him in, tells him about the Avengers Initiative, and Clint finds he can't be excited about it. He knows he's lucky, that there aren't many people that the director would ask (order) to join up with a superhero team. However, he's waiting for the shoe to drop, a habit he thought he'd broken free of.

“Tony Stark? Are you serious, man?”

“Agent Romanov advised against it.”

Clint scrubs a hand over his face. “You know this is going to go poorly, right, sir?”

“We're aware.” Phil scratches idly at his chest as he stares at the ceiling. “Personally, I think he'd make a good fit, but Natasha is right. He has a lot of flaws, none of which make him a good candidate for being a member.”

“Wasn't he dying? I think that alone would give the man a pass on his behaviour.”

“And what about the years prior?”

“Simple. He's rich, handsome, and did I mention rich? It's expected of people with money like that to be eccentric. Plus, he had a lot of responsibilities shoved onto his shoulders as soon as he could walk. Howard never made it easy for him, so of course Tony would act out. Anyone would, under that level of stress.”

“You're not as dumb as you like to pretend,” Phil says with a snort.

“Yeah, but if people know I'm smart, they tend to have higher expectations that I'm too lazy to try to meet.”

Phil breaks, laughing into the quiet of the bedroom, and Clint smiles and curls closer; his hand brushes along Phil's stomach, and he wonders again how he managed to get lucky enough that someone like Phil actually wants him. He lets Phil kiss away the thoughts, allows Phil to open him up and slide home and fuck away any doubts that might still be lingering.

The world is blue, ice cold, and there's nothing but a silky voice and a free-floating feeling. His brain screams that this is wrong, but Clint can't dredge up the give-a-damn to put a stop to it, not with the voice in his head telling him Go on, Barton, do it, he's just going to try to stop you, you don't need them. Freedom is just another lie of the mind. And he watches as Fury falls back to the concrete before he himself clambers into the back of the vehicle, sharp eyes keeping guard.

Everything he does has the undercurrent of something inside of him begging him not to, telling him to stop and find Phil, Phil can help, Phil can fix this, but the struggling in his gut, in the back of his brain, is nothing compared to the weightlessness of following orders and not having to think. Thinkin’ ain't your strong suit, boy, Harold’s words are sharp and acidic in his memory, a mantra he'd believed for so damn long; it's so fucking easy for that phrase to reshape his existence under the blue tint of his new world.

Stuttgart happens, and Clint can't even be squeamish about what he's doing. It's for the greater good; humanity needs to be saved, and his actions are bringing about that salvation. The machine gets built, and he's set upon his final task: Getting the armada to Earth and taking down their enemies.

The blue fades under the excruciating agony, and his head rings as he collapses backwards onto the metal walkway. Natasha stands over him, breathing heavily, and he stares up at her. The weightless control crashes down on him under the weight of memories, fragments still tinted with ice. He chokes on a sob, can't let go of the tenuous hold on sanity that he has. Consciousness, on the other hand, he's grateful to lose.

Echoes of screams and a voice made of smooth silk clammer around in his brain as he comes to. Natasha is sitting in a chair by the bed, her face hard and her eyes troubled; they don't talk about what happened, not much, but enough that she knows he's back and that she can undo the restraints. Captain America shows up in the doorway, accepts Clint's help. Clint could fall apart with the magnitude of that trust, but he holds himself together with duct tape and guilt as he gears up.

It isn't until later, after Loki is apprehended, that Natasha tells Clint, her voice shaking as she struggles to keep her tears at bay. She's closer to cracking than he's ever seen her, but he's numb, unable to wrap his mind around the devastating loss. He knows there have been so many deaths caused by him, by his inability to fight against Loki and the sceptre, but those pale in comparison to the fact that Phil is gone. Because of Clint's weakness. Because of Clint.

He joins the team for shawarma. He's grateful that no one speaks. Clint keeps his eyes on his plate so he doesn't have to see the destruction that was caused during the battle. The restaurant owners sweep up dust and crumbled wall around them, and the swish-scrape-swish drives Clint insane. But he was trained, so he stifles the twitchiness and focuses on forcing food down his throat.

