Fic: Catch Your Voice 2/2 (Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, PG-13)
Part 1
16.
He doesn't get to put an arrow through Loki's eye socket. He tries to tell himself that seeing the god, the man, beaten and humiliated is enough to make him feel less hollow. To make him sleep better. Or at all.
It isn't.
It really, really isn't.
17.
After Loki's gone (it's probably too much to hope for him to be executed, but Clint's never claimed to be anything but vindictive), Clint half expects to find himself at loose ends. The aliens are dead, the Avengers are over, and SHIELD doesn't have enough psychiatrists to start evaluating all their traumatized personnel at once. At the very least, Clint expects to be on the bench until someone can verify (how, he has no idea) that Loki's well and truly out of his head.
Turns out that saving Earth makes people more or less take his word for it. Fury has him back on the duty roster before Clint's finished giving his report. And for a while, that's almost enough to keep him going.
He doesn't help repair the Helicarrier. Not because the people there are nervous around him; most aren't, anymore than they were before. If anything, Clint's gaggle of juniors has gained a few members. Li seems to take great pleasure in bossing them around. She'll go far, that one.
It's Clint who can't stand to walk the corridors and see the damage he caused, think of the agents he killed. 'Didn't have a choice' doesn't mean much when it's still your own hands throwing the grenade, letting the arrow fly. If Natasha hadn't stopped him on that walkway, if Clint had made it to Loki's cell and Coulson had been there… Loki wouldn't have had to lift a finger. It's that knowledge more than anything that makes Clint keep away from the 'Carrier unless Fury orders him up.
There's enough to do down in New York, anyway. Midtown's in pretty bad shape. The streets are filled with blown-up and burned-out cars, chunks of fallen concrete and steel, shards, broken furniture and office equipment. And bodies, human and alien alike. More alien, though, something Clint is glad for.
It takes several days to get that alien mothership space whale thing off the two apartment buildings it fell dead on. Natasha's up on the Helicarrier and Stark's more or less content to pay for a good portion of the clean-up, but Clint prefers a more hands-on approach. He thinks he's seen Rogers on a sweeping crew two blocks east, but didn't stop to check and say hello. On the third day, Banner joins Clint's team, giving him a wry smile as the guys around him fail to ever shut up about the Avengers, with no idea that two of them are working right there beside them.
"You seem tired," Banner says when their shift is done, cranes in place to see if they can't get that fucker down without any more collateral damage. It's a very polite way of telling Clint he looks like shit.
"I'm fine," Clint says, rubbing his neck. It's a very polite way of telling Banner to mind his own fucking business. Truth is, Clint has been catching naps in fits and starts, crashing in empty offices on the eighth floor of some building or other, or in the back of an empty bakery, or halfway up one of those cranes. He's exhausted-approaching-knackered, but swaying on his feet is better than trying to sleep.
Anything's better than trying to sleep.
Banner lets out a non-committal little hum. Somehow, that little hum seems to translate into an unremarkable compact car showing up not ten minutes later with a missive from SHIELD that Clint's to set up camp at Stark Tower until further notice. Clint glares at Banner, but Banner just smiles again and tells Clint to get in the car.
Stark's waiting for them when they get to the Tower. "I got Rogers to agree that staying here makes a lot more sense than his daily commute from I don't care where," he says cheerfully. "The band's back together!"
Clint blinks, thrown. Whatever he expected, it wasn't this. "What about Natasha?"
Stark gasps in mock horror. "You can't have a girl in a boy band! Did the Beatles teach you nothing? Besides, she said she wouldn't move in until you tell her the place is clean." He puts a hand on his heart, fingers bumping against his arc reactor. "I'm a little insulted by her implications."
"Okay." Clint's hands clench uselessly at his sides. He longs desperately, irrationally, for his bow.
He's been off-balance before, but he's never felt unmoored inside his own head.
"Talkative," Stark says and, when Clint only stares at him, adds, "Well, come on, Chatterbox, let's show you to your room."
Clint's room is near the top of the Tower, with a stunning view over the city around him. It's got a huge bed and a minibar and a giant television with the appropriate sound system, and not much else. Under different circumstances, Clint would probably love it.
Stark promises him a better room, "in a few weeks, we're still remodeling, are those really your clothes? You look like a dumpster exploded on you."
Clint's not convinced he'll be around in a few weeks. He's no use like this.
Natasha moves in without fuss once Clint reports that the only surveillance he could find was Stark's own, dormant unless requested otherwise or in case of emergency. She spends her first night in Clint's room, back pressed against his chest, the mattress stretching out empty to either side of them. And this, this is how Clint remembers Budapest, the smell of her hair and the certainty that if anyone tries to kill him in his sleep, at least it won't be her. He's never had many people to rely on, but Natasha's right up there on the list of those he trusts.
He tries not to think about how short that list has become lately.
"I'm sorry I couldn't protect him," she whispers, fingers clenching around his.
He tightens his arms around her, buries his face in her hair. "He'd've kicked your ass for saying he needed protection."
"Clint…"
"It's okay," he tells her, and waits for her to relax long after they should have dropped off to sleep.
It's not okay.
18.
In the fourth night Clint spends at the Tower, something inside him cracks, or maybe breaks entirely, and he blames sleep-deprivation. It's the only explanation that makes even a little sense for what he's doing.
He's been staring at the ceiling for hours. His eyes are burning. His bones are heavy, sinking into the mattress like they're filled with lead. Small tremors are running through his body, intermittent, unstoppable. SHIELD's going to disappear him if he doesn't get his act together soon.
He can't sleep.
Every time he closes his eyes, the Blue creeps in. Like tendrils reaching for his mind. His soul. You have heart. He remembers standing beside Loki, so sure of his place, unquestioning, loyal. He remembers, and it makes him feel angry, and helpless, and sick to his stomach.
He can't sleep.
He's got too much space in his mind.
The thing is, he knows the trouble's just inside his head. The Blue, Loki; they're just echoes of the real deal. He knows that. But Natasha was right. This isn't anything they were ever trained for.
"JARVIS?"
There's a brief pause, Stark's surveillance systems popping online, and then a smooth, English-accented voice asks, "Do you require my assistance, Mr. Barton?" Ready to power down again if Clint says no.
"Yeah." Clint swallows. "Can you… imitate another person's voice?"
"If I have records of that person's speech patterns, certainly."
It's stupid. Clint knows it's stupid, and yet his mouth opens and out comes, "You have records of Agent Coulson, right?"
Another pause. Clint's left hand trembles. He ignores it.
"I believe the material I have is sufficient," JARVIS says. He sounds weirdly cautious, like he suspects Clint's programming might be unstable. He wouldn't be entirely wrong. "May I ask what you would like me to say?"
