Work Text:
Tabbouleh crumbled out of Clint’s pita and settled onto his hand, fine specks of chopped mint that if Phil were here he’d lick up with that smirky curl to his lips. Well, probably not in this mixed company, but in the safety of their apartment, sure. Clint looked up, glancing at Tony, who had insisted that he was buying for everyone. “So, mind if we take some back for Coulson? I dunno if this quite meets the standards of his own personal chef magicry, but after today he would probably love some.”
The silence he was met with was the first silence he’d really heard since those moments with Nat in the isolation room as he came out from under Loki’s spell. No one would look at him for a moment, and then Captain Rogers and Nat both did at the same time.
“Clint...”
“Barton...”
He glanced between them, Rogers’ jaw set and Nat’s eyes soft.
“What. What is it?”
Captain Rogers set down his shawarma and looked at Clint in a way Clint didn’t think he much liked. “Agent Coulson was lost on the hellicarrier, before we left. He went down attempting to subdue Loki.” Rogers’ sighed, tipping his head a little. “I guess he was your handler? I’m sorry. Director Fury said he... he wanted us to band together, to fight as the Avengers, that...”
Natasha shook her head at Captain America with a glare that had quelled the spirits of many men. “Clint,” she said, simply, pointing towards the front of the battered restaurant as she got up, graceful as always, and headed in that direction. Clint followed, numb.
Words filtered through his head about how he should be feeling something right now: broken, furious, angry, sad, revengeful, angsty. None of them seemed big enough to express all the things he wanted to feel, felt he should feel, so he just stayed numb, and stopped when Nat stopped him.
“I wanted to tell you, but with the battle... we couldn’t have done that without you, Clint. I’m sorry, I was going to tell you as soon as we got back to HQ and...” She lifted a hand, rested it on his arm, careful of the cuts and scrapes and already-purple bruises there.
“Phil?” Clint asked, as if the knowledge was just seeping into his brain just then. Phil was dead. He might have not been in control of his body, but his body, the traitor, had set Loki free, and Loki had killed Phil.
“Yeah.” Nat replied, giving him a hug, unexpectedly, and pulling back to hurry over to the table. There was some whispers, but Thor seemed unable to understand the concept of what whispering meant, and Clint caught, “Ahhh so the Son of Coul and the noble Hawk were more than shieldbrothers?” which any other time would have made him laugh, but laughter was beyond him at the moment.
He leaned against the wall and tried, tried so hard his brain hurt, which didn’t take much, honestly he was still one step away from migraine central after what Loki had done, to process a world where Agent Phil Coulson wasn’t waiting for him at HQ in an office that was notably bland unless you knew where to look (a movie poster for a Captain America wartime special, a small painting of a supposedly random bird of prey soaring through a field, a rubber band ball carefully constructed during the times he’d been stuck in medbay when Clint would bring him a bag of colored bands to give him something to do).
Surprisingly, it was Stark who came up to him, hardly subtle in the torn up suit. “I... I’ve lost a lot of people. Had a hand in some of it, myself. It sucks, Barton, there’s nothing to it but that. I know I caused Coulson more than my fair share of annoyance, but he was a good guy, and if you need anything, anything, I’m... here, ok?”
Clint looked up, meeting Tony’s eyes. There was genuine kindness there, and for someone he had thought to be a total asshole a few hours previously, Clint had gained a lot of respect for him, even before he tried to sacrifice himself. “Thanks, Tony. I’ll... can... I crash... wherever you guys are going to, tonight? I...” he pressed his lips together. “I can’t, to our apartment... or my SHIELD quarters... not today. After I see... Phil... that is.”
Tony nodded. “Yeah of course, just let me know. Most of the Tower seems to be fairly usable still,” his mouth twitched at the irony as he turned and headed back to the table. Clint sunk to the floor, wanting to be somewhere high, someplace hidden, anywhere but tucked against the corner of a restaurant with his whole team - were they even his team? Nat was, but he had no idea about the rest, considering what he’d done - staring at him, probably, at least, he couldn’t look up and meet their eyes. He sprung to his feet and started for the door, stopping short when Captain Rodgers voice rang out.