Life seems to have lost color. Clint goes through his days with little care, little emotion. Natasha tells him he needs to face that Phil is dead, but he can't. The first few days were full of shock, then the strength of the guilt and loss and pain nearly incapacitated him. So he's shoved those emotions to the back of his mind, avoids the mental box that holds everything regarding Phil and Loki, and continues working for SHIELD and the Avengers. Every time he goes out in the field, he knows he should try for non-lethal shots, but he can't give a shit about whether someone lives or dies, not when the only person he's ever loved so hard is dead and not coming back.

The third time the team goes out to fight whatever villain it is this time ends with Steve—and it's Steve now, no more Captain America—yanking Clint aside as soon as debrief is over. Clint knows he took too many risks with his safety, leaping off buildings and not caring if he landed on the other roof or if he fell to his death, but he’s apathetic about how careless he's become.

“What the everloving hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, somethin’ is, if you're being so damn reckless.”

“Because jumping out of jets without a parachute isn't reckless?” he snipes back even though his heart isn't really in it; his voice is flat, emotionless, and Steve's brows furrow.

“Either get your shit together and go to therapy like Fury ordered, or you're benched.”

And that's enough to snap Clint from the listless, dreary fog he's been drifting through for the last three months, five days, thirteen hours. He rounds on Steve.

“Yeah, because you have so much room to talk, Mr 'I’m Still Not Over Losing My Best Friend Seventy Fucking Years Ago’. Don't fuckin’ come at me when you're just as guilty of sulking and pouting because your friend is dead because you didn't get to him in time.”

“At least I'm managing!” Steve shouts back, fists clenching tight at his side. “I'm managing, but all you're doing is going through life without giving a damn about anyone, and you're no good to anyone like this, so fuckin’ stow your poor-me bullshit, go to therapy, and then maybe you'll be back on the team!”

The anger is hot, sharp, and sudden. Clint lunges at Steve, intent on beating the Hell out of that perfect fucking face, cause Steve pain that doesn't compare to the agony waiting to be unleashed from the box in the back of Clint's mind, but thick, strong arms circle his waist and tug him off his feet. He vaguely recognizes the scent of ozone and electricity, but he ignores it in his attempts to get at Steve. Tony is standing in between the two men, his hands pushing ineffectually at Steve's chest. Steve glares down at Tony but takes a step back anyway, even as he knocks Tony's hands away. Thor tugs Clint away, out of the room, and Clint continues screaming ‘Fuck you, Rogers, fuck you!’

“Calm down, Barton. It is over.”

“It's not over, let me go.”

“Not if you are only going to go back to instigate another fight.”

“He started it!”

“I've got him, Thor. Thanks.”

Thor releases Clint with little preamble, and Clint stumbles at the suddenness of not being restrained. Natasha dances around Clint to block his egress from the living room.

“Clint, that's enough.”

He snarls at her, tries to shove past her, but she's quicker. She pushes him backwards, advancing while he regains his footing, and her hands lash out and press against his chest, rapid and painfully forceful. He gets tired of this fast; he strikes at her, but the punch is knocked off balance by her arm. His mind is so enveloped by rage that he doesn't notice her goading him into the elevator, into the corner as it descends. When it stops, her fingers clench in the front of his shirt, and she jerks him forward and shoves him out into the enormous expanse of the gym. Clint knows what she's trying to do, but he can't stop fighting back. He just wants her to stop.

He finds himself on his back on the hard floor; pain radiates through his body, but it's dulled by his anger. He scrambles to his feet, slams his shoulders into Natasha's belly, and twists as he brings her up and over. Unfortunately, she lands on her feet and uses his momentum against him. His face hits the floor, and with the solid crunch of his nose breaking comes the blinding pain of everything he's been hiding away. His eyes are burning, filling with tears, and he continues fighting against her, fists swinging wildly and legs kicking out.

Finally, he stops moving at all, letting his body sag against the floor, and Natasha is there in an instant. She drags him to sit upright, her arms strong and steady as they wrap around his shoulders and tug him into her body. He hides his face against her neck and falls apart. She doesn't move even as blood from his nose pours along her skin and stains her shirt, even as his tears mingle with her sweat, even as everything he's avoided feeling comes out on shattered screams and broken sobs. She just holds him through the torrent of hurt and confusion and loss that rips through him so violently that he feels he'll never be whole again.