And just like that, Clint's mouth is entirely dry. "Just," he croaks, coughs, closes his eyes. Blue. He opens them again, clenches his left hand into a fist. "Just tell me to sleep or something. Doesn't matter." Just this once. Just once, and then he'll go back to being Clint Barton, SHIELD agent, marksman, asset. Just once, so he can stop being Clint Barton, wreck.
Just this once.
"I understand," JARVIS says, and he probably does because the next thing he says is, "Barton. You're safe here."
It's Coulson's voice.
Clint takes a shuddering breath. His chest hurts, and his eyes feel like he's rolled them around in a sandpit.
"Yeah," he whispers.
"I want you to go to sleep now." It's Coulson's voice, but it's a little kinder than usual, somehow. Gentler. This must have been the way he talked to Stark's girlfriend, and god, Clint misses him so much, so fucking much. "It's okay, I've got you covered."
"Yes, sir." Clint's voice sounds as wrecked as he feels, but when he closes his eyes against the pain, all he sees is black. He swallows again, and it's like he's choking. "Please keep talking."
And he does. He keeps telling Clint that it's okay, that he'll keep watch. He says that Clint's done very well, but it's time to let go now. Clint can stand down. It's all right. Coulson's got him.
Clint listens. He listens, and ignores the wetness on his cheeks, and eventually, Clint sleeps.
He sleeps, but the nightmares are worse than ever.
19.
Coulson was a voice in Clint's ear.
He was someone Clint could trust, someone he had a bit of a crush on, someone who shot Clint down with a tired smile. He liked terrible food and was judgmental of Clint's own choices. His personality traits didn't match, even the ones Clint had figured out. He was a good guy, one of the best, but at the end of the day? Clint didn't really know him all that well.
He was just a voice in Clint's ear.
So why the hell does he feel like he's mourning something?
20.
(Because he is, he is.)
21.
Clint doesn't ask JARVIS to do the voice again. He can't. He also can't stand still for any length of time. He can't find a nice, high spot to climb and get out of everyone's way; he's afraid he'll fall right down again. He can't hide.
He can't eat, either. Even mac'n'cheese tastes like dust in his mouth.
When Fury calls him up to the 'Carrier ten days later, Clint knows he's officially become A Problem.
The 'Carrier, it turns out, isn't 'up' at all. It's hovering off the coast, looking like a weird black island that's populated by nothing but tiny orange people. A lot of them are clustered in and around Engine 3 which is at rest like a giant, inert cooler fan. The other three engines are running just enough to keep everything above water level.
Clint's surprised to see barely a trace of the damage he dealt. Some parts of the metal are shinier, newer, but otherwise the 'Carrier looks as solid as it ever did.
Not everything he did was irreparable.
Good.
Fury's in the secondary control room, alone, staring at the huge panorama windows that are still missing most of their glass. Collateral damage. Clint stands a little straighter and clasps his hands behind his back.
"Sir."
"Mutants and aliens and fucking magic." Fury sighs and shakes his head, gesturing at the broken windows like they're a metaphor for his life these days. "I can't deal with this shit."
Until three weeks ago, he wouldn't have had to, Clint hears. Until three weeks ago, dealing with this shit was Coulson's job.
He closes his eyes for a moment.
"Sir," he repeats, and Fury turns around, looking Clint up and down like he's just one more part of the shit Fury doesn't want to deal with.
"Can't use a compromised agent, either," he says, ominous. Or maybe not so ominous; Clint's been waiting for something this.
"Loki's out of my head," he replies, knowing full well that isn't what Fury's talking about. But hell, if Fury wants him tied to a bed and sedated into getting some rest, he's going to have to spell it out because Clint's too fucking tired to make anything easy for anyone.
Fury watches him for a moment, his expression unreadable.
"I don't think I need to remind you that Agent Coulson is dead."
The words hit like a gut shot. Clint barely manages not to flinch.
"No, sir," he rasps, his voice rough like something's lodged in his throat. Like the acknowledgment is choking him.
He knows that Coulson is dead. That doesn't mean he's prepared to hear it out loud.
Fury nods, looking strangely satisfied.
"Good. He wants you to have these."
He tosses something at Clint, and Clint's not so far gone that he can't catch. Plastic crinkles in his hand. He looks down.
Little Debbie frosted donuts.
His breath doesn't hitch because it seems to be frozen in his chest. "Sir?" he hears himself ask, faintly, the sound muted by the sudden pounding in his ears.
He wants you to have these.
His stomach clenches, sick with sudden hope.
His fingers close around the donuts without him telling them to, gripping hard enough to crush the stupid things. When he finally manages to pull in a ragged breath, he looks up to find Fury still watching him, a faint smile in his eye.
"Get some fucking sleep, Barton," Fury says, not unkindly.
"Yeah," Clint mumbles, dazed, and he staggers out of the control room without really seeing the corridors he's walking through. He's still clutching the little packet of donuts like it's a lifeline and maybe it is because for the first time in three weeks, he doesn't feel like he's drowning. He feels... almost at ease.
Like he just has to wait a little longer and all the hollow places will fill up again. He'll be himself again, if he just waits.
Just a little longer.
22.
He sleeps for a day and a half and then demolishes a stack of pancakes bigger than his head. He goes for a run after, Natasha at his side like a deadly shadow, like she needs to make sure he hasn't cracked completely. He loves her for it.
"What did Fury say to you?" she asks when she catches him humming Billy Joel under his breath.
"Nothing," he says, and then sings, "Honesty is such a lonely word," just to make her laugh. Just to let her know that, yeah, something's changed, but for the better. He knows she'll get it.
"Everybody lies," she says after a moment.
"Yeah." He nods, then throws her a sideways glance.
She hums, thoughtful, and shrugs. "It's been a while."
That's how they end up on Tony Stark's criminally comfortable couch watching House, M.D. Rogers joins them, then Banner, both of them glancing at him but keeping quiet. They're halfway into season two when Stark drops into the free space next to Clint.
"Wow. Those must be some pretty good drugs they put you on," he comments, and everyone relaxes, nods sagely and assumes that Clint's discovered a better life through SHIELD-prescribed chemistry. Everyone but Natasha, who smiles and keeps her mouth shut because that's how they work.
Besides, they both know better than to share unconfirmed intel, Clint thinks as he leans back into the couch. Maybe Fury's just playing with him. Maybe Clint got the wrong idea.
He still feels like his heart is beating properly again.
It's a good feeling.
23.
When Clint was a SHIELD agent, he thought his life was pretty decent where the excitement factor was concerned. Infiltrations, thefts, the occasional assassination... almost every assignment offered at least a bit of a challenge, and he liked that.
Now Clint's an Avenger. Challenging doesn't even begin to cover it.
"Get out of the way!" he barks, not for the first time. The building he's on is the highest nearby, but it gives him a bad angle to shoot at the honest to god, giant, evil, fire-breathing turtle that's waltzing its way through Eureka harbor. Every time the damn thing turns its head enough for him to see its eye, somebody blocks his shot.