“Agent Barton, wait!” He was standing in front of Clint before he’d even really registered that Rodgers was out of his chair. “I need you to wait for us, we’re going to get you back to headquarters, get you to him, ok? I haven’t... I haven’t seen his body yet, but... if you’re next of kin...” Rogers stumbled over the words, a faint flush on his cheeks, “Then I’m sure they’re going to need you there. And Coulson... wouldn’t want you running off by yourself, where we couldn’t help you. Okay?”
Orders. Those were orders, or as close to orders as he thought Rogers was going to give him, all things considering. He wasn’t too good at following orders, but he understood them, especially if they made sense, like Phil’s usually did. He could run off later, lose himself in the air vents at Stark Tower, find a place small and hidden to curl up and cry, if he could get past this vague numbness that seemed intent on clouding everything that should have been an emotion.
“Good man, Barton.” Rogers said, leading him to the table and making sure he was sitting before taking his own chair.
~~~
Fury and Clint had never gotten along, Phil’s voice in his head inserted the word “copasetically” here, but he’d never wanted to use an arrow as a knife and dig the man’s spare eyeball out before.
“What do you mean, Phil’s body is being studied and I can’t see it?” He paused, stared at the way Fury didn’t blink, and muttered, “Fucking hell I thought Stark was supposed to be the heartless one, what is your problem? You knew what Phil and I were to each other, why won’t you let me see him?” He wouldn’t beg. He wouldn’t. He would not beg Nick Fury to see the lifeless body of the only person he had called family since his brother had died.
“Clint... leave it.” Natasha’s voice was closer than he expected, she was always doing that, you’d think he’d be used to it by now.
“No. I need to see him. Now.” He turned and ran, his feet following the path to where he thought it most likely they were keeping him. They wouldn’t let him in. The lab techs referred him to the morgue, and the morgue sent him to Fury. He'd gone in circles for an hour when he found himself in front of Phil's office, and he picked the lock with an efficiency that would have horrified Rogers. There wasn't a thing out of place, even a stray pen was lined up perfectly with the side of the laptop sitting there. Clint was kneeling, forehead pressed against the cold metal edge of the desk, before he realized he'd fallen.
Hours, or minutes later, time where Clint lay curled up somewhere between tears and blank anger, the hand on his shoulder was large and strong, pressing, a comforting presence. "Rogers?" he asked, his voice hoarse. Thor couldn’t ninja if his life depended on it, and no one else but Rogers or Thor had a hand that big or radiated heat like that.
“Yeah, Barton.” He looked around - Cap sat perched on his heels, far away enough that Clint wouldn’t feel threatened but close enough to touch him, his eyes soft and sad. “It’s... it’s really... it’s hard not having anyone to grieve over. To not... see them... I...” He paused, gulping a little. Clint flashed over the stories, the reports he’d read. Barnes, of course. It would be a new wound still, for Rogers, despite the years.
“It fucking sucks, Rogers,” he turned fully around to face their new leader, “It just fucking hurts... knowing Fury he’ll just disappear him, cremate him and ship him off to his sister and I’ll... like it isn’t bad enough... that I basically killed him myself...”
Rogers started in, his mouth opening, but a flash went over his face, a darkness that Clint hadn’t seen there before. “I’ll do what I can, to make sure Fury doesn’t do that to him, to you. He deserves to be known as a hero. And Clint? You... you came to help us as soon as you could, before you’d even had a chance to recover from everything you went through. You couldn’t have helped him, and you didn’t cause it.”
Clint watched Rogers stand easily, his face serious, and nodded. Hearing it from someone who probably blamed himself for both Phil’s death and that of his friend didn’t really help things for Clint, but considering Rogers wasn’t known for being touchy-feely with his emotions, Ice Man and all, it at least was something. “Thanks, Rogers. I’ll hold you to that, with Fury. You’re probably the only one who has any pull with him at this point.”
“I know.” Captain America had never looked so grim. It was rather comforting.