Clint slumps further against her once he's finished. Everything is out now. He's no longer numb, but the pain is receding a bit. He feels like he can breathe again. Figuratively, since his sinuses are clogged with snot and blood, and his nose is broken, but he doesn't feel like he's drowning any more. She runs a hand over his hair, gently cards her fingers through the sweat-soaked strands, and he relishes the comforting touch for a moment longer before pushing away. They sit in silence, and his heartbeat slows. His skin is sticky with drying sweat, and he tugs at his shirt.

“You need to go to therapy,” Natasha says softly, and he grunts in response. “No, Clint, you do. You can't keep this bottled up until it explodes. Not again. I know Coulson meant the world to you, but he meant something to me, too. You're not the only one who lost a great man. You are, however, the only one not handling it well at all.”

“Everyone mourns differently.”

“I'd agree with that if I thought you were mourning at all. You've been a husk, a shell, of who you used to be. And I'm not talking about what Loki did to you. That's relatively minor compared to how badly you're hurting over Coulson.” She sighs. “Please, get help, okay?”

Clint doesn't answer as he clambers to his feet. She remains quiet, but he knows she's watching him closely. He stares at the floor to avoid looking at her before the elevator doors close. It comes to a smooth halt; his apartment is quiet, stiflingly so, when he pushes through the door. After washing his face in the bathroom, he stares at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He can't see any remnants of the man he was when Phil was still alive. All he sees now is a broken man, one who's been ravaged by loss and grief.

He is disgusted by what's in front of him, so Clint exits the bathroom quickly, his hand hitting the light switch with perhaps more force than necessary, and makes his way to the bedroom. He flops back onto the bed and stares at the ceiling. He knows he should apologize to Steve for what was said, but the anger is still there and protesting at the thought of swallowing his pride and being the first to say “I'm sorry”. And maybe Nat is right about the therapy thing. He rolls over and closes his eyes. He falls asleep wondering what Phil would think of the team, of Clint's new home.

Clint awakens with a scream, his fingers clenched as if around the riser of his bow, and he pants harshly in the dark of his room. Shadows cling to the walls everywhere he looks. Shivering, he scrambles to lie under the blankets, calling for JARVIS to raise the temperature. It's all in his mind, he knows that, but the ice still clinging to the edge of his consciousness and the echoing voices of the dead aren't fading, leaving him cold and aching inside. He yanks the comforter over his head and tries to catch his breath; the soft click of his door opening is muted under the layers of words still rattling in his brain, and he recognizes the form that fits itself behind him, curling around his body and holding him close.

“I'll go,” he whispers into the cotton and down of the blanket. “I'll go to therapy.”

Natasha's voice is soft and soothing when she says, “Good.”

He doesn't know how long he lies there with her heart beating against his back, but the darkness of sleep comes easier now that he's not alone.

Things get better over the next couple of months. Steve holds no grudge against Clint for what he'd said that day; in fact, he accepts Clint's apology with a gracefulness that Clint wasn't expecting, even apologizing himself. The therapist Clint meets with twice a week is quiet but observant, getting straight to the point immediately and not allowing Clint to deflect. The hole in his chest closes up, though it's still ragged and bruised around the edges. He spends his days at SHIELD, training new recruits with Natasha, or on the couch in the tower playing video games with Thor and Steve. Occasionally, Tony allows him into the workshop, and Clint lets himself be entertained by watching Tony work.

The sound of the things blowing up on the television screen is interrupted by a quiet whoosh-ding, and Clint ignores it in favor of sending another rocket at a tank and cackling in glee as Steve's character goes up in a flaming explosion. It's only when he hears a gasp that he even realizes something is up, that it's not just Tony or Bruce going down to their labs. He presses the pause button and turns to see what's going on.

Fury stands there, hands in the pockets of his signature black trenchcoat. He's watching Clint closely with his good eye, and Clint is confused. Why is he the object of Fury's scrutiny? He's been doing well. Then the director shifts minutely, just enough, and there's a sickening swoop in Clint's stomach as the floor gives out beneath him.

Phil.