"I can't be everywhere at once!" Rogers snaps, and then rolls out of the way as the turtle snaps at him.
"Keep your shield out of my shot and you won't have to be," Clint tells him, back to waiting for another opportunity.
This would all go so much faster if he could just use explosives, but with the way Stark keeps flitting to and fro like a fucking hummingbird Clint's honestly afraid he'll take him down instead.
"Hey, kids, how about you concentrate on Bowser here?" Stark says... and promptly ruins any chance Clint might have by hovering right in front of Bowser's eye, firing his repulsors at it.
"You're just fucking with me now," Clint mutters, glad that Banner at least is sitting this one out. With the Hulk running rampant, the harbor would look worse than it already does and Clint would never get a shot.
His radio clicks once, and then a different voice is on the line, self-assured and calm as you please. And yeah, Clint's been waiting for something like this for over a month now, but his breath still catches.
"Captain," Coulson says, and Clint's gratified to see Rogers nearly drop his shield, "please move to the rear of the creature. Iron Man, accompany him. Concentrate on its left leg; maybe you can immobilize it. Keep the damage to the infrastructure to a minimum, the Mayor's already calling for your heads. Widow, make it turn its head in Hawkeye's direction. Hawkeye," and there's the slightest pause, like Coulson has to take a breath before he can continue, "talk to me."
Clint is grinning so hard it's almost throwing off his aim. Almost. "How do I know you're you?"
Coulson's voice sounds a little bit scratchy and a lot amused as he replies, "You'll have to take my word for it."
Clint's grin fades into something closer to a smile. Rogers and Stark have recovered enough to start hitting Bowser's leg. Natasha's right below him, firing her Widow's Bite at Bowser's neck to make it rear its head in her (and Clint's) direction. Its eye glitters, and Clint has the perfect angle. "Positive, sir."
"Take the shot, Barton," Coulson says.
Clint does.
24.
"What the hell, Barton?!"
It's the first thing Stark's said to him, and the fact that he waited until they were back at SHIELD for their debriefing before he started yelling has Clint a little worried. A quiet Stark is a brooding Stark. And it's not like Clint's much of a team-player, but he kind of likes these guys, so Stark kicking him out of the Tower would really suck.
So he raises his hands and takes a step back. "I didn't know anything for sure." At Stark's disbelieving look, he adds, "All right, yeah, I suspected, but-"
"We're a team," Rogers says firmly. "If we don't share our knowledge, we're not going to work."
Behind Clint, Banner clears his throat. "To be fair," he says, "I didn't share, either."
There's a moment of silence when everyone's just staring at him.
Banner holds up a hand, fingers spread. "Convenient timing," he ticks off. "No funeral. No one stepped up to fill his position. Fury never mentioned him again, even for leverage." He smiles, all fingers but the little one curled into his palm. "Barton's sudden change in mood," and that's the little finger gone.
Rogers blinks. Stark looks somewhere between pissed and thoughtful.
"I have another hand," Banner offers, almost playful, and next to Clint Natasha actually laughs. Quietly, but she laughs.
"I don't believe that will be necessary," Coulson says from the door.
"What the hell, Agent?!" Stark snaps immediately while Rogers stands, arms crossed, radiating quiet disapproval. Coulson raises his eyebrows.
"Your concern is heart-warming, Mr. Stark," he says, which sends Stark first into sputtering and then a tirade about making Pepper cry. Rogers, meanwhile, looks torn between keeping up the disapproval and shaking Coulson's hand, especially when Banner interrupts Stark by doing just that.
"Welcome back," he says with that half-smile of his.
Clint is... pretty much rooted to the spot. He watches, can't stop watching, as Coulson carefully returns Banner's handshake, moving a lot more stiffly than usual. He watches, breath held, as Rogers finally cracks and says it's good to have Coulson back, though he'd appreciate more honesty in the future. He watches, heart caught in his throat right where his breath is stuck, as Stark tries to convince Coulson to move into the Tower so he can never, ever pull shit like that again.
He can't stop watching. He also can't seem to stop smiling.
Coulson is paler than he used to be, a little flushed from Captain America's admonishment, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual. He's obviously in pain, but he's just as obviously pleased to be there, with them, alive and well and... alive.
A small hand closes around his, squeezes hard enough to hurt. Natasha. He blinks the slight sting from his eyes, squeezes back.
He can't stop watching.
Across the room, Coulson meets his gaze, tilts his chin just a fraction. Clint nods at him, no hope of getting any words around that jumble of heart and breath that's choking him. Coulson seems to get it anyway. He's smiling, an honest smile that lingers in his eyes, and Clint... he can't.
He can't breathe. He can't look at that smile and not want. He can't make his chest stop aching. He can't walk over there and shake Coulson's hand because he'd cling. He couldn't help it. He'd cling and break and maybe even cry, and Coulson doesn't deserve that. He's just come back from the dead. He shouldn't have to deal with Clint's shit.
This was supposed to be the thing that put Clint back onto firm ground; instead, he's floundering worse than ever.
Coulson's smile is turning into a puzzled frown. Clint squeezes Natasha's hand even harder, panicked like a junior on his first mission gone south, but she's got him. She always has.
"Post-mission medical," she says shortly, just as Coulson's opening his mouth to pull down each and every one of Clint's crumbling defenses by asking if he's all right.
"Yeah," Clint croaks, lets himself be dragged from the room and around a corner where Natasha leans him against a wall and tells him to breathe, breathe.
Breathe.
25.
Stark somehow manages to herd everyone, even Coulson, back to the Tower for an improvised Glad You're Not Dead, Asshole party. It's loud and obnoxious and Stark's girlfriend tears up before she hugs Coulson, and Clint downs his drink and makes his escape before he can think too hard about the touched look on Coulson's face, or the way Coulson's gaze keeps finding him no matter how hard he tries to fade into the background.
Clint's got that 'better' room by now, but that's the first place anyone would look for him. The roof is probably a close second. He goes there anyway. It's dark out; with a little luck, he'll blend in enough that no one will bother him.
The nice thing about Stark Tower is that it doesn't have just one roof but at least half a dozen of them. Clint picks the third one from the top because it doesn't have a railing; maybe Stark forgot to have it replaced. He sits on the edge and lets his legs dangle, looking out over Manhattan. Lights move and flicker below him, but there are still dark patches where yet more light should be.
Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind him. He doesn't turn around, even though his stupid heart starts beating a little faster.
"The city got hit pretty hard," Coulson observes. It's not like him to state the obvious, but then he did almost die. Maybe Clint's not the only one who needs to get his feet back under him.
He isn't sure if he likes that thought.
"It's New York." Clint shrugs. "It'll move on."
Coulson hums. Clint stubbornly refuses to look at him. If Coulson's got something to say, Clint's not going to make it easy for him. Besides, what would he even say? That he's sorry for playing dead? That Clint's being an ass? That they'll still have to work together? That they won't work together? That Clint's off the team? That he was never supposed to be on it in the first place?