~~~
When the door next opened, Clint snapped out of his miserable half-doze on Phil’s couch and noted that it had been three hours. It was Natasha this time, but Clint could hear Rogers yelling (that was something new) and Stark yelling even louder (not new at all) down the hallway.
“Come with me. Now,” she stated, her vowels changing slightly to remind Clint of her Russian background, which was the only proof he could see that she was upset. Clint knew better than to argue with her when she looked at him like that. He had several scars from having done so in the past.
Both of them knew SHIELD HQ so well that they could have escaped from any number of access points while blindfolded and probably otherwise handicapped. Clint would take the overhead routes, and Natasha the more direct ones, but they both could have been out of the building with a speed that had sometimes caused Director Fury to wonder what would happen if they ever did decide to leave. So when Nat led him down one hallway, and another, and yet another, in a seemingly random route that didn’t, so far as he could tell, lead anywhere, Clint was seriously beginning to get worried. He followed her quietly and quickly, content for the moment to just be led by someone he trusted, even if the end result was likely something dangerous from the way Nat’s shoulders were thrown back, ready to pounce.
The eventual door Nat led him through was unmarked, and the darkened room inside was empty except for another door, but Clint could hear a soft beeping noise from the other side. When she pushed the door open, the sight inside was one that Clint had seen many times: Agent Phil Coulson, spread out on a hospital bed, IVs tethered to his skin, uncomfortably scratchy gown tied around his neck. It seemed like deja-vu for a moment, and he stared, breath caught in his throat, before Natasha was pushing him forward to lean, hover, over the bed.
“Clint,” Phil whispered, a rough tone to his voice and his eyes over-bright, “I’m so sorry they lied to you, Pteetsa.”
Lifting Phil’s hand to his lips, he slowly drew in a breath, his heart beating too fast at hearing the pet-name again (Russian for bird - Phil was so adorably romantic sometimes, not that he wouldn’t normally taser Clint for saying so). His eyes scanned over the face that was far too pale against the white pillow case and he shook his head quickly. “It wasn’t your fault, god don’t be sorry, Phil. Are you... are you going to be okay?”
“Yes, I’ll be alright. The blade nicked my lungs, but missed all other vital organs. I did code, though. Director Fury did think, for a while, that I was dead. But by the time he told the team...” Phil’s voice trailed off and he shrugged faintly, the tiny wince visible there making Clint grasp his hand tighter.
“I’m probably going to kill him for that, but we can deal with that later.” Clint’s lips quirked upwards for a moment as thoughts of tortures flew through his head. “You’re alive. You’re going to be ok.” He looked towards the door, noting that Nat had long since closed it, and lowered the rail of the hospital bed with one hand, refusing to let go of Phil as he climbed up on the bed, making himself as small as he could, and burrowed against Phil’s good side gently, biting his lip raw trying to keep the tears away.
“Probably better that you not kill him, but I understand the sentiment,” Phil moved his hand over Clint’s worn hoodie haltingly, feeling the warmth and muscles beneath it. “Don’t blame yourself, Clint. That’s an order, because I know you are. When Captain Rogers found me, he said you fought as well as Captain Barnes, which is, I assume, the highest compliment he could give someone. You fought like that without knowing that I was supposedly dead, where it took my death to make the rest of them fight. You don’t deserve any blame, and even if you did, you cleared it, alright?”
Clint nodded, his fingers tugging a wad of Phil’s blanket into his fist. “Yeah... okay.”
“Hey, Clint, look at me. Look at me.” Clint looked up, his face tear-wet and almost sullen in his attempt to not cry harder. “I love you, and I’m alive, and I’m going to be fine, and we’re together, okay? Nothing that went wrong was because of you, but even if you had willingly done all that you did, I would still love you. Now kiss me, and then I think I’m going to have to rest for a while, but I don’t want you out of my sight. Understand?”
The bright smile on Clint’s face was the first one he’d had since Nat had told him in the restaurant, and he nodded, raising up on his elbow to brush his fingers feather soft against Phil’s bruised cheek before kissing him, smooth little kisses that could only possibly hint at the emotion and need Clint felt. “Understood, sir, understood.”