Clint gapes, unable to speak. Phil looks completely fine ー a little pale and drawn around the edges, but fine. Alive. Clint glances at Natasha as she steps out of the kitchen; the look on her face is frightening, even to him, and he isn't surprised when she hisses something vile in Russian, storms past Fury and Phil, and disappears. He doesn't expect to see her again for a while. Thor exchanges a look with Tony before hustling a green-looking Bruce to the stairwell. Clint turns his gaze back to Phil, and it's because he's looking so closely that he notices the other man's flinch when Steve starts talking in a tight, controlled voice that promises retribution. Not even a sentence in, Steve goes from speaking to shouting, berating Fury for what the team has gone through.

“I had to do what was best for national security,” retorts Fury, and oh god, Steve's got Fury losing his temper, “and if I remember correctly, Captain, I do not need your permission to withhold secrets that are in the best interest of the team that I put together and let you lead.”

“Best interest? Oh, yeah, because having one teammate mourning and taking it out on people in the field, and another teammate practically suicidal screams 'best for the team’, how stupid of me to not have known that!”

“C’mon, Clint, let's go,” murmurs Tony as he tugs fruitlessly on Clint's arm, but Clint can't move as Phil stares at him.

The hurt and anguish on Phil's face too much to bear. He can't breathe any more, his mind is racing, and Tony ducks down to examine Clint's eyes before facing Fury.

“Okay, that's it. Nick, get the Hell out. What goes on in this team is none of your damn business, it hasn't been your business since we won against the Chitauri, and I swear to every god that had ever existed, if you ever try to pull any more shit, I will privatize the Avengers without hesitation. Goodbye, don't let the door hit your ass on your way out.”

Tony places his hand on Clint's shoulder, and Clint clings to Tony's wrist, his thumb on the pulse point, and he tries in vain to keep track of the heartbeat. Tony hesitates then rests his other hand on the back of Clint's head, pulls him in so that Clint can rest his forehead against Tony's abdomen, and Clint tries to keep the tears from coming, but he can't, he's losing that particular fight. The shuffle of footsteps sounds deafening over the rush of blood in his ears.

“Phil, please. Not right now. Please just...just go, let Clint come to you when he's ready. I like you, but I will get the armor if I need to.”

“Of… of course. For what it's worth, I'm sorry.”

The room falls silent once the lift chimes, signaling Phil's departure. Tony doesn't move, just keeps his hand steady on Clint’s shoulder and hair, holds him as he shakes apart with a maelstrom of emotions that he's not equipped enough to attempt to sort through. Not right now.

The next week is hard. Phil's back, but Natasha is gone. Her phones are all shut off, her safehouses are empty, and Clint hates her for not being there with him. He’s taken to hiding in the rafters of the gym to avoid having to deal with anyone's sympathy. His vantage point gives him ample opportunity to witness Steve destroy ten punching bags in less than three hours, which is just impressive, but it also means he's stuck watching Steve finally crack under the pressure of being team leader, the man who has to be so stoic and solid and the foundation for everyone else. It’s awkward and painful to watch the man crumple to the floor with his knees pulled to his chest and sob into his thighs, but Clint can't climb down or else he'll run the risk of Steve seeing him. And this is something Steve needs to do.

Therapy sessions are paying off, Clint thinks, if he understands that nobody can hide their emotions forever. So he sits in the rafters as Steve's crying echoes off the walls, wishing he knew the words to make everything better.

But he doesn't, because his own equilibrium is thrown off by the entire ordeal. Phil's alive, and Fury knew and kept it from them. He wonders if Fury knows about the relationship Phil and Clint had had before Phil's death. Clint isn't sure—the man never mentioned anything, and after… well, after, he never even hinted that he'd been aware of the fact that Clint had more than an asset-handler connection with Phil. This train of thought leads to ‘What now?’

Because Clint sure as hell doesn't know that, either. He still loves Phil with everything in him, but he isn't sure if that'll be enough to get past this. Then again, he'd cut his own heart out of his chest if Phil asked him to, so he doesn't know if it'll just take Phil implying the possibility of their relationship starting up again for him to cave and fall into Phil's arms and bed once more.

Eight days after Phil's reappearance in the living room finds Clint making his way through the streets of DC, the rental car blending in seamlessly with the rest of the traffic. He pulls into a parking space right outside of the familiar apartment block, stares up at the brightly-lit window he knows is Phil's as the engine idles. A silhouette limps past the frame, and he sighs heavily. Twisting the key to shut off the engine, he pockets the keys in his jacket and gets out of the vehicle.