That Coulson's got no use for a compromised agent?
Coulson doesn't say anything.
Clint suddenly, fervently, wishes for a railing to bang his head against. He's awesome at waiting, but Coulson's patience is legendary. If they decide to wait each other out, someone's going to have to come brush the snow off them in a few months.
Coulson still doesn't say anything.
Clint sighs.
"What was it like?" he asks the night sky around them. "Being dead."
It's the only invitation Coulson's going to get.
It's the only one he needs.
"You should know." Coulson's movements are slow as he sits down next to Clint, wincing a little as he settles his weight. Clint wonders if he's going to have to help him get up again. "You've died twice on my watch."
And hadn't Natasha loved doing the CPR that second time. Clint grimaces. "Not what I meant." And you know it, he doesn't say, but it's implied.
Coulson sighs. "Boring." He pauses, considering. "Worrying. I watched you jump off at least three buildings. That has to stop."
Clint ducks his head and grins. "If my handler says so."
This is... surprisingly easy. This talking thing, sitting next to Coulson, close enough to touch if either of them shifted a little. It's surprisingly comfortable, like they just saw each other for lunch over leathery lasagne and chunky mac'n'cheese. Like they're hovering on the edge of maybe becoming friends, and nothing else has to happen between them. Like Clint didn't put his foot in his mouth and Coulson didn't almost die and Clint can get over this stupid little crush of his if he just has a little more time.
Then Coulson replies, and there's something in his voice, something dark and selfish that makes the grin slide off Clint's face. "Your handler does." And your handler will damn well make sure of it, Coulson doesn't say.
Clint swallows, tries to deflect. "Positive, sir." He tries for glib, but the words come out strained.
Coulson sighs again. He taps his fingers on the roof edge. He's nervous, Clint suddenly realizes with a start. And if his heart was beating double-time before, now it's racing like it's preparing for the Olympics.
"Barton." Coulson clears his throat and starts again. "Clint. I'm going to ask you a question. And you're going to think about it, and then you'll give me an answer because I understand there are a few things I messed up quite badly, but I recently died and I deserve a break."
"You didn't mess up," Clint says automatically. He barely resists the urge to brush his palms against his jeans.
"There's no need to coddle me."
"I'm not coddling anyone." He's Clint Barton, SHIELD agent and Avenger. He doesn't do coddling.
For the first time since he sat down, Coulson turns his head to look at Clint. "I am going to kick you off this roof if you don't shut up now."
Clint's voice is hoarse. "That would probably aggravate your injuries. Sir."
"Clint."
Clint looks down at the moving lights. He wants to look at Coulson, at Phil, but he doesn't think he can. There's something hot and tight clenching in his chest, burning, and his throat is dry as he rasps out, "What's the question?"
Coulson takes a slow breath. "Do you want to have dinner with me?"
For a moment, Clint feels like he can't breathe. He wants to ask, really? He wants to ask if Phil's fucking with him. He wants to ask if Phil is aware what he's getting into. He wants to ask what he's getting into. He wants to ask what made Phil change his mind, if this is about Clint or about not dying alone, if Phil has even the slightest idea how desperately Clint's missed him.
He wants to ask if Phil means in a professional capacity.
What he says, when he finds his voice, is simply, "Yeah."
There's a long pause when Clint almost, almost, looks at Phil.
"I believe I asked you to think about it," Phil says finally.
Clint shrugs. "Thought about it."
He has no words for how much he thought about it. About Phil. Maybe not about dinner, not after Phil rebuffed him, but he still wants it. Of course he still wants it. And dessert. And drinks. And Phil's voice in his ear as he falls asleep and when he wakes up again, warm and real and there, right next to him.
He wants.
"Is that so?" Now Phil sounds a bit thrown, like this isn't going at all like he expected, and what, did he honestly think that Clint would say no?
Clint huffs out a disbelieving little laugh and shakes his head before he meets Phil's eyes. They're dark and a little worried and a lot tired, but they also look at Clint like he's the only solid thing around. Like he's worth hanging on to. Like he's something to rely on. And shit, does it really matter why Phil wants him now, when Clint can finally, finally have him?
"Can I ask a question?" Clint says, and there must be something in his face or his voice that makes Phil relax.
"Shoot."
Clint tilts his head. "You have dinner yet?"
And now Phil smiles at him, relief and amusement and a whole tangle of other things Clint can't read yet plain on his face. "As a matter of fact, I haven't." He taps his fingers on the edge again. "What did you have in mind?"
"Mac'n'cheese," Clint says at once, just to see Phil make a face.
"That seems to be more punishment than I deserve," he complains, and yeah, this is good, Clint thinks happily. He can do this.
It's probably too early for kissing. He'll probably try it anyway.
He's never been good with patience, and he's waited long enough.
Epilogue
Clint's up a tree.
He's on a SHIELD mission, not Avengers business and while Clint wouldn't admit it out loud, he kind of likes the relative quiet. Tony's a good guy, but he needs a lot of attention and sometimes Clint has to focus on something else before he shoots the man just to shut him up. Thankfully, Phil can always tell when Clint's close to losing it, so now Clint's in some national park in China, up a tree.
It's a good tree. Scratch that, it's a fantastic tree. It's easily a hundred feet tall, with plenty of conveniently-placed branches and foliage that's dense enough to hide him, but not too dense to observe the footpaths below. He's in the upper third but below the crown, and compared to some of the places Clint's had to wait in over the years, this deserves three stars at least.
"I want to move into this tree," he says quietly. There's no reply, but Clint can imagine Phil's expression just fine. Phil, Clint was delighted to learn when they started their relationship (years ago by now, and how amazing is that?), has a hedonistic streak a mile wide when he's in private. "Guess the bed wouldn't fit, though," he adds, just to make Phil roll his eyes.
It's the truth, though. Their bed is huge. If there's one argument against moving into this tree, it's their bed. And Phil in their bed, looking debauched. And Clint with Phil in their bed, making sure debauchery happens.
He leans back against the rough bark of the trunk and smiles. He's up in the comfiest tree known to man, waiting for a SHIELD double agent to show up for an exchange of intel with one of the Mandarin's men. Somewhere below him, Li is playing tourist and ready to orchestrate Clint's back-up if he needs it (she has her own gaggle of juniors now). Clint took some stunning panorama pictures of the view earlier, with the camera he's supposed to use only to record the meeting. He'll get an earful for that.
He's looking forward to it.
"Rabbit's in sight, sir," he says when he spots O'Hare walking up the footpath. "Do you want me to narrate or are you going to wait for the pretty pictures?"
He's well out of earshot and might observe a few things they'd miss on the footage. They don't call him Hawkeye for nothing. It's Phil's call, though.
It's always been Phil's call.
His radio clicks once.
"Talk to me, Barton," Phil says, and Clint does.
My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,
My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody.
~ William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream
16.
He doesn't get to put an arrow through Loki's eye socket. He tries to tell himself that seeing the god, the man, beaten and humiliated is enough to make him feel less hollow. To make him sleep better. Or at all.
It isn't.
It really, really isn't.
17.
After Loki's gone (it's probably too much to hope for him to be executed, but Clint's never claimed to be anything but vindictive), Clint half expects to find himself at loose ends. The aliens are dead, the Avengers are over, and SHIELD doesn't have enough psychiatrists to start evaluating all their traumatized personnel at once. At the very least, Clint expects to be on the bench until someone can verify (how, he has no idea) that Loki's well and truly out of his head.
Turns out that saving Earth makes people more or less take his word for it. Fury has him back on the duty roster before Clint's finished giving his report. And for a while, that's almost enough to keep him going.
He doesn't help repair the Helicarrier. Not because the people there are nervous around him; most aren't, anymore than they were before. If anything, Clint's gaggle of juniors has gained a few members. Li seems to take great pleasure in bossing them around. She'll go far, that one.
It's Clint who can't stand to walk the corridors and see the damage he caused, think of the agents he killed. 'Didn't have a choice' doesn't mean much when it's still your own hands throwing the grenade, letting the arrow fly. If Natasha hadn't stopped him on that walkway, if Clint had made it to Loki's cell and Coulson had been there… Loki wouldn't have had to lift a finger. It's that knowledge more than anything that makes Clint keep away from the 'Carrier unless Fury orders him up.
There's enough to do down in New York, anyway. Midtown's in pretty bad shape. The streets are filled with blown-up and burned-out cars, chunks of fallen concrete and steel, shards, broken furniture and office equipment. And bodies, human and alien alike. More alien, though, something Clint is glad for.
It takes several days to get that alien mothership space whale thing off the two apartment buildings it fell dead on. Natasha's up on the Helicarrier and Stark's more or less content to pay for a good portion of the clean-up, but Clint prefers a more hands-on approach. He thinks he's seen Rogers on a sweeping crew two blocks east, but didn't stop to check and say hello. On the third day, Banner joins Clint's team, giving him a wry smile as the guys around him fail to ever shut up about the Avengers, with no idea that two of them are working right there beside them.
"You seem tired," Banner says when their shift is done, cranes in place to see if they can't get that fucker down without any more collateral damage. It's a very polite way of telling Clint he looks like shit.
"I'm fine," Clint says, rubbing his neck. It's a very polite way of telling Banner to mind his own fucking business. Truth is, Clint has been catching naps in fits and starts, crashing in empty offices on the eighth floor of some building or other, or in the back of an empty bakery, or halfway up one of those cranes. He's exhausted-approaching-knackered, but swaying on his feet is better than trying to sleep.
Anything's better than trying to sleep.
Banner lets out a non-committal little hum. Somehow, that little hum seems to translate into an unremarkable compact car showing up not ten minutes later with a missive from SHIELD that Clint's to set up camp at Stark Tower until further notice. Clint glares at Banner, but Banner just smiles again and tells Clint to get in the car.
Stark's waiting for them when they get to the Tower. "I got Rogers to agree that staying here makes a lot more sense than his daily commute from I don't care where," he says cheerfully. "The band's back together!"
Clint blinks, thrown. Whatever he expected, it wasn't this. "What about Natasha?"
Stark gasps in mock horror. "You can't have a girl in a boy band! Did the Beatles teach you nothing? Besides, she said she wouldn't move in until you tell her the place is clean." He puts a hand on his heart, fingers bumping against his arc reactor. "I'm a little insulted by her implications."
"Okay." Clint's hands clench uselessly at his sides. He longs desperately, irrationally, for his bow.
He's been off-balance before, but he's never felt unmoored inside his own head.
"Talkative," Stark says and, when Clint only stares at him, adds, "Well, come on, Chatterbox, let's show you to your room."
Clint's room is near the top of the Tower, with a stunning view over the city around him. It's got a huge bed and a minibar and a giant television with the appropriate sound system, and not much else. Under different circumstances, Clint would probably love it.
Stark promises him a better room, "in a few weeks, we're still remodeling, are those really your clothes? You look like a dumpster exploded on you."
Clint's not convinced he'll be around in a few weeks. He's no use like this.
Natasha moves in without fuss once Clint reports that the only surveillance he could find was Stark's own, dormant unless requested otherwise or in case of emergency. She spends her first night in Clint's room, back pressed against his chest, the mattress stretching out empty to either side of them. And this, this is how Clint remembers Budapest, the smell of her hair and the certainty that if anyone tries to kill him in his sleep, at least it won't be her. He's never had many people to rely on, but Natasha's right up there on the list of those he trusts.
He tries not to think about how short that list has become lately.
"I'm sorry I couldn't protect him," she whispers, fingers clenching around his.
He tightens his arms around her, buries his face in her hair. "He'd've kicked your ass for saying he needed protection."
"Clint…"
"It's okay," he tells her, and waits for her to relax long after they should have dropped off to sleep.
It's not okay.
18.
In the fourth night Clint spends at the Tower, something inside him cracks, or maybe breaks entirely, and he blames sleep-deprivation. It's the only explanation that makes even a little sense for what he's doing.
He's been staring at the ceiling for hours. His eyes are burning. His bones are heavy, sinking into the mattress like they're filled with lead. Small tremors are running through his body, intermittent, unstoppable. SHIELD's going to disappear him if he doesn't get his act together soon.
He can't sleep.
Every time he closes his eyes, the Blue creeps in. Like tendrils reaching for his mind. His soul. You have heart. He remembers standing beside Loki, so sure of his place, unquestioning, loyal. He remembers, and it makes him feel angry, and helpless, and sick to his stomach.
He can't sleep.
He's got too much space in his mind.
The thing is, he knows the trouble's just inside his head. The Blue, Loki; they're just echoes of the real deal. He knows that. But Natasha was right. This isn't anything they were ever trained for.
"JARVIS?"
There's a brief pause, Stark's surveillance systems popping online, and then a smooth, English-accented voice asks, "Do you require my assistance, Mr. Barton?" Ready to power down again if Clint says no.
"Yeah." Clint swallows. "Can you… imitate another person's voice?"
"If I have records of that person's speech patterns, certainly."
It's stupid. Clint knows it's stupid, and yet his mouth opens and out comes, "You have records of Agent Coulson, right?"
Another pause. Clint's left hand trembles. He ignores it.
"I believe the material I have is sufficient," JARVIS says. He sounds weirdly cautious, like he suspects Clint's programming might be unstable. He wouldn't be entirely wrong. "May I ask what you would like me to say?"
And just like that, Clint's mouth is entirely dry. "Just," he croaks, coughs, closes his eyes. Blue. He opens them again, clenches his left hand into a fist. "Just tell me to sleep or something. Doesn't matter." Just this once. Just once, and then he'll go back to being Clint Barton, SHIELD agent, marksman, asset. Just once, so he can stop being Clint Barton, wreck.