It takes a moment, but Phil finally opens the door after the knock, wearing the same shirt he had on the first time Clint came over. He looks stunned to see Clint standing in the hall. Clint forces a smile, waves slightly, and that seems to be enough to kick the other man into action. Phil steps back to allow Clint to enter the apartment, and Clint gazes around the place. It's set up just like it was before, everything in the same place. All that's missing is the gun on the coffee table. The silence is awkward, but Clint won't be the first to break it. Thankfully, Phil gets the hint.

“I'm… Clint, I cannot say I'm sorry enough for you to know how sorry I am. I didn't know Fury would've done something like this, and I know it's not a valid excuse, but I'm sorry.”

Clint snorts. “You know Fury better than anyone, sir. He'll do pretty much anything if it means beating the bad guys.”

“I didn't think he'd be so cruel,” Phil counters, shaking his head. “I, I guess I should have asked if you knew, once I was awake and in recovery. I was too afraid, I suppose is the best way to put it. Afraid that you knew and were choosing to stay away, that this was your way of saying we were over. That this secret was one too many. So I didn't ask, and Nick didn't say. Clint, I am so fucking sorry. I wanted to contact you and find out for sure if this was your way of saying 'Fuck off, have a nice life’, but between the complete lockdown he had me in and me not wanting to handle the truth of you leaving me, I couldn't.”

Something in Clint shatters at the words, at the pure selfishness of Phil’s choice. “You left me first! You died, and I had to carry the guilt and pain on my own. I'm the one who—who let Loki and his army in, I'm the one who gave them the clear path to death and destruction, and you weren't there to help me get through.” Choking on a sob, Clint turns away, starts pacing. “You were gone, and it was my fault. All that time, I kept wondering…

“I kept seeing you. Everywhere I turned, there you were. In the coffeeshop, turning a corner just ahead of me, in my fucking dreams, and that was the worst, let me fucking tell you. 'You should've fought harder, Clint. This is your fault, Clint. You were too weak, you couldn't even be strong enough to fight off a simple brainwashing, and now so many agents are dead and I'm dead, and it's all because of you, Clint.’ A-and you were right, I should have been stronger. I should've fought against Loki harder, but I didn't, I couldn't, and he took everything from me. Everything. And you left me.”

Phil steps in front of Clint, forcing him to a stop, and catches Clint's eye. “I know. God, Clint, I know, and I am so sorry. I'm sorry. This isn't your fault. No one blames you, no matter how much you blame yourself. I don't blame you, and I'm here now. I'm here now, and Clint? I'm not going anywhere.” He reaches for Clint, but his hand drops before any contact is made, and Clint aches with the yearning to be touched. “I am here, and I am so sorry for ever leaving you.”

Clint nods succinctly and heads for the couch. He falls down onto the cushion, heavy with everything, and Phil follows suit, though he leaves space between them. Clint stares at the floor as his brain twists and turns every thought inside-out. When he looks up, Phil is watching him, the usual calm expression broken by the shame and guilt, and his face is pale, tight around the eyes. He's in pain, Clint's brain supplies, and he knows it's true; he's seen Phil after having been shot and stabbed, and that's exactly how he looks when he's gone too long without pain medication.

He stands and heads for the bathroom, digging through the medicine cabinet until he finds the most recently-prescribed painkiller. He carries the orange bottle to the kitchen, fills a glass, and takes them both into the living room. Phil doesn't protest as he places the pills on his tongue and chased them down with a large swallow of water. Once the medicine is taken, Clint helps ease Phil to his feet and guides him slowly to the bedroom. Phil lets Clint tuck him into bed, and Clint sits on the edge of the bed and watches as Phil slowly drifts off to sleep.

“What am I supposed to do?” Clint murmurs as Phil's breathing evens out, and he reaches out a hand to brush fingers softly across the other man's cheek. “Tell me what I'm supposed to do.”

There's no response, but he didn't really expect one. He doesn't think about what he's doing as he strips his boots and jeans off and climbs into the bed behind Phil. He curls around Phil, buries his nose against the back of Phil's neck, and falls asleep breathing in the smell that belongs only to the man. Something in him shifts, a missing piece settling into place and filling the hollowness deep inside of him. It feels a lot like he's finally come home again.