Just this once.
"I understand," JARVIS says, and he probably does because the next thing he says is, "Barton. You're safe here."
It's Coulson's voice.
Clint takes a shuddering breath. His chest hurts, and his eyes feel like he's rolled them around in a sandpit.
"Yeah," he whispers.
"I want you to go to sleep now." It's Coulson's voice, but it's a little kinder than usual, somehow. Gentler. This must have been the way he talked to Stark's girlfriend, and god, Clint misses him so much, so fucking much. "It's okay, I've got you covered."
"Yes, sir." Clint's voice sounds as wrecked as he feels, but when he closes his eyes against the pain, all he sees is black. He swallows again, and it's like he's choking. "Please keep talking."
And he does. He keeps telling Clint that it's okay, that he'll keep watch. He says that Clint's done very well, but it's time to let go now. Clint can stand down. It's all right. Coulson's got him.
Clint listens. He listens, and ignores the wetness on his cheeks, and eventually, Clint sleeps.
He sleeps, but the nightmares are worse than ever.
19.
Coulson was a voice in Clint's ear.
He was someone Clint could trust, someone he had a bit of a crush on, someone who shot Clint down with a tired smile. He liked terrible food and was judgmental of Clint's own choices. His personality traits didn't match, even the ones Clint had figured out. He was a good guy, one of the best, but at the end of the day? Clint didn't really know him all that well.
He was just a voice in Clint's ear.
So why the hell does he feel like he's mourning something?
20.
(Because he is, he is.)
21.
Clint doesn't ask JARVIS to do the voice again. He can't. He also can't stand still for any length of time. He can't find a nice, high spot to climb and get out of everyone's way; he's afraid he'll fall right down again. He can't hide.
He can't eat, either. Even mac'n'cheese tastes like dust in his mouth.
When Fury calls him up to the 'Carrier ten days later, Clint knows he's officially become A Problem.
The 'Carrier, it turns out, isn't 'up' at all. It's hovering off the coast, looking like a weird black island that's populated by nothing but tiny orange people. A lot of them are clustered in and around Engine 3 which is at rest like a giant, inert cooler fan. The other three engines are running just enough to keep everything above water level.
Clint's surprised to see barely a trace of the damage he dealt. Some parts of the metal are shinier, newer, but otherwise the 'Carrier looks as solid as it ever did.
Not everything he did was irreparable.
Good.
Fury's in the secondary control room, alone, staring at the huge panorama windows that are still missing most of their glass. Collateral damage. Clint stands a little straighter and clasps his hands behind his back.
"Sir."
"Mutants and aliens and fucking magic." Fury sighs and shakes his head, gesturing at the broken windows like they're a metaphor for his life these days. "I can't deal with this shit."
Until three weeks ago, he wouldn't have had to, Clint hears. Until three weeks ago, dealing with this shit was Coulson's job.
He closes his eyes for a moment.
"Sir," he repeats, and Fury turns around, looking Clint up and down like he's just one more part of the shit Fury doesn't want to deal with.
"Can't use a compromised agent, either," he says, ominous. Or maybe not so ominous; Clint's been waiting for something this.
"Loki's out of my head," he replies, knowing full well that isn't what Fury's talking about. But hell, if Fury wants him tied to a bed and sedated into getting some rest, he's going to have to spell it out because Clint's too fucking tired to make anything easy for anyone.
Fury watches him for a moment, his expression unreadable.
"I don't think I need to remind you that Agent Coulson is dead."
The words hit like a gut shot. Clint barely manages not to flinch.
"No, sir," he rasps, his voice rough like something's lodged in his throat. Like the acknowledgment is choking him.
He knows that Coulson is dead. That doesn't mean he's prepared to hear it out loud.
Fury nods, looking strangely satisfied.
"Good. He wants you to have these."
He tosses something at Clint, and Clint's not so far gone that he can't catch. Plastic crinkles in his hand. He looks down.
Little Debbie frosted donuts.
His breath doesn't hitch because it seems to be frozen in his chest. "Sir?" he hears himself ask, faintly, the sound muted by the sudden pounding in his ears.
He wants you to have these.
His stomach clenches, sick with sudden hope.
His fingers close around the donuts without him telling them to, gripping hard enough to crush the stupid things. When he finally manages to pull in a ragged breath, he looks up to find Fury still watching him, a faint smile in his eye.
"Get some fucking sleep, Barton," Fury says, not unkindly.
"Yeah," Clint mumbles, dazed, and he staggers out of the control room without really seeing the corridors he's walking through. He's still clutching the little packet of donuts like it's a lifeline and maybe it is because for the first time in three weeks, he doesn't feel like he's drowning. He feels... almost at ease.
Like he just has to wait a little longer and all the hollow places will fill up again. He'll be himself again, if he just waits.
Just a little longer.
22.
He sleeps for a day and a half and then demolishes a stack of pancakes bigger than his head. He goes for a run after, Natasha at his side like a deadly shadow, like she needs to make sure he hasn't cracked completely. He loves her for it.
"What did Fury say to you?" she asks when she catches him humming Billy Joel under his breath.
"Nothing," he says, and then sings, "Honesty is such a lonely word," just to make her laugh. Just to let her know that, yeah, something's changed, but for the better. He knows she'll get it.
"Everybody lies," she says after a moment.
"Yeah." He nods, then throws her a sideways glance.
She hums, thoughtful, and shrugs. "It's been a while."
That's how they end up on Tony Stark's criminally comfortable couch watching House, M.D. Rogers joins them, then Banner, both of them glancing at him but keeping quiet. They're halfway into season two when Stark drops into the free space next to Clint.
"Wow. Those must be some pretty good drugs they put you on," he comments, and everyone relaxes, nods sagely and assumes that Clint's discovered a better life through SHIELD-prescribed chemistry. Everyone but Natasha, who smiles and keeps her mouth shut because that's how they work.
Besides, they both know better than to share unconfirmed intel, Clint thinks as he leans back into the couch. Maybe Fury's just playing with him. Maybe Clint got the wrong idea.
He still feels like his heart is beating properly again.
It's a good feeling.
23.
When Clint was a SHIELD agent, he thought his life was pretty decent where the excitement factor was concerned. Infiltrations, thefts, the occasional assassination... almost every assignment offered at least a bit of a challenge, and he liked that.
Now Clint's an Avenger. Challenging doesn't even begin to cover it.
"Get out of the way!" he barks, not for the first time. The building he's on is the highest nearby, but it gives him a bad angle to shoot at the honest to god, giant, evil, fire-breathing turtle that's waltzing its way through Eureka harbor. Every time the damn thing turns its head enough for him to see its eye, somebody blocks his shot.
"I can't be everywhere at once!" Rogers snaps, and then rolls out of the way as the turtle snaps at him.
"Keep your shield out of my shot and you won't have to be," Clint tells him, back to waiting for another opportunity.
This would all go so much faster if he could just use explosives, but with the way Stark keeps flitting to and fro like a fucking hummingbird Clint's honestly afraid he'll take him down instead.
"Hey, kids, how about you concentrate on Bowser here?" Stark says... and promptly ruins any chance Clint might have by hovering right in front of Bowser's eye, firing his repulsors at it.
"You're just fucking with me now," Clint mutters, glad that Banner at least is sitting this one out. With the Hulk running rampant, the harbor would look worse than it already does and Clint would never get a shot.
His radio clicks once, and then a different voice is on the line, self-assured and calm as you please. And yeah, Clint's been waiting for something like this for over a month now, but his breath still catches.
"Captain," Coulson says, and Clint's gratified to see Rogers nearly drop his shield, "please move to the rear of the creature. Iron Man, accompany him. Concentrate on its left leg; maybe you can immobilize it. Keep the damage to the infrastructure to a minimum, the Mayor's already calling for your heads. Widow, make it turn its head in Hawkeye's direction. Hawkeye," and there's the slightest pause, like Coulson has to take a breath before he can continue, "talk to me."
Clint is grinning so hard it's almost throwing off his aim. Almost. "How do I know you're you?"
Coulson's voice sounds a little bit scratchy and a lot amused as he replies, "You'll have to take my word for it."
Clint's grin fades into something closer to a smile. Rogers and Stark have recovered enough to start hitting Bowser's leg. Natasha's right below him, firing her Widow's Bite at Bowser's neck to make it rear its head in her (and Clint's) direction. Its eye glitters, and Clint has the perfect angle. "Positive, sir."
"Take the shot, Barton," Coulson says.
Clint does.
24.
"What the hell, Barton?!"
It's the first thing Stark's said to him, and the fact that he waited until they were back at SHIELD for their debriefing before he started yelling has Clint a little worried. A quiet Stark is a brooding Stark. And it's not like Clint's much of a team-player, but he kind of likes these guys, so Stark kicking him out of the Tower would really suck.
So he raises his hands and takes a step back. "I didn't know anything for sure." At Stark's disbelieving look, he adds, "All right, yeah, I suspected, but-"
"We're a team," Rogers says firmly. "If we don't share our knowledge, we're not going to work."
Behind Clint, Banner clears his throat. "To be fair," he says, "I didn't share, either."
There's a moment of silence when everyone's just staring at him.
Banner holds up a hand, fingers spread. "Convenient timing," he ticks off. "No funeral. No one stepped up to fill his position. Fury never mentioned him again, even for leverage." He smiles, all fingers but the little one curled into his palm. "Barton's sudden change in mood," and that's the little finger gone.
Rogers blinks. Stark looks somewhere between pissed and thoughtful.
"I have another hand," Banner offers, almost playful, and next to Clint Natasha actually laughs. Quietly, but she laughs.
"I don't believe that will be necessary," Coulson says from the door.
"What the hell, Agent?!" Stark snaps immediately while Rogers stands, arms crossed, radiating quiet disapproval. Coulson raises his eyebrows.
"Your concern is heart-warming, Mr. Stark," he says, which sends Stark first into sputtering and then a tirade about making Pepper cry. Rogers, meanwhile, looks torn between keeping up the disapproval and shaking Coulson's hand, especially when Banner interrupts Stark by doing just that.
"Welcome back," he says with that half-smile of his.
Clint is... pretty much rooted to the spot. He watches, can't stop watching, as Coulson carefully returns Banner's handshake, moving a lot more stiffly than usual. He watches, breath held, as Rogers finally cracks and says it's good to have Coulson back, though he'd appreciate more honesty in the future. He watches, heart caught in his throat right where his breath is stuck, as Stark tries to convince Coulson to move into the Tower so he can never, ever pull shit like that again.
He can't stop watching. He also can't seem to stop smiling.
Coulson is paler than he used to be, a little flushed from Captain America's admonishment, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual. He's obviously in pain, but he's just as obviously pleased to be there, with them, alive and well and... alive.
A small hand closes around his, squeezes hard enough to hurt. Natasha. He blinks the slight sting from his eyes, squeezes back.
He can't stop watching.
Across the room, Coulson meets his gaze, tilts his chin just a fraction. Clint nods at him, no hope of getting any words around that jumble of heart and breath that's choking him. Coulson seems to get it anyway. He's smiling, an honest smile that lingers in his eyes, and Clint... he can't.
He can't breathe. He can't look at that smile and not want. He can't make his chest stop aching. He can't walk over there and shake Coulson's hand because he'd cling. He couldn't help it. He'd cling and break and maybe even cry, and Coulson doesn't deserve that. He's just come back from the dead. He shouldn't have to deal with Clint's shit.
This was supposed to be the thing that put Clint back onto firm ground; instead, he's floundering worse than ever.
Coulson's smile is turning into a puzzled frown. Clint squeezes Natasha's hand even harder, panicked like a junior on his first mission gone south, but she's got him. She always has.
"Post-mission medical," she says shortly, just as Coulson's opening his mouth to pull down each and every one of Clint's crumbling defenses by asking if he's all right.
"Yeah," Clint croaks, lets himself be dragged from the room and around a corner where Natasha leans him against a wall and tells him to breathe, breathe.
Breathe.
25.
Stark somehow manages to herd everyone, even Coulson, back to the Tower for an improvised Glad You're Not Dead, Asshole party. It's loud and obnoxious and Stark's girlfriend tears up before she hugs Coulson, and Clint downs his drink and makes his escape before he can think too hard about the touched look on Coulson's face, or the way Coulson's gaze keeps finding him no matter how hard he tries to fade into the background.
Clint's got that 'better' room by now, but that's the first place anyone would look for him. The roof is probably a close second. He goes there anyway. It's dark out; with a little luck, he'll blend in enough that no one will bother him.
The nice thing about Stark Tower is that it doesn't have just one roof but at least half a dozen of them. Clint picks the third one from the top because it doesn't have a railing; maybe Stark forgot to have it replaced. He sits on the edge and lets his legs dangle, looking out over Manhattan. Lights move and flicker below him, but there are still dark patches where yet more light should be.
Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind him. He doesn't turn around, even though his stupid heart starts beating a little faster.
"The city got hit pretty hard," Coulson observes. It's not like him to state the obvious, but then he did almost die. Maybe Clint's not the only one who needs to get his feet back under him.
He isn't sure if he likes that thought.
"It's New York." Clint shrugs. "It'll move on."
Coulson hums. Clint stubbornly refuses to look at him. If Coulson's got something to say, Clint's not going to make it easy for him. Besides, what would he even say? That he's sorry for playing dead? That Clint's being an ass? That they'll still have to work together? That they won't work together? That Clint's off the team? That he was never supposed to be on it in the first place?
That Coulson's got no use for a compromised agent?
Coulson doesn't say anything.
Clint suddenly, fervently, wishes for a railing to bang his head against. He's awesome at waiting, but Coulson's patience is legendary. If they decide to wait each other out, someone's going to have to come brush the snow off them in a few months.
Coulson still doesn't say anything.
Clint sighs.
"What was it like?" he asks the night sky around them. "Being dead."
It's the only invitation Coulson's going to get.
It's the only one he needs.
"You should know." Coulson's movements are slow as he sits down next to Clint, wincing a little as he settles his weight. Clint wonders if he's going to have to help him get up again. "You've died twice on my watch."
And hadn't Natasha loved doing the CPR that second time. Clint grimaces. "Not what I meant." And you know it, he doesn't say, but it's implied.
Coulson sighs. "Boring." He pauses, considering. "Worrying. I watched you jump off at least three buildings. That has to stop."
Clint ducks his head and grins. "If my handler says so."
This is... surprisingly easy. This talking thing, sitting next to Coulson, close enough to touch if either of them shifted a little. It's surprisingly comfortable, like they just saw each other for lunch over leathery lasagne and chunky mac'n'cheese. Like they're hovering on the edge of maybe becoming friends, and nothing else has to happen between them. Like Clint didn't put his foot in his mouth and Coulson didn't almost die and Clint can get over this stupid little crush of his if he just has a little more time.
Then Coulson replies, and there's something in his voice, something dark and selfish that makes the grin slide off Clint's face. "Your handler does." And your handler will damn well make sure of it, Coulson doesn't say.
Clint swallows, tries to deflect. "Positive, sir." He tries for glib, but the words come out strained.
Coulson sighs again. He taps his fingers on the roof edge. He's nervous, Clint suddenly realizes with a start. And if his heart was beating double-time before, now it's racing like it's preparing for the Olympics.
"Barton." Coulson clears his throat and starts again. "Clint. I'm going to ask you a question. And you're going to think about it, and then you'll give me an answer because I understand there are a few things I messed up quite badly, but I recently died and I deserve a break."
"You didn't mess up," Clint says automatically. He barely resists the urge to brush his palms against his jeans.
"There's no need to coddle me."
"I'm not coddling anyone." He's Clint Barton, SHIELD agent and Avenger. He doesn't do coddling.
For the first time since he sat down, Coulson turns his head to look at Clint. "I am going to kick you off this roof if you don't shut up now."
Clint's voice is hoarse. "That would probably aggravate your injuries. Sir."
"Clint."
Clint looks down at the moving lights. He wants to look at Coulson, at Phil, but he doesn't think he can. There's something hot and tight clenching in his chest, burning, and his throat is dry as he rasps out, "What's the question?"
Coulson takes a slow breath. "Do you want to have dinner with me?"
For a moment, Clint feels like he can't breathe. He wants to ask, really? He wants to ask if Phil's fucking with him. He wants to ask if Phil is aware what he's getting into. He wants to ask what he's getting into. He wants to ask what made Phil change his mind, if this is about Clint or about not dying alone, if Phil has even the slightest idea how desperately Clint's missed him.
He wants to ask if Phil means in a professional capacity.
What he says, when he finds his voice, is simply, "Yeah."
There's a long pause when Clint almost, almost, looks at Phil.
"I believe I asked you to think about it," Phil says finally.
Clint shrugs. "Thought about it."
He has no words for how much he thought about it. About Phil. Maybe not about dinner, not after Phil rebuffed him, but he still wants it. Of course he still wants it. And dessert. And drinks. And Phil's voice in his ear as he falls asleep and when he wakes up again, warm and real and there, right next to him.
He wants.
"Is that so?" Now Phil sounds a bit thrown, like this isn't going at all like he expected, and what, did he honestly think that Clint would say no?
Clint huffs out a disbelieving little laugh and shakes his head before he meets Phil's eyes. They're dark and a little worried and a lot tired, but they also look at Clint like he's the only solid thing around. Like he's worth hanging on to. Like he's something to rely on. And shit, does it really matter why Phil wants him now, when Clint can finally, finally have him?
"Can I ask a question?" Clint says, and there must be something in his face or his voice that makes Phil relax.
"Shoot."
Clint tilts his head. "You have dinner yet?"
And now Phil smiles at him, relief and amusement and a whole tangle of other things Clint can't read yet plain on his face. "As a matter of fact, I haven't." He taps his fingers on the edge again. "What did you have in mind?"
"Mac'n'cheese," Clint says at once, just to see Phil make a face.
"That seems to be more punishment than I deserve," he complains, and yeah, this is good, Clint thinks happily. He can do this.
It's probably too early for kissing. He'll probably try it anyway.
He's never been good with patience, and he's waited long enough.
Epilogue
Clint's up a tree.
He's on a SHIELD mission, not Avengers business and while Clint wouldn't admit it out loud, he kind of likes the relative quiet. Tony's a good guy, but he needs a lot of attention and sometimes Clint has to focus on something else before he shoots the man just to shut him up. Thankfully, Phil can always tell when Clint's close to losing it, so now Clint's in some national park in China, up a tree.
It's a good tree. Scratch that, it's a fantastic tree. It's easily a hundred feet tall, with plenty of conveniently-placed branches and foliage that's dense enough to hide him, but not too dense to observe the footpaths below. He's in the upper third but below the crown, and compared to some of the places Clint's had to wait in over the years, this deserves three stars at least.
"I want to move into this tree," he says quietly. There's no reply, but Clint can imagine Phil's expression just fine. Phil, Clint was delighted to learn when they started their relationship (years ago by now, and how amazing is that?), has a hedonistic streak a mile wide when he's in private. "Guess the bed wouldn't fit, though," he adds, just to make Phil roll his eyes.
It's the truth, though. Their bed is huge. If there's one argument against moving into this tree, it's their bed. And Phil in their bed, looking debauched. And Clint with Phil in their bed, making sure debauchery happens.
He leans back against the rough bark of the trunk and smiles. He's up in the comfiest tree known to man, waiting for a SHIELD double agent to show up for an exchange of intel with one of the Mandarin's men. Somewhere below him, Li is playing tourist and ready to orchestrate Clint's back-up if he needs it (she has her own gaggle of juniors now). Clint took some stunning panorama pictures of the view earlier, with the camera he's supposed to use only to record the meeting. He'll get an earful for that.
He's looking forward to it.
"Rabbit's in sight, sir," he says when he spots O'Hare walking up the footpath. "Do you want me to narrate or are you going to wait for the pretty pictures?"
He's well out of earshot and might observe a few things they'd miss on the footage. They don't call him Hawkeye for nothing. It's Phil's call, though.
It's always been Phil's call.
His radio clicks once.
"Talk to me, Barton," Phil says, and Clint does.
My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,
My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody.
~ William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream