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Chapter Text

 The office door was closed. 

It took everything Clint had to open it, but it had to be done.

No, that was a lie—he could disappear without a word, without a trace.  It would be easier for . . . for a lot of people if he did.  Maybe even himself.

But the easy way had never been his style.

Clint opened the door, walked quietly to the desk, and waited as Phil finished jotting a note or two onto a report.

To anyone else, Phil would have seemed his perfectly groomed, unruffled self.  But Clint knew the lines around the blue eyes meant the other man hadn't been sleeping well and his rigid posture meant his back was giving him grief.

He opened his mouth, then closed it.  Even if Phil—Coulson—wouldn't automatically brush off Clint's concern, it wasn't his place anymore.

No, that wasn't right. 

It never had been.

He managed to get his expression under control as Ph—Coulson looked up.

"Barton?"  He set down his pen without retracting the point—a rare nervous tell.

Clint understood.  It had been three days since Clint had been confronted with proof that he couldn't possibly deny, ignore, or explain away.  The aftermath hadn't been pretty.

"Sir."  Clint handed him the packet and stood at attention. Just another mission, he reminded himself.  Just another sit-rep.

Coulson opened his mouth, clearly thought better of it, and opened the folder.  “What’s this?” he asked, frowning as he paged through the carefully completed forms.

"Your copy of my resignation, sir.  It includes all the non-disclosure agreements and mission reassignments, vacation reimbursement, and civilian insurance forms.   You’ll also find a notice about appointing Natasha as my medical proxy, next-of-kin, and sole beneficiary—I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable if I don’t live to cash my IRA.  It’s been approved by Personnel and cc'd to Fury and Hill. Woo completed my exit interview, but since you're still on record as my handler, I thought it was only right to deliver your  preferred hard copy in person.”

He took a breath to deliver his exit line—It's been an honor working with you.

But Coulson was shaking his head, his expression grim.  “You can’t leave."

Hope flared under Clint’s ribcage, only to die when he heard the next sentence. 

"The Avengers need you.”

Luckily, Clint had prepped an answer for that.  “Agent Bishop will be taking my place.  She’s almost as good as I am and she won’t throw Captain America off his game.”

“You don’t have to—“

“The Avengers need him more than they need me.”  He forced a smile.  “Lot of that going around.”

Coulson actually flinched.  “SHIELD needs operatives with your skills," he said.  "I won’t—“

“I can’t stay,” Clint interrupted, not wanting to hear Phil's—Coulson's, damn it—plans to avoid him.  “There aren't many agents who trust me after Loki turned me inside out, and I don't blame them.  I'm not sure I trust me," he added, before he thought.    It was a habit, telling Coulson things.

"The nightmares are back?" Coulson asked, with that touch of concern that had always helped center Clint, anchor him.

Now, it was too little, too late. 

Because if Coulson had actually cared, he wouldn't have had to ask.

But Clint didn't want to get into that.  He wanted to be done and gone.  "Even if they're willing to forgive and forget," he said, more sharply than he wanted.  "I'm not."

Coulson went still.

Clint sighed.  He hadn't meant the phrase to have a double meaning, but he was off-script now, anyway.  He waited for whatever came next. 

Coulson hesitated, then closed the folder and lined it up precisely in front of him.  “If this is what you want," he said, in his Calm Agent Interrogation Voice.

He knew better than to react to that tactic—he'd been trained not to react to it, for God's sake—but he wasn't an agent any more, and Coulson apparently wasn't inclined to accept a bloodless victory and allow Clint a semi-graceful exit, so the hell with it.

“It’s not," he said.  "It’s not what I wanted.  I wanted . . .”   He shrugged and pulled out the velvet-covered box he'd shoved into his jacket pocket at the last minute.  Leaving it behind had felt . . . wrong.  And he hadn't wanted the others—especially Stark or, God help him, Natasha—to find it.

“I jump into stuff,” he said.  “Leap first, think later.  And I’ve always seen things better from a distance.  Guess I don't have to tell you that.”

Phil stared at the box as Clint fiddled with it.

“So when you wanted to keep us on the QT, I assumed it was to keep the gossip down, so no one would think I was your weakness or that I was sleeping my way to a level five.   I got too close, too fast to see that the reason you didn't want to tell anyone is that you just weren't that into me.”

He saw Phil swallow.  “That wasn’t the reason,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“Doesn't matter,” Clint said, shrugging.  “I just wish I'd known sooner that we were only, what, co-workers with benefits?  Especially before I'd wasted two month's pay on these."  He opened the box and looked at the rings, remembering how nervous and excited he'd been when he found them, and how absolutely sure he was making the best decision of his life.  "You know, it's funny," he said, snapping the box closed.

"Funny?" Coulson echoed, still looking at the box.

"Once it dawned on me that I’d been kidding myself, I was actually grateful that you blew off our anniversary dinner.  I mean, at least I wasn’t rejected point blank—or left at the altar, talk about embarrassing.”

Coulson made a soft noise.

“But now that I've had time to think about it, I wish you’d respected me enough to tell me you’d fallen in love with someone else.  Because the way you did it, just shutting me out without a word, as if what we shar—as if our time together meant less than nothing at all?  Hurt a hell of a lot worse."

Coulson was staring at him now, as if trying to work out a puzzle.

“You know how clueless I am about personal stuff, sir.  It would have helped if you’d just told me that you didn’t want me anymore.  Do you know how it felt to hear it from our—from other people?  Who were so happy for you that they couldn't help telling me every, single, adorable detail about how you two were so right for each other?"

“I couldn't—"  Coulson cleared his throat.  "I never meant to hurt you, but—“

“I know," said Clint, through his teeth.  "You would have had to remember I exist to want to hurt me.  And you haven’t. Not for a while now.”

“That’s not true—“

“When was the last time we had dinner together—alone?  Lunch in the canteen?  A pack of doughnuts over paperwork?  Whenever I ask, you already have plans or you accept and forget to show.  When I want to talk to you, even about  actual SHIELD business, you’re on your way out—Sitwell has a pool going about what I did to get the cold shoulder.  And I finally had to ask JARVIS when I wanted to know if you were in the Tower, because you sure as hell never bothered dropping by to say hello.'

"But you know, I still  gave you the benefit of the doubt."  He gripped the box in one fist until it gave a little under his fingers.  “I figured you were crazy busy.  It happens. But it never once occurred to me that you were getting crazy busy with Captain fucking America.”

“I haven’t—“

Clint cut him off with a sharp gesture, anger boiling up.  “You screamed his name when we were making lo—fucking.  Did you know that?  You begged him to do you harder while I was inside you.”  He forced himself not to dry heave.  "And that's the last time you touched me at all.  That's the last time you've even been in our—in my quarters, at least while I was there.  You'd think that would've been a clue," he added.  “But that was when I thought I was more than a convenient screw.”

The shock was plain on his ex-lov—his ex-handler's face.  “You aren’t—How could you . . . “  He paused and his eyes closed.  “Oh, god, Clint—I'm so sorry.”

The anger had given way to emptiness.  “So am I.  I trusted you.  I trusted you with my heart—well, we both know that’s not worth much, right?”

“Clint—“

“But I also trusted you with my life—in the field and out—since the moment I met you. And now I can’t."  He hesitated, then reached over and placed the box on the folder.  "Here.  I can't return 'em, but maybe Tony can take the engraving off for you—or if that's too tacky, maybe melt 'em into cufflinks."  He stepped back and rubbed his face.  "Steve's a good guy.  I don't like him much right now, but he's all the things I never was, and I have to respect that.  So be happy.  And. . .  just be honest with him, okay?"  He turned and headed for the door.

"Where will you go?" Coulson asked.  His voice was just a shade too thick to be normal.

"To clear out my locker," he said, without turning around.  "After that, who knows?"  He took a deep breath. "It's been an honor working with you, sir."

Opening the door was easier this time. 

By the time he pulled it shut, Coulson was on the phone, speaking to someone in his politest Do Not Mess With This Agent voice.

Forgotten in five seconds.  Must be a record.

Clint shook his head and made his way down to the training level, not caring any more whether anyone glanced or glared at him.

He opened his locker and pulled out his go bag, setting it on the bench to check for SHIELD property.  He needed to drop the spare arm guard and arrowheads off at the Armory, but the knife set was his—a birthday gift from Natasha. 

The purple ripstop nylon shaving kit had been a gift from Coulson, which was why it was so full of lube and condoms there wasn't room for a razor.  He winged it toward the nearest trashcan without looking and started sorting through the stuff on the top shelf. 

His.  SHIELD's. Coulson's.

There wasn't a lot that was his.  Figured.

He was shoving a couple of spare tee shirts into the bag when someone set the shaving kit down on the bench.

"Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on, Agent Barton?" said Fury.

"I quit, sir," Clint said, without looking at him.  "Officially."

"I'm aware of that, Agent.  Tell me something I don't know."

"Did you know Agent Coulson and I have been in a personal relationship for over three years, sir?"

There was a pause.  "No, I did not."

Clint tossed everything that wasn't his back into the locker and shut it carefully. "Neither did he, sir."

"I see. So your love life is more important than the Avengers Initiative and SHIELD?"

"No, sir.  It isn't."  Clint zipped up the bag and stood at parade rest.  "That's why I'm leaving."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fury purse his lips together.  "And what if I told you that Agent Coulson and Captain Rogers are on a need-to-know undercover mission?  One that you did not need to know about.  And that this mission, as many do, involves—"

"Going under the covers?"  Clint couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice—but he'd always been more sniper than spy.

"Something like that."

Clint told himself that ex-SHIELD or not, he couldn't tell Nick Fury to fuck himself sideways. "Then I'd remind you, sir, that agents in committed relationships can refuse or modify missions that include actions that they and their partners would consider infidelity.  If Agent Coulson thought he was in a relationship, he would have reported it to you and changed the mission parameters to exclude sex.  But he didn't."

Fury went still.  "You know this for a fact, Agent?"

(Oh, God, please, slam it harder! Harder! I want, God, you feel so good I've never been so I can't hold on I'm going to—I can't, oh, God, Steve, I can't, I love—STEVE!! )

His head snapped up and he looked Fury right in the eye.  "Yes.  I do."

Fury blinked.  "Are you sure?"

"With all due respect, sir," Clint said, his voice so low it hurt his throat, "you do not want to ask me that question again."

Fury gave a short nod.  "And if I told you to work through it like the professional I thought you were?"

"I'd tell you that I’m too much of a distraction to be of any use.  I'm persona non grata at SHIELD and Captain America is going to be far too uncomfortable having me on the team.  It’s better if I remove myself before anything goes FUBAR in the field."

"What about the other Avengers?"

"The only ones who know we were anything other than agent and handler are Captain Rogers and Agent Romanov.  The others are only aware that Captain Rogers and Agent Coulson are . . . together now." 

And they were so pleased about it.  Stark was already planning Steve's Coming Out party.  It would have been hilarious, if it hadn't hurt so damn much.

Fury raised his eyebrows.  "Interesting, but I wanted to know if you told them you're leaving."

"They think I'm taking a sabbatical so I can deal with being compromised."  It was the truth, except for the sabbatical part.  And which compromise he meant.  "I’ve left a message for Romanov."  She wouldn’t be back from Mombasa for a couple weeks.  By the time she found him, he might be able to tell her he was okay without tripping her bullshit sensors.

Fury wasn't done.  "How does Agent Coulson feel about your resignation?"

"Maybe a little guilty that he didn’t make himself clear, but mostly relieved, sir.”  He snorted.  “Out of sight, out of mind.  It wasn't his fault I made assumptions about the seriousness of our . . . interactions ," he added.  "That’s all on me.  And Captain Rogers . .  . I'm not sure he knew until I said something." 

Loudly. In the middle of Poisson D'or.  Where Steve and Coulson had been feeding each other pieces of calamari, so intent on tasting each other’s fingers that it took them a while to notice Clint standing there in his hoodie and jeans.

Fury studied him.  "All right, then.  It’s your turn to ask questions.  Start by asking me how I feel about allowing one of our best assets to throw his career away because our fraternization policies need a little tweaking."

"Sir?"

"I don't know the answer, Agent Barton, because it's never going to happen."  Fury smiled.  "We have several remote outposts due for inspection.  You will go inspect them.  Thoroughly.  Should give you the time and distance you need to see clearly.  And when you're finished, we can revisit your future plans." 

Clint struggled with himself, half annoyed, half grateful for the reprieve. "Personnel already has—"

"A stack of misfiled forms, without my signature." Fury finished.  "No one knows where our inspectors go but me," he added.

"No one else will care, sir.  Except maybe Agent Romanov."

"Strike me off your pity party guest list and move," said Fury.  "You're up in fifteen.  Your supplies and mission specs will meet you at the next jump."

"Yes, sir."  Clint shouldered his bag.  "Thank you, sir."

"You might need this."  Fury held out the shaving kit.

Clint looked at it.  "I genuinely doubt it.  Sir."

Fury raised an eyebrow.  "Humor me," he said.

Clint took it and glanced at the trash can.

"Thirteen minutes, Agent."

Clint nodded and left.

Before he could touch the door, it swung open and he was suddenly face to face—or face to upper chest— with Steve.

"Clint!" said Steve.  He was out of breath, which looked odd on him.  "Phil told me you're leaving."

Of course he had. "I'm trying."  Clint tried to brush past, but the taller man blocked his way.  "Why are you stopping me?"

Steve ran a hand through his hair.  He looked impossibly young and handsome and guilty as hell. "Look," he said.  "I can imagine how—"

"No," said Clint. "You can't."

"Please, can't we talk this out?"

"No.  Move."

"But I need to explain.  I didn't know that you two were involved."

"That makes two of you," said Clint.  He couldn't see his own expression, but Steve blanched.

Good.

"Step aside, Captain Rogers," said Fury.

Steve shot a look over Clint's head.  He didn't look happy, but he got out of the way.

Clint paused.  "I wish I could say I'm happy he's happy, and I'm glad it was you.  But that's not going to happen for a long time, so find another way to deal with your guilt and leave me the hell alone."

"Clint, please," said Steve, sounding desperate.  "We never meant for any of this to happen."

Here," he said shoving the shaving kit into Steve's stomach hard enough to rock him.  "The winner gets a trophy."

And he was gone.

Chapter Text

Fury's idea of thorough inspections had kept Clint too busy to think about anything else for nine weeks.

Almost.

It hadn't been so bad, most of the time. None of the SHIELD personnel at the stations he’d visited—mostly support staff and security details with the occasional team of scientists—had recognized Agent “Robert Huntington” as either Agent Clint Barton or Hawkeye, so he was spared most of the reactions he'd come to expect since the Battle of Manhattan.  

He still made people nervous, but inspectors tended to do that—it wasn't personal; it was his unexpected arrival, nosy questions, and the truly massive amount of paperwork that arrived with him.

He could work with impersonal distrust.  Gladly. 

And he had, from early morning to late at night.

It was the remaining five hours of the day that were killing him.

He rolled over in the bunk and banged his elbow on the concrete wall.  He’d rated private sleeping quarters with a coded lock on the door and his own commode, but it was a good thing Stark Tower hadn’t ruined his tolerance for SHIELD’s idea of luxury.

Then again, claustrophobia might have given him something do to when the insomnia hit.

That hadn't been a problem for the last couple of weeks—Paraná had been an utter clusterfuck of mismanagement, graft, borderline treason, and hot-potato-avoidance of responsibility, a situation that had Clint on constant alert for recorded bribes, arranged accidents, and not-so-friendly fire—not to mention risking carpal tunnel in his writing hand—by the time he'd managed to pin down the source of the rot.  Literally.  

Which had brought him here to Ukkusiksalik on a danger-fueled adrenaline high that had driven him—assisted by competent supervisors and scientists willing to explain their progress in as few syllables as possible, if it meant he would let them get on with it—to get everything observed, evaluated, corrected, reviewed, and signed-off days ahead of schedule.

So he’d coded and sent his last reports to Fury, requested his next assignment, and treated himself to dinner in the canteen, because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a meal that needed silverware. 

It hadn't bothered him to sit alone.  He knew that wasn't a great sign, but he'd been too worn out to care.

The news anchor on the wall screen had been speaking Québécois French.  Clint understood her well enough but tuned out the reports of politics, weather, and the latest economic crisis in favor of his game-sausage poutine. 

Until he heard “. . . Les Vengeurs ont secouru une Dame célèbre aujourd'hui . . .”

His head snapped up automatically and he saw a clip of Captain America fighting off several flying machines that were tearing the copper skin from the Statue of Liberty, followed by a few seconds of a slim figure shooting arrows from the torch.  It looked as if Iron Man had traced the origins of the control signal to a nearby boat, because he fired two rockets and sank it. The metal scavengers hovered harmlessly in midair and were destroyed by Thor, who looked like he was enjoying the exercise.

It cut to a commercial.

Clint stared down at his plate and stabbed a fry in half with his fork.  Apparently, Northern Canada wasn’t enough distance. 

Though it was good to know he'd been right about Kate—the kid had the eye. 

The anchor said, “Deux heures après l'attaque, les Vengeurs répond aux questions de la presse."

Clint forced himself to take another bite and flicked another glance at the screen.  The camera panned slowly across the team: Steve, still wearing his uniform and cowl; Tony  looking bored in Armani; Thor looking noble in breastplate and cloak; and Kate Bishop, who was clearly stoked, even through the plain purple eye-mask he'd bet SHIELD had made her wear. Bruce, Clint noticed without surprise, was missing. 

He wondered where Natasha was.  She'd been due back from Mombasa a couple weeks ago—he'd half expected her to show up in Brazil and wasn't sure he wasn't disappointed that she hadn't.  Though she might be giving him space, even if she'd seen through the sabbatical thing . . . Tasha understood about needing room to rebuild.

And then the camera slowly pulled back to frame the dais at the New York City Hall Press Room, including the man standing behind Kate. 

Phil Coulson.  Wearing his second favorite suit, his third favorite tie, sunglasses, a Bluetooth, and a pleasantly neutral expression.

Clint's heart gave a thunk in his chest.

An American voice was saying, “. . . for your new archer.  Is your presence a result of public demand for more gender balance in the Avengers?”

Clint tensed, but no one in the canteen seemed to be paying much attention to the screen or to him. 

 “Wow.” said Kate.  “You’ve managed to insult me, Hawkeye, and every capable human being not sporting a Y chromosome, with a single stupid question.  Congratulations. ”

Tony leaned forward.  “As much as I’d love to add as many dangerous women as possible to the team, Maid Marion here is only filling in for our regular guy.”

“So Hawkeye hasn’t left the Avengers?” a different reporter asked.

Steve turned his head toward Coulson, whose face showed . . . nothing.

“No,” Steve said, facing the microphone again.  “No, he’ll be returning soon."

“Where is he?” asked the same reporter.

“That’s classified,” Steve said, in his Captain Voice.

A female voice piped up. “Are he and the Black Widow on their honeymoon?”

"If they are," Tony said.  "I've won the pool at work."

There had been general laughter.  But Coulson's expression hadn't changed.

"Why are we talking about people who aren’t here when I am?" Tony had added.  "C’mon—you know everyone is waiting for you to ask me how I saved the damsel in distress.”

Clint had stood up, dumped his dinner, and turned in early.

Several hours later, he was in his narrow bunk, staring at the ceiling.

God, he missed Coulson.  Nearly as much as he missed Phil. 

Or at least missed knowing that Phil belonged to him.

Or thinking that he knew . . .

How had he missed the signs that Phil was humoring him?  For three years?  Could he have been that willfully ignorant?

Had he been a pest, rather than an old habit?

No.   

No, Phil had been attracted, at least at first—Clint couldn’t think of any reason he would've faked that, even to keep a lovesick asset on target.  So maybe Clint hadn’t been stupid, just . . . too willing to take for granted that Phil had fallen as hard as he had.   Maybe he could have learned to love Clint, given enough time . . .

Except SHIELD had found Captain America, instead.

Phil had been over the moon, as excited as a little kid.  Clint had to fight down some jealousy over all the attention Phil had focused on his comatose childhood hero, but he'd understood.  And Phil had tried to make lunch most days and at least called him every night he didn’t make it to the apartment, so Clint figured he could handle his partner's patriotic fanboy crush on an American icon.

But he hadn’t given much thought about the real person wearing the red, white, and blue.

The man who was heroic and smart, kind and strong, and who knew about art and tactics and playing by the rules.  A man who wasn't an ex-circus performer whose own brother hadn’t given a damn and who’d never been a thief or a killer for hire—he’d been born knowing right from wrong, and none of the wartime blood he'd shed had stuck to his ledger.

Oh, yeah, he knew why Phil wanted Steve Rogers.  They were the same reasons Clint wanted Phil.

He just wished . . . if Phil had left him because he’d screwed up, he might have had a chance to fix what was wrong.  If he’d thought he had a chance, he would have fought with everything he had.

But how could he fight being the wrong person?

He rolled over again, bashed the other elbow, and gave up.  In three hours, he was heading out for Russia— Novosibirsk, or near enough—so he would have plenty of time to sleep in transit.

He sat up, turned on the light, and reached for the documents case he’d prepared for his next stop.  Instead, his fingers touched the canvas of the bag that had been included with the more conventional supplies that SHIELD found necessary for its inspectors to lug around.  His hand squeezed the handle once, hard, before moving to the case.

He couldn't go to the range.  Not when he couldn't be himself.

So he might as well get a head-start on form 678a-N.

Chapter Text

Within thirty-six hours of landing at the Tolmachevo airport, Clint had discovered three things: SHIELD's interests in Western Siberia were far more complex than he'd assumed; the climate was a damn sight colder than he'd hoped; and Gregori Arturovich Mitrokhin was some kind of damned empath.

Agent in Charge Mitrokhin—"Call me Gregori!"—had met him on the tarmac and driven him the forty miles from Novosibirsk to the base, talking all the while of this and that in his Moscow-cadenced English and amiably ignoring the bluntness of Clint's replies.  He'd taken him on an initial tour of the facility, which was mostly underground, given him all the passcodes and authorizations he needed without argument, and told him that if there were any problems to see him right away—though it was obvious he didn't expect any.

Clint didn't find any, at least not for the six hours he spent going through the personnel files.  The first one was for Gregori, who was in charge of SHIELD  operations for most of Central Russia.

The son of Cold War sleeper agents operating as clerks in the Kremlin library archives until the final death throes of the Soviet socialist state, Gregori had apparently jumped at the chance to serve both of his countries through SHIELD, who had recruited him right out of George Washington University. He'd been in the field for ten years, a handler for six, and an administrator for five—all in the Russian Federation.  He was listed as a Level Six, though there were signs that if Level Seven was more than a myth, Gregori would rank it.

And he could teach Natasha something about interrogation techniques.

Clint didn't read that in his files.  He experienced it first-hand.

He'd managed to sleep on the plane—it was either that or spend twelve hours in a flying tin can, plus a three hour layover in Juneau, going over every moment of that press conference, no thanks—and since they’d sent him East, for a change, he hadn't been particularly jet-lagged.  But he’d still seen blue sparkles around the edges of his vision that were either a Loki flashback or a pre-migraine aura.

Either way, he'd known the nightmares would be bad that night.  And he'd been right—though instead of Loki, it had been Phil with the spear and a mocking smile:  You have heart . . .

He'd scraped himself out of bed the next morning, showered, and dived head first into the budget, planning on drowning himself in requisitions and expenditure reports until the numbers streamed behind his eyelids and blocked everything else out when—if—he fell asleep.

But Gregori had knocked on the door of his quarters an hour or so after what would have been dinner, if Clint had noticed, and after a pleasantry or two, and a detailed discussion about the amount of equipment needed to monitor the Novosibirsk shortwave relay station, the Agent in Charge had looked him over with his startling green eyes, and said "You look as if you are in need of a drink and an ear.  Come with me."

He was.  So he had. 

Gregori took him back up into the bitingly cold fresh air and a mile down the road to a small tavern, where the barkeep grinned with fewer teeth and more genuine humor than his New York counterparts and supplied them with a full bottle of better vodka than Tony stocked in his personal wet bars.

"What are we drinking to?" asked Gregori, after he considerately settled his bulk halfway around a small table in a corner near the back exit, so Clint could have his back to the wall as well.

He remembered the last time he’d given drunkenness as an answer—Natasha had bruised his rib with her elbow. “To our health,” he said, falling back on tradition.

They raised their glasses, drank, and refilled.  The bartender’s wife brought platefuls of fried brown bread, salty strips of cheese that Clint had heard Natasha call checha, and a bowl of pickles so sour they snapped him awake like a jolt of electricity to the tongue. 

“To women!” Gregori said, lifting his glass to the woman as she rolled her eyes and flapped a hand at him.

Clint smiled—for the first time in forever—and lifted his glass, too.  “You’re married,” he said, pointing to the ring on Gregori's right hand.  “To Yvonne Sauvageot—your head of security, right?”

“Yes."  Gregori beamed through his neatly-trimmed beard.  "We married three years after joining SHIELD.”

“You’re a lucky man,” Clint said, meaning it.  He’d met Agent Sauvageot briefly on the tour, a stunning brunette with a sultry voice who looked like she could bench press the Hulk. 

“You have someone, too?” asked Gregori.

“No."  Clint tossed back half his glass.

"Ah.  You had someone."

"Yeah.  He found someone else."  Clint checked the other man's expression, saw that he wasn't disturbed by the pronoun, and relaxed.  "And he didn’t bother to tell me," he added, because the vodka was good, the company wasn’t involved . . . and maybe he did need an ear.

Gregori grimaced. "Not good," he said.  "You are better off then, yes?"

"Not so far," Clint mumbled around a piece of bread. "But it’s only been a couple months.  He was in my life a long time, one way or another.  He recruited me and was my handler for about eight years.  I trusted him.  With everything." 

“So he wasn’t always keeping secrets?” Gregory asked, a hint of Level Six-Plus Agent surfacing in the jovial drinking companion.

Clint shook his head. "No—he always kept SHIELD separate.  There were things he couldn’t and wouldn’t tell me, because he's a level—he's a higher level than me and if it was above my clearance he never gave me a chance to pry.  And he never lied to me about anything personal.  He just stopped telling me that he. . .” He shut up and drank.  “They were required to get close for a mission,” he said.  “I know why he didn’t tell me about it—it was eyes only.”

“But he could have told his superiors,” Gregori finished.

“Yeah.  That was a wake-up call. I thought we were heading down the aisle together and he thought we just happened to be walking in the same direction.”

"So he was playing?”

"I think he was settling," Clint said.  "Until St—until the love of his life came along."

"And then he started lying.”

"He didn't say anything at all.  About anything—I barely saw him for months.  But there were signs."  He wasn't about to tell Gregori about Coulson screaming Steve's name in bed.  He didn't care how good the vodka was.

"What did he say when you asked him about these signs?"

"I didn't ask.  I didn't . . ."  Clint exhaled.  “I didn't want to hear why he was leaving me.  If I didn't know, I could still tell myself everything was fine—and I know how pathetic that sounds.  And then I caught them together.  At a restaurant," he added as the other man's eyebrows shot up. 

"Ah.  So he finally told you?"

"He said he would explain later.  But I saw what I saw and knew what I knew, so I packed up and got myself reassigned.  Kept too busy to think about it."

Gregori gave him a look of polite disbelief and started to say something, but the bartender’s wife came by to whisk away the empty platters and bring plates full of pirozhki. And another bottle.

After they’d demolished most of the food and toasted the first drink out of the new bottle.   Gregori leaned back in his seat.  "I am not excusing what he did," he said slowly, "but it seems to me that it is not right to blame a man for not telling you something that you were trying not to hear.  And strange that a man who has never lied to you would shy away from telling you the truth in this, even by omission.  And after you knew, what had he to lose?”

Clint hadn't thought about that. “Maybe his own self-respect?" he said slowly.

“Lying does not save that, my friend."

"Then I don’t know.  Maybe it's just his MO?  He never told anyone about me, either.  He said he wanted it private, just between us.  Even St—even the other man didn't know.”  Clint shrugged.  “Or maybe that's it—he just didn't want to look like a two-timing jerk to him." 

But Coulson would have known Clint would make some kind of stink when he found out. . . except he hadn’t, despite all the clues.  Until Tony had mentioned which restaurant Coulson was taking Steve for a romantic evening.   He’d chalked up the insider knowledge to the guy's gleeful nosiness, but what if it had been a set up?

“Did he want me to find out?  Was he trying to get me to leave him?”  Clint drank more vodka.  “No, that doesn’t make sense—drunk or sober.”

Gregori set down his glass. “You know . . . love does not conquer fear.  Only we can do that.  Love,” he said, tapping his heart, “is for children.”

“I have a friend who says that.  A lot."

"She must be Russian."

"She must be." 

“Did your Russian friend tell you the rest?”  At Clint’s headshake he said, “Love is for children, because only men prefer fear.  And women, too," he added.

“My Yvonne, she is a beautiful woman.  Her smile, her voice, her heart, her . . .” he lifted his hands, but stopped, smiled, and put them down.  “Well.  But she is also a big, strong woman and has been told many times from a child that her size is wrong, that she is wrong.  She was afraid no one would ever love her because she does not see they are wrong.  So when I first ask her to go to dinner with me, a real date, she thinks I am laughing at her and breaks my nose when we spar.  She held onto her fears, you see, instead of accepting that I love her.  It took me a long, long time to help her see what I see when I look at her.  And then she did not fear love.”

“I can’t imagine him being afraid,” said Clint. “He’s one of the bravest men I know."

“You said that he brought you into SHIELD?  He is maybe older than you?”

“Not much.  Nine years.”

“He is a field agent?"

“He's one of the best, but he's mostly an on-site handler now. Or was, until—there was an accident.  He almost died.”

“So.  He drives a desk?”

Clint couldn't help an eye roll.  “He drives everyone.  He always has.  Especially himself.  He's been working on getting back to full field status and I kept telling him not to try to do too much at once.  I don't—didn't—want him to have a relapse.”

“Mmmm."  Gregori looked at his glass, as if it was telling him something.

"But that's not my job anymore.”  Clint drained his glass one last time and set it upside down on the table.  “I loved him with everything I had and . . . he didn’t.”

“You do not know that for sure,” said Gregori gently.  “Because you were too afraid to ask.”

"Well, I can't ask him now."

"Why not?  If he says he does not, you have lost nothing.  But have you thought of what you will do if you ask . . . and he says he does?"

"Yeah." Clint stared at him.  "Why would I believe anything he says now ?"

The other man shrugged.  "Why did you believe in him then?"

Clint blew out a breath.  The he turned his glass over, filled it, and told him.

He spoke about the times, even before they had so much as kissed, that Phil had smiled at him, listened to him, even broken protocol for him.  He spoke—barring certain specifics—about the times Phil had held him and asked to be held, especially in those post-Loki days, when they were both piecing themselves back together and needed reassurance that the other was still alive.

The times Clint had found his favorite dinner waiting for him when he dragged himself back to base—and his favorite cook, too.  The lazy days off spent watching hours of reality TV on the couch and the busy days spent in Phil's office, filling out reports and arguing over who's turn it was to make a coffee run.  The way that they always woke up in each other's arms, or at least holding hands.

And the intent look on Phil's face whenever Clint opened his eyes and found himself back in Medical—he was always there when Clint got himself hurt.  Always, even the last time, when Clint was trying desperately to stay in denial.

Clint fell silent, thinking about how Phil had looked him over with that intent gaze, kissed him just as fiercely as he always had, confirmed with the doctors that he was stable, and then had left, citing an appointment he couldn't miss.  In retrospect, he was probably late to meet Steve.

But he had been there.

Phil did care.  Maybe not the way Clint thought he had—but then, he didn't know for sure.

He hadn't asked.

On the walk back to base, Clint had been reminded once again that drinking alcohol does not actually keep people warm. "Why is it so fucking cold?" he'd asked.  "It wasn't this cold the last time I was in Russia—and that was up in Vorkuta."

"Sometimes the temperature drops suddenly this time of year," Gregori had said.  He'd smiled a little. "It is called an Epiphany frost." 

Clint had stopped.  "Are you for real?"

Gregori had laughed.  "That is above your clearance level, Agent Barton.  But you are welcome to ask my wife."

Clint had laughed, too, until he'd choked and Gregori had brought him into a hug and said nothing about the tears that froze in a silvery patch on the shoulder of his coat and burned red streaks on Clint's face.

It wasn't until Clint was showered, warm, and staring at the ceiling above his bunk wondering if he was the only man in the world with vodka-resistant insomnia that he realized Gregori had called him Agent Barton instead of Agent Huntington.

He sat up, fought down the automatic flight response, and thought about it.

Well.  Hell.

He stood up, put on some sweats, picked up the canvas bag, and went to find the range.

It was deserted, which suited him just fine—he had a reputation to uphold, even if he was one of two, or three, here who knew it.  And he hadn't trained in two months.

Halfway through his second quiver, a voice spoke behind him.

"I can't believe you tried to hide from me in Russia."

"I didn't," he said, quick-firing an arrow to fill the corner into a square—the vodka didn't help, but he was hitting what he wanted, where he wanted, which was more than he probably deserved.  "I went where I was sent.  I take it that you and Gregori are friends?"

"It is difficult to be enemies with Gregori," she said. "I wouldn't recommend trying."

"Neither would I," he said and crossed the square with two rows of arrows, as fast as he could.  "Stark thinks we're on our honeymoon."

She expressed her opinion about Stark's supposed genius in a single derisive sniff. "Why aren't you on yours?"

"I don't know," he said, sending the last arrow into the bull's-eye.  He lowered the bow and turned to look at her.  Part of him noted that she'd cut her hair short again and had gone back to red.  The rest noticed the concern she was trying to hide.  "But I think I'm almost ready to find out."

"Good," said Natasha.  "Because I have something to show you."

Chapter Text

"You look like hell, by the way," Nat said, walking next to him down the corridor to his quarters.

"Thanks.  I like what you've done with your hair."

"You've lost weight," she said, ignoring him.   "And you haven't been sleeping."

"Workaholism is a harsh mistress," he said pressing his thumb to the scanner.  "And those G-37h forms are a real bitch."

She let the door close behind them and leaned against it before asking, "Are you trying to forget Coulson, or turn into him?"

He shook his head, unsurprised, and lowered himself to his bunk, setting the canvas bag to one side.  "How much do you know?"

"I know that whatever you decide to do and wherever you end up, I'll have your back." Her eyes searched his.    "I hope that's what you know, too."

"Yeah."  He did.  "I'm sorry I didn't—"

"Don't be.  It's not the first time one of us has needed time and distance to get some perspective."  She smirked. "And I forgive you for lying to me about it.  As long as it's working."

"Slow going, but yeah.  Gregori helped."

"He does that.  And I have something that might help you make an informed decision."  She held up a flash drive.

He hesitated. "What is it?"

"Just a conversation," she said, in that matter-of-fact way far too many marks had believed.

"You sure?"

Her smile was tight. "It might have become a little pointed."

"Tasha—"

"Look," she said.  "I'm not romantic.  I never will be.  I'm too calculating and practical to see the point.  And I don't know if I'll ever be able to let go enough to allow . . . entanglements."

"Love is for children," he said, softly.  "Because only men prefer—"

"Yes," she said.  "But as far as I'm able to care about anyone, I . . . care.  About you."

He knew that.  And he knew she cared more than she could give herself credit for feeling, and that this was part of the debt she thought she owed him. He also knew better than to acknowledge any of it with more than a single nod.

She relaxed a fraction. "And I'm a spy. So I gathered intel.  You don't have to use it.  But it's there."

He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He knew he should talk to Phil in person.  But there was no denying that forewarned was forearmed . . .  "Okay," he said.

She took a half-step to reach the small table he was using as a desk and opened his laptop.  "Password?"

He got up and entered today's random string of characters, not because he thought he could keep secrets from her, but because it was easier than reciting it.  She plugged in the drive and pulled out the chair. "Sit."

He sat.

A window opened on the screen, showing Phil sitting frozen at his desk at three-quarter angle from about fifteen feet away.  The time stamp in the corner said it was taken nine days ago.

"You planted a camera in the wall vent?" he asked, knowing it was a stupid question, but safer than anything else he could've said.

"And jammed his white noise filters and signal detectors." She shrugged.  "You would do the same for me."

He thought that if anyone ever broke her heart, he'd probably put a couple arrows into the asshole's knees instead, but he knew arguing about it would only be a way of delaying, so he turned his attention to the screen.

At the Press Conference, Coulson had looked perfectly put together.  On this screen, he looked anything but.  His tie was askew, his hair was rumpled, and he had dark circles under his eyes. 

Clint wished he felt glad about that, but he didn't.

The recording began and Clint heard music, something slow and bluesy, with a violin.  It was familiar, but he couldn’t immediately place it.

Coulson tossed down his pen and scrubbed at his face, then looked sharply to one side and straightened in his seat.  He tapped his keyboard and the music stopped.

"Welcome back, Agent Romanov," he said, as Natasha strode into view, wearing one of the casual-chic outfits she favored between missions.

She stopped in front of the desk and folded her arms.  "Where's Clint?" Her tone was not casual.

"He's on sabbatical to work through the effects of—"

"I heard.  If it was true, you would have informed me the moment I landed.  So tell me why all of Clint’s gear is gone from the Tower, why you look like Bruce’s alter ego sat on you, and why Steve is avoiding me."

Coulson met her gaze for a long moment before his jaw muscles worked and he dropped his head.   “He left," he said quietly.  "Clint left me and I can't find him.  And it’s all my fault.”

Clint blinked.   Nothing about the Avengers, nothing about SHIELD.

Phil shook his head.  "I made the wrong calls all down the line and it snowballed.  And Clint—I hurt him, Natasha."

“On purpose?”

The answer was immediate. “Never,” said Phil. "But that didn't stop me."

"Tell me," she said.

"I was assigned an eyes-only mission."

"Should you be telling me this?"

"I don't give a damn," said Phil, as if he was too tired to care.  "I t's over now. It's all over."

"What kind of operation?"

Phil winced.  “It was a honeytrap scenario.  Steve and I were faking a sugar daddy relationship—expensive restaurants, hotel rooms, museum galas, the opera, wherever the mark would be.  The idea was that the mark would do business with me in order to lure Steve away—that's the way he gets his new playmates—and we’d obtain access to certain damning information and shut him down."

“Why didn't you request Clint?”

“I did, but Steve is exactly the mark’s type," said Phil, shrugging as if he was unaware that Steve was everyone’s type.   “And he's been asking for more covert experience.  There were other agents that match the profile, but Fury wanted me to have more serious backup, in case . . .” he gestured to his left side. 

"So, why give it to you in the first place?"

"It was the final step to regaining full field status. I couldn’t turn it down, but the mark has close connections with a member of the World Council, so   I was restricted from even mentioning to Clint that I was keeping something from him.”

"That never stopped him before," Clint murmured

“That never stopped you before," Natasha said.

“I wasn’t on probation before—I'm forty-five years old and I'm already driving a desk half the time.  I had to follow procedure, to the letter, or they'd never let me get closer than off-site tactical again." He sighed.  "That's part of why I kept avoiding Clint—I can't lie to him."

"Right," Clint muttered.

"Shut up and listen," Nat muttered back.

"Maybe it wouldn't have mattered if I had.  Fury told Clint about the mission, but Clint left anyway.”

“I'm not surprised," she said.  "You could have told Fury about you and Clint to begin with—you could have modified the operation."

“There wasn’t supposed to be anything to modify.  Three days of hand holding, maybe a dance and a kiss or two.  No more than you and he have done on similar ops.”

Clint gritted his teeth, then thought about it.  He'd kissed Nat on several assignments over the past four years.  Stark apparently had a pool on them, if he wasn't just being a wiseass on camera.

It occurred to him that he'd never asked Phil how he felt about that.

“Those ops proceeded with your full knowledge and approval," said Natasha.  "You didn’t give Clint that option—"

"It was eyes-only."

"—and if you thought for a single second that he would be okay with you pretending to romance another man—much less Steve Rogers—then you suffered brain damage as well as heart damage."

Phil remained silent.

“Did you think of Clint at all, when you were with Steve?”

Phil gave a humorless chuckle. “I thought about him too much and pooched the op.  Steve thought there was something wrong with him—the mark didn't bite because I couldn’t even hold his hand and smile at the same time."

"That's a lie," said Clint.

"I find that difficult to believe," Natasha said, on screen.  "I think you could.  I think you did.  And I think your guilt was the only thing that kept you from—"

"My guilt has nothing to do with Steve Rogers."

She raised a disbelieving eyebrow.  "So the mark was suspicious. . . "

Phil rubbed his eyes. “The mark is a paranoid voyeur.  We heard he wanted . . . proof that Steve and I were actually sleeping together before he’d make a move."

“Did you give him that proof?"

“No,” Phil said, meeting her eyes and tightening his jaw.  "No, we did not."

“And it never crossed your mind," she said, folding her arms. "You, with your Captain America shrine."

He didn’t look away.  “I can’t deny that being on a mission with my childhood hero was a big ego-boost—even if he was partly there to make sure I didn’t die from the stress.  But there’s a big difference between admiring Captain America and having sex with Steve Rogers.” 

Natasha kept looking at him.

“Fine."  He grimaced.  "Yes, it crossed my mind—for all of two seconds.  But I couldn’t do it. Not even to lock the son of a bitch away for good, not even if I ended up behind a desk for the rest of my career.”

“Really,” she said, disbelief dripping from her voice.  “And why’s that?”

He slammed a hand on his desk.  “Because he isn’t Clint!"

Clint inhaled.  Nat squeezed his shoulder.

On screen, she leaned back and smiled. 

Phil slumped.  "I told Steve and he was horrified that I hadn't mentioned Clint and that I'd allowed us to go even as far as we had."

"He's not the only one," she told him.  " After Loki, after the battle . . . I was there when Sitwell showed up to tell us you were alive.  Clint almost collapsed—he hadn't even known you were supposed to be dead, because as far as anyone knew, you were just his handler.

"And then Stark said he’d started a search for your imaginary cellist," she added, her words dripping scorn, "and wondered if Pepper would think it was appropriate to send "Glad your boyfriend isn't dead" flowers.  I could see Clint wanting to shout at him—but he didn't.  Even as devastated as he was, he wouldn't say anything, not without your approval.  Can you imagine how that must have felt?”

“Yes," he said.  "I almost lost him to Loki and I couldn't tell anyone because of my own stupidity—and then he wouldn’t come near me in medical when anyone else was around. I didn’t like that.  I never wanted that.”

“Then what did you want?  Who do you want? Because Stark and Bruce seem to think you’re heartbroken because Steve dumped you.”  Her voice was dangerous.

Phil looked at his hands.  “I want Clint.”

“You have an odd way of showing it. Because Clint deserved a lot more than being your dirty little secret.”

"He was never—I wanted to keep us quiet at first because I wanted one thing that wasn’t regulated and reported and approved by SHIELD.  I didn't want to share what we had with anyone else, just for a little while. But then. . . I didn't trust that it would last.

"I figured he would wake up one day and realize that I was a balding paper pusher ten years his senior, whose BAMF days were pretty much behind him.   And if no one knew we were together, at least I could save my pride when he wised up and left.  Except he never did, and I started to believe that it was real . . .  And then Loki enslaved him and the Avengers weren't coming together. . .  and I figured I'd go out swinging.  Didn't much care if I died, if taking down Loki would free Clint.

"But then I woke up and they told me that my heart was scarred and my lung was at half capacity and the odds were good that I'd never be up to field work again.  And Clint was an Avenger—an honest to God superhero.  And everyone knew it.” 

“Clint never cared about any of that," she said.

“I know.  He rubbed his eyes. “I said it was my fault—I’ve never seen what he sees in me and I was too afraid to trust it. To trust him."

Clint shook his head, but he couldn't help thinking of beautiful Yvonne breaking Gregori's nose because she couldn't believe that anyone could seriously want her.

 "So I worked my tail off and Fury offered me the chance to be a full agent again.  I thought, once I was the person Clint wanted again, I'd tell everyone how much I loved him—I'd hang a sign from the top of the Tower, if I could.  But it all went wrong.  Really, really wrong.”  He rubbed his eyes. "I was so turned around I forgot our anniversary. I ignored him and avoided him and made him feel like he didn't matter.  God, I even . . ."  he shuddered.

"You what?" Natasha demanded.

Clint held his breath.

Phil closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Clint?" said Nat.

"Leave it," he said.  "Leave it, Tasha."

After a moment, Phil continued. "But he didn’t call me on it.  He never called me on any of it, because he trusted me . . .  until Pepper saw us at a gala holding hands and told Tony, which meant everyone knew by the end of the evening that Steve and I were 'dating.'"

"And you never corrected them."

"We couldn't figure out an explanation that wouldn't blow the operation or my field status.  And then they told Clint.  Who somehow found us at Poisson d’Or trying to show that we were having torrid sex without actually having any at all.”

"It worked," Clint said, thinking of calamari and low laughter.  "It worked really well."

Nat squeezed his shoulder again.

"Steve finally told me to tell him about the moment I knew I'd fallen in love with Clint while he stuck food in my mouth . . . It was nice to finally tell someone.  It felt right—and I knew I'd been stupid."

"And then Clint arrived and thought your moment was with Steve," said Natasha.

“Ironically," Phil said, "Clint's reaction finally convinced the mark that Steve and I were together.  He made a play and we took him down two days later.   I kept calling Clint and Steve said he tried, too, but he never picked up or returned our calls and he never came home . . ."

"I dropped my phone while I was packing my stuff," Clint said.

Nat's look said that she knew perfectly well that drop meant pitch off the balcony of my eighty-eighth floor apartment.  It also called him an idiot.

"I'd decided to quit," he said.  "And I was afraid of what they would say."

She nodded.

" . . . and he resigned the morning after that," Phil continued.  "He stood right where you're standing and handed me the paperwork, along with the rings he'd bought for us."  His hand moved to a drawer of his desk, but he didn't open it. "It was like being stabbed again."

“But you didn’t stop him? You didn't tell him any of what you just told me?"

“I couldn’t think—he'd just told me I'd killed his trust in me.  It was my worst nightmare come true, and I’d made it happen.  I tried to buy time, to get him to stay for the team or for SHIELD, since he sure as hell wouldn't stay for me . . . but it didn't work. 

"I called Fury and told him Clint was quitting and if he didn't let me break eyes-only, he was going to have to arrest me.  He told me he'd take care of it and to sit tight—he thought I was having a panic attack and I'm not sure he was wrong.  Halfway through my rant at him, Steve dropped in with his mission report, figured out what was going on, and took off.

"Neither of them would tell me exactly what happened, but Steve said Fury let Clint leave.  And Clint gave Steve this.”  He reached back to the bookcase behind him and brought back the purple shaving kit. 

“I’ve lost him, Natasha," he said, turning the kit around in his hands.  "I destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me because I was so selfish scared he would leave me that I put myself first. What kind of person does that?"

She didn't answer him.  “I should put you back in the hospital for what you've done," she said.  "For making Clint think that he wasn't worthy of you, when all this time it was the other way around."

Phil nodded.

"But instead, you're going to give me four weeks paid leave.  Starting now."

Phil raised his eyes, and the hope in them hurt to see. “You’ll bring him home?"

"If he wants to, we’ll come back together.  If not, we’ll go on together.”  It was a challenge.

Phil opened his mouth, closed it, and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.  "Good," he said.  "I don't want him to be alone."

Natasha drew in a breath and for a moment, it looked as if she was going to lash out at him.  But then she nodded and walked out.

Phil took a deep breath and touched his keyboard.  The violin wailed again and a low voice began to sing a lament.

"What is that?" Nat asked softly.

"Ann Rabson," he said.  "Singing "Another You.""

"Hmmm," she said, but Clint wasn't paying attention.  He was watching Phil, who remained motionless until Ms. Rabson was done telling the man she'd driven away how irreplaceable he was.  As Clint watched, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes.  Then he bent to his forms again, looking worn, but oddly peaceful.

His image froze.

"Confession is good for the soul," Nat murmured.  "So," she said.  "What do you want to do?"

Clint had no idea.  "Ask Tony to build a time machine so I can go back in time four years and bang our heads together?"

"Don't joke about that," she said, her tone flat.  "We haven't finished the emergency protocols, yet."

"Was he telling the truth, Tasha?"

"The truth as he sees it."

"Did he know he was being recorded?"

"Possibly.  But that doesn't mean his reactions weren't genuine."

"That's a big help," he muttered.

"He wasn't exaggerating," she said, cocking her head. "You really don't trust him anymore."

"No," he said, looking at his hands.  "I don't think I do."  That's what had knocked him so off-balance—it was like his center of gravity had shifted, leaving behind an empty place where one of his fundamental certainties had been.

"Can you rebuild it?  Do you want to?"

"Maybe.  I don't know.  But I do know we need to talk.  Phil and I.  For closure, if nothing else."

"In person?"

"Yeah."  He got up and stretched, feeling his arms burn and his spine realign.  It felt good.  "But I have to finish this inspection first, and I have one more scheduled, so it'll have to wait."

She wrinkled her brow.  "Since when did you become responsible?"

"It was a surprise to me, too," he said.  "But I'm not so bad at this gig.  If Paraná didn't kill me—"

"That was you?"

"That was all me," he said, rolling his eyes.  "It was like Budapest with papercuts."

"And you enjoyed it," she accused, her expression somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

"I wasn't enjoying anything at the time," he said.  "But I'm more use to SHIELD as an inspector than I would be—"

Red lights started flashing and alarms rang.

"Hold that thought," said Nat, and made for the door.

Clint automatically snagged his bow and the canvas bag and followed her.

Chapter Text

The outpost wasn’t under attack, which Clint knew would have been a major problem beyond the obvious—SHIELD was still keeping its presence as covert as possible in Russia, whose representation on the World Council had only recently been established.  Instead, a group of hostiles were attempting to take over the Novosibirsk shortwave relay station, which was a logistical problem for much the same reason.

According to Gregori, who had been pleased that both Clint and Natasha had invited themselves along for the unmarked troop-transport helicopter ride, the relay was the most powerful east of the Ural Mountains and could reach almost the entire Middle East—or beyond, with the help of other relays all over the continent.

“It has proved essential for international broadcasts, encoded SHIELD communications, and the occasional message of world domination,” Gregori had commented through their earpieces from the outpost, where he was coordinating protection details for the stations in Magadan and Vladistock, just in case.

Clint guessed it was that last one that was driving these guys, or they would have been more subtle with the armaments, but after their helicopter had landed, he’d been too busy to give a damn about motivation.

“I’ll take the high road,” he’d told Natasha, pointing to the broadcast tower, which was barely visible against the evening sky, “and you take the low road. And I’ll save the Voice of Russia before you.”

“Now you sound like you,” she’d said, before disappearing into the fray.

For a tower with enough juice to fling a signal to the far side of China, it wasn’t the most stable structure Clint had ever found himself climbing.  But he kept his eyes on the prize: the device dangling from a strap hooked to the coverall of the man who had been trying to attach the thing to the upper part of the relay tower—until he’d looked down and noticed that Clint had taken out his two buddies and was starting his ascent.

The evil tech had pulled his weapon and taken an arrow through the heart for his trouble, but he’d already hooked himself to the tower, so at least the device could be recovered intact.

Lucky for SHIELD, not so lucky for Clint.

He told himself that the damned thing probably wasn't a bomb, because only complete idiots would try to blow something up from the top, but its purpose was clearly important enough to have twenty or so heavily-armed hostiles in full body armor trying their best to fight through an equal number of Novosibirsk's finest, and SHIELD agents wearing Central Military District uniforms, plus Natasha, who was in her normal rig fighting alongside a woman the size of Thor who had the face of an angel and moved like a panther—Agent Yvonne Sauvageot, who was giving calm orders to her people while fighting like a force of nature.

Clint spared a final glance at Natasha, who was always worth looking at, especially when she was working, and tried again to reach the device, which was swinging wildly over his head as the body slid further towards the end of the sagging metal strut that wasn’t meant to support that much literal dead weight.

Clint cursed under his breath, climbed higher, edged out on an alarmingly slender cross-piece, and carefully swung himself upside down above the tech, blessing Fury for supplying him with a quiver that wouldn't dump half its contents when its archer did dumbass things like this.

The evil tech had kept himself on a very short leash, so Clint was just able to reach the correct loop on the coverall.  He had just touched the metal hook when he glanced down to see a hostile cornering Agent Sauvageot as she stood guard over a fallen police officer.

The hostile raised his weapon.

Clint reacted before he thought.

Two breaths later, the hostile had fletching protruding from the gap between his body armor and his shock helmet.

Another two arrows cleared Natasha's path and the remaining agents killed or captured the rest of the bad guys before Clint was upright, the device hooked to his own belt.  He heard the squeal of distressed metal and moved to a stronger perch just as the strut holding the body snapped, dropping its burden to the concrete foundation with a delayed thud.

Clint followed in a more controlled way, taking enough time that Gregori, who had arrived in an unmarked but unmistakably military-issued vehicle, appeared to have everything settled by the time Clint touched ground.

He handed over the device and leaned against the nearest wall, cursing himself for not keeping up with all of his normal training routines. Nat wasn't going to let him forget this for a long time—hell, every muscle he owned would be reminding him well into the foreseeable future.

He watched as the wounded and killed were taken away, several of the ambulances driving off in a different direction from the rest.  A van pulled up and disgorged a swarm of technicians who ignored the chaos and began dealing with whatever damages the relay station had suffered.

After that came the usual quiet pause in every operation, the peaceful moment while everyone gathered themselves for debriefings and mission reports.

Natasha and Gregori were having a quiet conversation in Russian that Clint was too tired to follow.  If he needed to know, Nat would tell him later.

Agent Sauvageot came up to him, speaking low into the microphone of her earpiece.  She tapped it off and held out a hand.  "Zank you for the save," she said in a musical voice, as they shook.  "If zis is what you can do after drinking wis my 'usband, I'm tempted to request zat you be transferred to us permanently.”

"I'm half-tempted to file the paperwork myself," he said, meaning it.  "But I'd better sober up, first.  How often does this kind of thing happen?"

"Oh, zere is always somesing to keep the adrenaline going around 'ere.  And in your downtime," she added, a glint in her crystalline eyes, "you can 'elp Gregori with ‘is paperwork."

"There's always a catch."

She laughed a low melody. "SHIELD 101, Agent 'untington."

“Barton,” he said.  “Call me Clint.”

“Clint Barton?”  She raised an eyebrow and considered him for a moment, reminding him of Nat, then smiled.  “Zat explains a lot.”

"It explains everything," Nat said drily, as Clint shot a questioning look at Gregori.

"Your secret was not mine to tell," said the other man.

"It wasn't Natasha's either," Clint said.  "That didn't stop her for giving you a heads up."

"I didn't tell him a thing," she said, folding her arms. “I knocked on his office door and he told me where to find you before he said hello.”

"How . . ?"

Gregori spread his hands.  "A man arrives with strangely-placed calluses on his hands and arms, the name of the first Robin Hood, and a bag that sounds like it's filled with clattering wood that he does not allow anyone else to touch—shortly after the press reports that Hawkeye of the Avengers has left for classified reasons.  I had my suspicions, which you later confirmed."

"Is that why you soaked me in vodka tonight?"

"No.  That was because you looked as if you hadn't slept enough in months and the canteen staff had not seen you for more than four hours."  Gregori pointed at Clint's bow. "And also you did not ask about the range or even look inside when I gave you the tour."

Clint turned to Yvonne.  "Is he for real?"

She laughed.  "I ask myself zat every day.”  The look of open affection she exchanged with her husband made Clint's heart hurt.

He wanted that with someone.  And he wanted everyone to know he had it.

"Do you still think you're more useful filling out forms?" Natasha murmured.

"You've never seen me fill out a PRF-54j like a boss," he said, but he knew from her eyeroll and sharp elbow that she knew he didn't mean it.

###

Clint slept through what was left of the night and most of the morning without dreaming, waking to the smell of coffee and the sight of Natasha sitting on his chair holding two mugs.  She refused to hand one over until he agreed to get up and spar with her.

He did, and it was only after the caffeine hit his brain—roughly three seconds after he'd entered the gym—that he realized what he'd done.

The mats were surrounded by what looked like half the staff of the outpost; Clint was sure the rest were watching the camera feeds.  No one wanted to miss a demonstration of the Black Widow' skills.

He stretched carefully, definitely feeling the night before, and prepared himself for complete humiliation.

What he received was a little less—he wasn't in top shape, but he hadn't lost too much, and while he'd landed hard a few times, he'd managed to throw her twice and pin her once, if only for a few seconds. 

When they were done, applause rang out.  He thought some of it might have been for him.

"Not great," she told him.  "But not hopeless."

"How much were you holding back?" he asked, tossing her a towel.

"The usual," she said, snagging it out of the air and patting herself down.  "Let's go for a run before your muscles find out you've stopped."

"I have a pile of forms and reports to finish, if I want to keep on schedule."

"Fine," she said.  "Only five miles, then."

He shook his head and glanced at the treadmills in the corner.  "Inside or outside?"

She grinned at him.  "Guess."

He eventually completed most of today's paperwork, though Natasha had forced him to defrost over a full lunch in the canteen after their run and to take a dinner break.  Though no one joined them either time, several people stopped to ask them questions about the relay station or the sparring match and the general atmosphere was far friendlier than he'd experienced since before Loki.

"Do they know about me?" he'd asked her, after they'd returned to his quarters and he'd located the next form on his to-do list. 

"Does't everyone?" she said, lounging on his cot and poking at a tablet she'd acquired somewhere.

He picked up his pen—his hands were the only things that didn't hurt. Relatively.

But he had to admit it was a good hurt.

"Could you imagine staying here?" he asked.

"Can you?"

He filled out the first four lines.  "Yvonne gave me her approval. I can't see Gregori refusing."

"It's good to have options," she said.  "Are you going to talk to Coulson first?"

"Yeah."  Three more lines. 

"Do you know if. . ."  She caught herself.

"No."  Another two lines and a margin note.  "But I'm pretty sure I'll sleep better either way."

"Okay.  When do we leave?"

"Seventeen forms and three and a half reports from now."  That should give him enough time to think of what to say and how to say it. 

Supposing  Phil still wanted to hear any of it.

###

There was a saying in SHIELD:  If you want Fury to laugh, think about maybe making plans.

Clint had forgotten that one.

“I'm recalling you back to New York."

"Sir?"  Clint secured his towel and wished Nat had woken him with coffee instead of another five mile run.  Or that he'd stopped at the canteen on his way to the shower.  "May I ask why?"

The image of Fury smirked from Clint's laptop.  "To discuss your recent performance, Agent Barton."

“Agent Mitrokhin already debriefed me on the Novosibirsk—"

“This isn’t about the attack on the relay station—though I do hear you were the star of the show." It was difficult to tell from his expression whether he approved or disapproved.  "The Paraná backlash just hit the fan and I need you back here to mop up the mess.  And," Fury added, "there's some important unfinished business you might want to take care of sooner rather than later."

"I believe that's my decision, sir," Clint said. 

"It is.  I'm simply providing the opportunity to make that decision."

"I can't leave an inspection half-done."

“Agent Donaldson will be landing at Tolmachevo in two hours to complete the inspection.  You will be taking off in three.  Do I make myself clear, Agent Barton?”

Clint gritted his teeth.  “Crystal.  Sir."

“Good.  Bring Romanov with you.  Her paid vacation is over." The window closed.

Clint slapped the lid down, sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

Then he went to get dried and dressed.  He had roughly fifteen hours to figure out what he wanted to do about Phil, SHIELD, the Avengers, and his future with any and/or all of them.

He had a feeling it wouldn't be enough.

Chapter Text

Halfway to New York, Clint realized he didn't have anywhere to go when he landed.  The plane was scheduled to arrive at Kennedy after midnight, and he was scheduled to report to Fury and the heads of the legal and logistics divisions at 8:30.

Even if he could catch some sleep on this flight, which wasn't going to happen for all sorts of reasons, he needed somewhere to be for seven hours—somewhere, he hoped, with a clean horizontal surface and a shower.  No one cared how travel worn a field agent looked during a debrief, but an inspector who was defending his decision to shut down an entire outpost—with extreme prejudice—had better look competent, clean, and rested.

Clint wasn't about to go to the Tower, and he didn't want to kip at SHIELD, supposing there was room—he'd given up his quarters a week after accepting Tony's invitation to give high-rise life a try.

Another quick decision biting him in the ass.

But New York was full of hotels that accepted check-ins in the middle of the night—there must be one or two that weren’t bedbug bordellos.  He mentioned as much to Nat, who was curled up in the seat next to him, reading something on her tablet that could have been a intercepted intel or a Latvian translation of the latest Charlie Fox novel, for all Clint could tell.

"Don't be stupid," she said.  "You can stay with me."

He knew she didn't mean the Tower.  She had her own rooms, but she’d admitted she couldn't completely relax with the constant surveillance that JARVIS provided—it wasn't the AI so much as it was Stark's control over any and all recordings.

Tony had sworn that the scans on the private apartments were passive, on-call only—and Clint believed him, since the genius clearly had no idea what he and Phil had done in one or two of them—but Nat needed a place where she could completely decompress or remake herself, if needed, without interference.  Her condo in Sheepshead Bay fit the bill and he knew he was lucky to know about it at all, much less be allowed inside.

"Thanks," he said.

She leaned against his shoulder, her eyes still on her novel.

He rested his cheek on the top of her head for a moment, breathing in the scent of her hair, and looked up in time to catch the wistful smile of a passing stewardess.  She obviously thought they were a couple, and he wondered idly, not for the first time, why he hadn't fallen for Nat all those years ago, instead of Coulson.

He did love her, but there was no romantic spark to their relationship.  It wasn't missing—nothing was missing—but their spark was different, based on adrenaline, unconditional trust, and fundamental recognition.  And he wouldn't change that even if he could.

So, what did he want to change, that could be changed?

The question kept him preoccupied the rest of the flight.

###

The thirty minute cab ride to Brooklyn went by in a blur and Clint dragged himself, his luggage, and Nat's bag up the five flights of stairs to her door.  He waited until she'd dealt with her security systems, and stumbled through the briefly open doorway.

He shed his coat, toed off his boots, and collapsed on her sofa, pulling a small, embroidered pillow under his head with one hand and dragging her cashmere throw over him with the other.  He listened to the faint beeps as Natasha tapped in codes that would unleash hell if anyone dared break into her private space.  He could sleep here.  He was safe here.

He heard a huff of amusement but couldn't be bothered to respond.  The throw was rearranged so it covered more than his lower back.  To his surprise, he felt lips touch his temple.

"Idiot," Natasha said softly, before her footsteps moved away, in the direction of her bedroom.

When he opened his eyes, it was morning.

Five hours had passed, according to the small glass-domed clock on the small writing desk against the wall, and he had two before his appointment.  Clint resisted the temptation to close his eyes again and hauled himself upright.  He stood, stretched the kinks out of his spine, grabbed his bag and headed for the guest bathroom.

It took a while for his morning wood to soften enough to let him take a leak, and by the time he was in the shower, it was back with a vengeance, reminding him that other people might leave their hearts in San Francisco but Clint Francis Barton had left his libido in New York, months ago.

Welcome home.

He sighed and took himself in hand, thinking back to his pre-SHIELD days for what the circus stagehands had always called “home movies,” with a cranking gesture that had cracked Clint up at thirteen.  There was more than enough footage to choose from and he closed his eyes to enjoy a montage of Oscar-worthy moments.

And if the memory of warm blue eyes and a gun-callused hand flashed across his mind as he climaxed, he forgave and forgot by the time he shut off the water.

###

Clint arrived at SHIELD half an hour early, files in his case.  No one paid him much attention as he identified himself to security and only one looked at him oddly when his name flashed on her screen.  She looked like she wanted to say something, but Natasha was right behind him and no one wanted to make the Black Widow wait.

Nat peeled off for the training rooms and Clint moved through the back corridors to Fury’s office alone.  This early, he could have taken the direct route without seeing many people at all—but those people were the ones he wanted to avoid, at least until Paraná was done and dusted.

Fury’s PA ushered him right in.  SHIELD’S head counsel and the Head of Logistics were already there, as was Fury, who was looking out of his window, his back to the room.

“Agent Barton,” he said, without turning.

“Sir,” he said.

Logistics snorted, folding his arms.  “Barton.  Should’ve known you had something to do with this mess.”

Fury did turn then.  “Seems like you should have known a lot of things, Agent Radley.”

“This,” said the Head Counsel, who looked like he needed a blood transfusion, “is going to be a legal nightmare.”

“Agent Barton,” said Fury, taking his seat.  “Tell Mr. Entwhistle why he’s wrong.”

Clint took a deep breath as the other two men sat.  Just another debrief.  Just another sit-rep.

He set his case on Fury’s desk, popped the lid, pulled out three thick files and handed them out.  He also handed Fury’s PA a flash drive and waited until the screen on the wall lit up.

“As you can see from form I22-a on the fourth page of Appendix A, I touched down at the Coleto Airport at 0830 on Tuesday the 19th of . . .”

By the time he’d finished outlining the shitstorm that was Paraná and backing up every single decision and action with every possible documentation, Radley was sweating and Entwhistle was grinning like a happy shark.

“Director,” he said, “I’d like to requisition three clones of Agent Barton.”

Clint, who was refilling his water glass for the third time, relaxed.

“Noted,” said Fury.  “And denied for the sake of my blood pressure.  Agent Barton, please give Agent Radley your recommendations for reestablishing SHIELD's foothold in Brazil."  He waited until Clint tossed another flash drive at the unhappy agent.  "Agent Radley, I expect you to incorporate these recommendations into the four strategies you will have on my desk by Thursday.”

“Sir—” said Radley, before thinking better of whatever he was going to say.  “Yes, sir.”  He left.

Entwhistle paused to shake Clint’s hand.  “You’ve made our job easier for once, Agent Barton.  Thanks for that."

"No problem," said Clint.

The lawyer gave him a dry look that called him a liar and left.  Fury's PA followed, shutting the door behind him.

"That went better than expected," said Clint to himself.

"I expected a great deal," said Fury.  "You delivered."

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me, Agent."  Fury exhaled. "I believe I owe you an apology."

Clint waited.

"Agent Coulson and I go back a long way.  His job has always been his first priority, which is as it should be—but that doesn't leave a lot of time for a personal life.  All work and no play is no way to live.  I knew about his Captain America . . ."  He waved a hand.

"Obsession," said Clint.  "Sir."

"Right.  And I knew Captain Rogers was . . . lonely.  So, I thought if I threw them together, and Captain Rogers was amenable, that nature might take its course."

Clint blinked.  "You were matchmaking?"

Fury grimaced.  "I thought Phil's cellist was imaginary—a way to keep the junior agents off his scent.  He never told me he'd made his own choice."

“I’m not sure he had, sir.”

“Has he made one now?”

“You'll have to ask him," said Clint.  "I've been out of town."

“Mmmph.  Have you made a choice?”

“With all due respect, sir, until we file form FRat-3g-542, that isn’t anyone else’s business but ours."

Fury's lips twitched.  “True enough.  Consider the subject closed.  So, what have you decided about your future with SHIELD?"

Clint had decided he wanted one.  Which one was still up for grabs.  "What are my options?"

"Wide open, Agent Barton.  Level Six field agents are useful everywhere."

"Level Five, sir."

Fury's teeth flashed.  "I can count, Agent."

Clint's first thought was that Coulson didn't outrank him anymore, at least on paper.

His second thought was to tell himself off for the first one.

"If it helps, you appear to be the flavor of the month.  I've got several requests cluttering up my inbox:  Sitwell and Woo both volunteered to re-recruit you once you surfaced. Before you ruined his week, Agent Radley suggested that 'Robert Huntington 'oversee the training for all our inspectors.  Agents Mitrokhin and Sauvageot want to adopt you."  Fury paused.  "And the Avengers have informed me that they're holding your place until you tell them otherwise, to their faces."

"All of them?"

"Surprised?"

Stunned.  "How much time do I have?"

"I need someone to put the fear of me into the Sri Lanka outpost starting Monday," said Fury, calling up a holoscreen.   "Decide by then.  I don't have to tell you to file the appropriate forms with Personnel, do I?"  He reached up and started shifting outlines around.

"No, sir."  Clint walked to the door, paused, and looked back.  "Sir?"

"You still here, Barton?"

"Why didn't you choose me?  For Coulson?"

Fury tapped another link.  "I was under the impression that you were already taken."

"Agent Romanov, sir?"

"You and she do have a singular relationship.”

“I suppose we do.  Hope you didn’t buy into Stark’s honeymoon pool, sir.”

Fury looked at him through the blue light. “The only pool involving you that I’m aware of is the one Agent Sitwell is running on why you and Coulson aren’t speaking.  I have thirty on both of you being too stubborn to live.  That’s one bet I would very much like to lose, Agent Barton.”

“Yes, sir.  Sir? How . . . amenable was Captain Rogers?"

"From what I hear, not at all," said Fury, touching the holoscreen again.  Before Clint could react, he added, "Once he found out you two were involved."

Clint felt sucker punched for a moment and called himself three kinds of stupid for asking.

"Of course, his feelings before that are really no one's business but his, are they?”

"No, sir.”

Fury might have smiled.  "Get gone, Barton."

Clint opened the door, shut it behind him, and walked out.

Natasha was waiting for him.  "You in one piece?" she asked, as they walked together.

"No.  I have three days to decide my future."

"Maybe you should start now," she said, nudging him toward the hallway that led to Coulson's office.

"After lunch," he said, nudging back.  "I've been talking to suits and Fury for four hours and I’m starving."

"Clint."

He tried his best boyish smile.  "My treat."

She sighed.

###

"I heard some interesting scuttlebutt, while you were defending your penmanship," she said, after they gave their orders for mu shu chicken and vegetable lo mein to the smiling waitress.

"Reliable source?"

"Jensen," she said, naming the biggest gossip in SHIELD, "but confirmed by Sitwell.”

“Bring it.”

“Steve and Coulson aren't speaking."

"What?”  He leaned back as the waitress brought their tea and waited while she poured two cups. “What kind of not speaking?” he asked, once she’d gone, leaving the teapot behind.

"They only address each other in the field and during debriefings and only discuss SHIELD or Avenger business,” said Nat.  “It's all perfectly polite, according to Sitwell, but they've stopped using first names and stay on their own sides of the room.  And," she said, lifting her teacup with both hands, "Sitwell overheard Stark complaining to Coulson that JARVIS hasn't even recorded them in the same room together for the last couple months.  He asked Coulson if the 'honeymoon was over.'"

Clint frowned.  "What did Coulson say to that?"

"He said he didn't care to discuss his personal life.” 

"That's all?"

She smiled over her cup.  “I’m paraphrasing.”

"I'll bet."  Clint held his own teacup, warming his fingers.  "Is the distance hurting the Avengers?"

"Sitwell doesn’t think so.  Jensen—”

“Jensen is all about the drama.”

“Yes. But if Stark is worried about emotional subtext . . . “

“ . . . Then there’s a problem.”  He rubbed his hand through his hair.  “All right.  I’ll talk to him.”

“Stark?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He leveled a look at her.

She smirked as the waitress appeared with their food and bustled away to refresh their teapot.

“When?” Natasha said, picking up her chopsticks.

“Today,” he said, pulling apart his own.  He caught her expression.  “Today, Tasha.  Promise.”

She relaxed.  “Good.” She selected a small piece of mushroom and sampled it. 

“You’re worried,” he said.

“I’m . . .  concerned.” 

“About the Avengers?”

“About your emotional subtext,” she said.

He picked up a pancake and reached for the hoisin sauce.  “You and me both,” he muttered.

Chapter Text

After lunch, Natasha accompanied Clint back to SHIELD and up to Coulson's floor for “moral support,” though he suspected she was mostly doing it to keep him from bolting.

He didn't mind.  He wouldn’t have run—he thought maybe he was done running—but he might have dragged his feet. Or waited a few minutes to gather himself before he knocked on the door.

As it was, he didn’t have the chance to do either.  Instead, he rounded a corner and stopped so short, Nat almost bumped into him.

Coulson was in the coffee station alcove down  the corridor from his office, just replacing the green-ringed pot holding the legendary high octane sludge he was rumored to have kept brewing since he’d leveled to the Director’s right hand man—BAMF!Espresso, Sitwell called it. 

He hadn’t been cleared for caffeine, or at least that much at once, when Clint had left, but he’d apparently fallen off the wagon.  

Or jumped.

Coulson didn’t usually indulge in the hard stuff after lunch—he must have had a tough night, or a couple in a row,  but he didn’t show it.  He looked exactly the same as he always did: besuited, calm, capable.

Unaffected.

But then he looked up and saw them.  And for a moment, his expression slipped from unflappable Agent Coulson to a shocked Phil.

"Clint," he said, taking a step towards him.

Clint could count the times Phil had called him by his first name out in the open on one hand with a couple fingers missing—and he’d never heard it in that tone of voice. 

"Coulson,” he said, grateful his own voice sounded normal.

Phil went still.  He cleared his throat.  "Nice suit."

"Thanks."

It had never been awkward between them, even when it should have been.  But it was now.

Clint hated it.

"So,” Phil said, after a few seconds.  “What brings you here?"

For the life of him, Clint couldn’t think of what to say.

"Clint had a meeting with the Director this morning," said Nat.

"You did?"  Phil's eyes narrowed.  "Wait—you were involved in the Paraná fiasco?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't resign."

"Not so much.  Fury put me on inspection detail.  Thought the time away would give me a little perspective."

Phil's features tightened for a moment, then relaxed.  "I've seen most of the documentation for Paraná,” he said.  "Agent Huntington should be promoted."

"Thanks.  I was."

"You . . ." Phil blinked. "You never do paperwork."

"No, I know." Clint forced a smile.  "I always had you for that."

"I'll see you later," Natasha said into the silence, not specifying whom she meant.  "After you talk."

She brushed against Clint as she left.  He appreciated the sign of support.

"She's right," Phil said.  "We need to talk."

Several personnel approached, cups in hand, arguing cannoli versus tiramisu.

 "Somewhere else," said Clint.

Without looking, Phil reached back to put his full mug on the counter.  "Want to go get some coffee?"

"Sure."

###

Without discussing it—or anything else—they left the building and walked the three blocks to Meg’s, the hole-in-the-wall café where they’d always decompressed after a mission or just a particularly tough day at the office, even before Clint had realized he wanted to be more to Agent Philip J. Coulson than an asset to SHIELD.

They took their regular booth, close to both exits with a clear line of sight out of the big picture window.  The waitress brought coffee and creamer without asking, raised an eyebrow at Clint’s suit and the other one at Phil’s polite refusal of the pie of the day, and left them to it.

The conversation didn’t flow any better.

“So,” Clint said, fiddling with a creamer tub.  “I saw the Lady Liberty attack.  Looks like Kate is fitting in just fine.”

“She’s performing better than expected,” said Phil, stirring two level spoonfuls of sugar into his cup.  “And her unauthorized comms chatter is almost as annoying as yours.”

“Almost?”  Clint tried a smile, but couldn’t hold it. 

"She can't replace you.  The code name is only for convenience."

“Do they still think I’m on sabbatical?”

Phil put the sugar dispenser back. “Yes.  Except for Captain Rogers, of course.”

Captain Rogers?  “So you still haven’t told anyone about . . .” Clint gestured to Phil and himself, unable to say “us.”

Phil shook his head slowly. "I didn't know if there was still anything to. . .  I thought you should make that decision."

Clint couldn’t decide if that was a concession or another evasion “Do they at least know you and Steve were on a mission?”

“We explained it.  Everyone believes us but Stark."

"I'll bet,” Clint said.  “Now that his playboy days are over, I think he’s trying to get it on by proxy—“

 “I miss you,” Phil said suddenly.  “I keep looking at the couch expecting you to be there and walking halfway to the range to check on you before I remember . . . I’ve delayed meetings, until someone reminds me that no one is missing.  Except you are.  Nothing’s . . . Nothing's the same.”

Clint squeezed his eyes shut.  “No,” he said. “Nothing is.”

"I can't tell you how sorry I am, for everything," said Phil, "how much I hate myself for hurting you.  But I can try to explain, if you'll let me."

"I already heard what you told Natasha."

"I thought she'd report to you."

"She did one better."

"She recorded it.”  It wasn’t a question.

"You knew?"  Clint had suspected, but he suddenly felt like a mark.

Phil looked at his coffee cup.  "It’s what I’d do, under the circumstances."

"So, what, you staged it?"

"I assumed you were watching.  I hoped you were.  But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t telling the truth."

Natasha had said the same thing—but he didn't want to be played, even if it meant Phil wanted him back. "The Ann Rabson soundtrack was a little overdramatic.”

“I was trying to send a message.” Blue eyes met his.  "Can you forgive me?"

Clint wasn't mad anymore.  He was tired.  “It’s not that easy.”  He wasn't that easy.  Not anymore.

"I know.  I don't blame you."  Phil looked away, looked back.  "There was one thing I didn't bring up in front of Natasha."

"I know.  Good call."

"Safer one, anyway.” Phil was silent for a moment.  He reached up and smoothed his tie under the knot.    “If you’d said someone else's name while we were intimate, I don't think I would have kept quiet.  I'm not blaming you," he added quickly.  "I'm just wondering why you didn't break my jaw and walk out."

Clint felt a pang over intimate, and told himself not to be a sap.  “I was in serious denial.  Plus, it floored me.” He forced a chuckle.  “I mean . . . we all have our fantasies, you know?  And I can’t fault your taste—“

 “Clint—“

“But man, your timing flat out sucked.  And I’ve never heard you say anything you didn’t want said, even under sodium pentothal.  So it had to mean . . . something?”

“I have an idea about that,” Phil said, looking uncomfortable.  “It’s self-serving, but . . . That was the day we learned that the mark wanted proof Steve and I were lovers.  Visual proof.  And I actually considered it, just to get the damned mission over with . . . and then I hated myself for even thinking about it.  That’s why I dragged you out of the range in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Oh.”  Clint blinked.  “That was guilt sex?”

“I’m sorry.”

Clint shrugged it off.  “Can’t say it wasn’t hot.  At least at first.”

“It was more than that for me.  But I remember thinking that I couldn't touch anyone but you or just lie back and think of SHIELD while anyone else touched me.  And maybe . . . I don’t know exactly what I said, but—"

(Oh, God, please, slam it harder! Harder! I want, God, you feel so good I've never been so I can't hold on I'm going to—I can't, oh, God, Steve, I can't, I love—STEVE!! )

“But you think maybe you were saying that out loud?” Clint said, feeling his heart thump in his ears. “And it got mixed up with the rest?”

“Maybe?  I don't know.”  Phil’s shoulders slumped.  “It makes me feel like less of an asshole, so I might be making it up."

Great.  So much for closure.  

He sighed. “Either way, it doesn't fix the main problem."

"I know.  I screwed up almost from the start.”

Clint snorted.  "So did I.  Maybe you made mistakes, but I let you get away with them.  I let you call the shots since we started . . . whatever this was . . . because that was what I was used to and I figured I had less of a chance of screwing it up.  I treated you like a handler and then got upset when you treated me like an asset."

"You put me on a pedestal."  Phil's lips twisted.  "And I let you because I liked it."

"And neither of us trusted . . . us."

"No.”  There was a short silence.  “You said, 'was.'”

Clint frowned. “What?”

“‘Whatever this was.’  Was the past tense intentional?"  Phil swallowed.  "Are we . . ."

 “I don't know.  We can’t go back to what we had, because it wasn’t enough."

“I’m sorry.”  Phil touched his tie again.  “So where do we go from here?”

"I think I'm going to S—going on one more inspection,” he said, remembering  that Phil wasn’t cleared to know the specifics—and wasn’t that weird?  "While I'm gone . . . I’ll figure out if I want to come back to New York and you get to decide if I’m really the one you need.”

"You are."

"Look," Clint said.  "I'm not saying your theory is a load of crap, but we’ll never know for sure what you were thinking at the time."  He hesitated.  "And word is, you and Steve been avoiding each other."

Phil turned his cup around in his hands.  "I suppose we have."

"Why?" Clint waited a moment before continuing. "More guilt?"

"We didn't want you—or anyone else—to think that we were . . ."

"Right.  The thing is . . .  it looks like you're avoiding temptation."

"I don't want Steve Rogers," said Phil.  "I want you."

"Then there's no reason why you two can't be in the same room together without a chaperone." 

Phil frowned. "You're testing me.  I guess I deserve that."

"No,” Clint said.  “We’re both figuring out exactly what we want.  Once we're sure, we’ll figure out how to make it happen.  We both deserve that."

Phil exhaled, long and slow.  “Since when did you become the responsible one?”

Clint tried another smile.  “I've been getting that a lot lately."  He glanced at his watch.  "You probably need to get back."

"Right."  Phil took out his wallet and threw a couple of bills on the table. "It's my turn," he said, getting up.

It was true, so Clint didn't protest.  "I'll see you when I get back," he said, deciding to stay put for while.  Less awkward that way.

But Phil didn't leave.  Instead, he stretched out a hand. "Walk me?"

Clint stared.  Phil rarely touched him in public.  He put out his own hand and let himself be pulled out of his seat.

But Phil didn't let go.  He interlocked his fingers with Clint's and they walked hand-in-hand all the way to SHIELD.

It felt strange.  And comfortable. 

And too good to be true.

They let go to enter the building and deal with security, then headed for the elevators, their shoulders almost touching. 

Doors slid open and they stepped into the half-full car. 

"Nat's probably in the training rooms," said Clint, pressing the button and the one for Phil's floor.  He felt warm fingers brushing his, but he didn't take them.  

He had to remember to keep his distance, at least for now.

The doors opened.  "This is me," he said, moving  out onto the industrial carpeting and turning.  "Thanks for the coffee," he said as the doors started to close.

Phil grabbed the edge to stop them, then stepped out.  Before Clint could blink, he was being kissed—a press of slightly-parted lips and a suggestive swipe of tongue that stunned Clint into immobility.

 "Hurry back to me," Phil said, in a normal tone and volume.  He stepped back onto the elevator, ignoring the curious stares of the other passengers as the doors slid shut.

"Interesting," Natasha said.

"Guess so," said Clint, when he could.  He started walking.  He wasn't going anywhere in particular, but he needed to move.

Natasha kept up. "So?"

"We'll see what happens when he and Steve stop ignoring each other."

She stopped, stared at him, and pulled him into an empty training room.  "You gave him permission to get closer to Steve?"

"Not permission, exactly, but . . . yeah."  It might be the dumbest decision he'd ever made, but it felt right.   

That actually summed up his life pretty well.

Natasha's brow was wrinkled.  "Does that mean you don't want him anymore?"

"No.  God, no, I think I'll always want him.  But . . . look, Tasha . . ." He ran a hand through his hair.  "If he stays with me because he's punishing himself for wanting Steve. . . That's worse than not having him at all."

"I get it," she said, after a moment.  "I don't like it, but I get it.  Where will you be?"

"Another inspection for Fury.  I leave Friday."

She nodded, then grinned.  "Then you have time to spar now."

"Seriously?"  He looked down at himself.  "This is a new suit!"

"Seriously?  Take it off."

"No wonder there's a pool about our honeymoon.  I'll go grab some sweats."

"Clint?"

He turned.  "What?"

"Is our partnership a problem? For you and Coulson?"

"What? No.  I don't think so."  Clint remembered Phil's tone when he'd spoken about their more . . . intimate missions.   

Intimate.  

He frowned.  "He's never said anything."

She rolled her eyes.  "Because you two communicate so well."

Good point. "Do you think it bothers him?"

She shrugged.  "It probably doesn’t help.  Do you . . .  I could—"

"No," he said.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure.  We're partners, Tasha—friends.  That's non-negotiable."

She nodded, and he thought he saw relief in her eyes before she dropped to the mat and swept his feet out from under him.

"Goddamn it, Nat," he said, flipping to his feet.  "This is a new suit!"

"Better step it up, then," she said.  "What kind of Level Six agent can't defend his D&G?"

"J. Press," he said, making a show of brushing his lapels.  "My pay raise hasn't kicked in, yet."

Her grin turned evil. "When it does, we're going shopping."

"Right," he said, dropping into a defensive stance. "Bring it, Romanov."

Chapter Text

Clint was satisfied that he'd held his own against Natasha—or she’d taken it easy on him to spare his suit—but he still complained about going all the way back to Sheepshead in a sweat-stained shirt with two missing buttons and a creased collar.

"I look like I've been mugged," he said, glancing at himself in the metal mirror on the wall.

"You never cared about that before."

He didn't now, really, but it was the principle of the thing.  "I’ve never voluntarily worn a suit off mission before."  He struck a bodybuilder's pose.  "But if I'd known how good I make them look . . ."

She rolled her eyes at him.  "I'll be right back, принцесса," she said, heading for the door.

He turned. "Did you just call me a princess?" he called.

She didn't bother to answer.

He turned back, frowned, and started fiddling with his tie.  He could tie a four-in-hand, but his half-windsor still didn't look right . . .

Maybe he should ask Agent Coulson, SHIELD's foremost expert on gentlemen's neckwear and, coincidentally, unbreakable knots.

The man wasn't too shabby on exit lines, either.

Clint rubbed his lower lip with a finger. Staking a claim in front of an elevator full of SHIELD personnel didn’t magically solve everything . . . but he had to admit it was a damned good start.

Before his thoughts could go any further, Nat came back with a folded black tee-shirt—one of the many she had a long-standing habit of borrowing when he wasn't looking.  He didn’t mind; she eventually gave them back and always washed them first.

"Моя героиня!" he said, clasping his hands to his face and batting his eyelashes.

Her lips quirked. "Идиот."

“Klepto,” he returned, grinning.  “I don’t suppose you swiped any of my underwear, too, for sentimental reasons?”

The tee-shirt hit his head and a bottle of shampoo hit his chest.  “Dinner is at seven,” she said.  “You're cooking."

"Beef Curry?"

She gave him an oddly thorough once over. "Spicy chicken pasta,” she said.

“From scratch?” he asked, trying to remember what he’d seen in her fridge that morning, and what he hadn’t.

She gave him a look that insulted his intelligence and disappeared through the doorway.

He shrugged and started on a mental grocery list as he headed off for the men’s locker room.

Locker room nudity didn't bother Clint, and the place was usually deserted by late afternoon anyway, but he didn’t feel like explaining his temporary return to anyone who might wander through, so he snagged a couple of towels from the stack, and bypassed the communal shower for the private stalls used by personnel who wanted privacy, more convenient safety bars, or both.

He debated hanging his jacket and pants up to steam, but he didn't trust the towel hooks, so he opted for stowing his clothes in one of the unassigned lockers around the corner.  The shirt wasn’t a total loss, but he was going to have to find new buttons and sew 'em on—did dry cleaners do that?  Nat would know.

Or maybe Phil—he was an expert on suits as well as ties.  And exit lines.  Once Clint cleaned up, maybe he could drop by, just to ask. . .

He grabbed the towels and shampoo and headed for the stalls.

Clint was clean, dry, and smelling like jasmine, thanks to Nat, when a locker opened and then banged shut, echoing in the silent space.  A few seconds later, he heard the metallic slide of curtain rings and the squeak of the shower handle.

He finished dressing quietly, hoping to be gone before the other guy was done.  With his luck, it would be Sitwell or Woo or, God forbid, Jensen—

A low moan rolled through the sound of the water and he grinned to himself as he pulled on his jacket and stuffed his tie into his pocket.  Another reason to get going.  SHIELD never gave a damn about Don't Ask Don't Tell, but it was only common courtesy to Don't Show You Kno—

“Phil,” said a voice, faint but clear.  And familiar.

Clint’s entire body clenched up.  No. No.

“Yes," said Steve.  "Phil . . ."

His first instinct was to go straight to Fury's office, arrange an immediate flight to Sri Lanka, and burn Coulson's entire goddamned Captain America collection on his way out of town.

“Oh, God," Steve groaned, his voice desperate.  "Phil!"

Screw that.

Clint stalked around the corner and ripped open the curtain, more than ready to give Agent Phillip J. Coulson the broken jaw he so richly deserved—

But the only one in the stall was a wet, naked Steve Rogers, one arm braced against the wall, the other pistoning at a frantic rate.

This was wrong.  This was so wrong . . .

Clint backed away as Steve whipped around, still clutching himself in an inadequate fist. “C-Clint?” he said, his expression changing from heavy-lidded pleasure to wide-eyed horror.  He spun back and grabbed the towel off the hook in the wall, fumbling it around his waist.  “I—Oh, fu—I didn't know you were—I was just . . ."

Clint’s nails bit into his palms.  “Right,” he said.  And walked out.

He was out of the building and halfway to Bryant Park before he slowed down enough to care where he was.  He kept going until he hit grass, dropping onto the first unoccupied bench.

He scrubbed at his face with both hands, trying to keep his brain from overloading.

Phil hadn't been screwing around on him right after their talk—that was good.

But Clint had immediately assumed he had.  Understandable, maybe, but not so good.

Steve was definitely amenable. 

Shit.

###

Clint checked the spiced chicken pieces over in the skillet, and took them off the heat, his other hand whisking the béchamel sauce, which was just thickening.

The open kitchen area didn't have line of sight to the front door and he was making a racket, but he was too preoccupied and too used to Natasha's ways to be startled when she suddenly appeared on the high stool at the end of the island counter.

"Hey," he said, shaking some freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano into the saucepan.

She didn’t reply, only watched as he picked up the small bowl with the red pepper flakes, cayenne, and garlic powder, sprinkling in about half.  He whisked for a few seconds, dipped in his little finger, tasted, and tossed in the rest.

"What's wrong?" she asked

He tasted again and lowered the heat under the sauce. "Hmmm?”

"Cooking relaxes you," she said, studying him.  "You don't look relaxed."

"I'm fine," he said, grabbing a fork to test the linguine.

"What happened?" she asked.

He'd argued with himself over how much to tell her through the grocery run and the dismemberment and deboning of half a chicken.  If Steve had been smug or uncaring . . . but he'd been mortified as hell.  He wasn't that kind of guy—which almost made it worse.

As sick as it made him feel, for all kinds of reasons, Clint knew it wasn't the shower scenario that mattered as much as what it could mean. 

And he sure as hell didn't want to explain to Nat why it had been like being sucker punched by déjà vu.

"Steve wants Phil," he said.

"You're sure?"

"Yes," he said, biting through a strand of pasta. 

"How do you—"

"Two minutes," he said, and started transferring the chicken pieces to the sauce—it was supposed to be the other way around, but Nat’s skillet wasn't big enough.

"I can't tell if you're angry,” she said, after a moment.

"I don't know if I have the right," he said, folding the alfredo around the chicken.

"That doesn't stop most people."

"Yeah. . .  It's complicated, Tasha."

She waited.

"Steve's allowed to want who he wants.  They're both allowed."

"So are you," she said.

"I know, but . . ."  He shook his head.  "I guess nothing's changed—it just confirms that Phil doesn’t have to settle for me."

"Settle," she said, curling her lip.  "Steve is a good man, but he isn't you.  Coulson knows that."

He snorted. "That's not exactly comforting, Tasha.”

“It should be,” she said.  “Steve was born the way he is, even if the outside didn't always match the inside.  But everything you are, Clint, you made yourself.  Choice by choice, piece by piece.”

"I had help."

She shrugged. "So did I."

He thought about that as he rescued the garlic bread.  “I don’t always make the best choices.”

“But here you are, Agent Clint "Hawkeye" Barton—and here I am,” she said, pinning him with her gaze and allowing him a rare glimpse of how grateful she was for at least one of his choices. “Starving to death,” she added.

He rolled his eyes.  "Way to ruin a moment, Agent Romanova," he said, turning off the gas and carrying the pasta pot to the sink.

“You said two minutes—it's been three."  But she was smiling.

And so was he.

###

Clint was finishing off the last of the garlic bread and arguing with Natasha about the worst meal they'd ever had on a mission—MREs aside—when a loud buzz stopped the conversation short.

The buzzer sounded again.  Someone wanted Nat to let them into the building.

They exchanged glances. "Expecting company?”

“No.”  She wiped her mouth on her napkin and got up, heading for the intercom by the door.

Clint slipped into the kitchen, took out the Beretta he’d found tucked in the breadbox earlier, checked that a round was chambered, slid open the knife drawer, and waited.

There was a click.  "Yes?" she asked.

"Natasha?"  Steve's voice sounded tinny and confused.  "Uh, sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for Clint.  Is he there?"

"Are you?" she called.

He cursed under his breath, but it was probably best to deal with Steve here, with Nat as referee. "Sure," he said, shutting the drawer.  "What the hell."

Another click.  "Come on up," she said.  There was a short buzz.

"This is going to be fun," Clint muttered, returning the gun to its hiding place.

"I didn't say you were here," she said, somehow reading his mind from around the corner. "You still have time."

"Nah," he said, forcing humor he didn't feel.  "Even if I cleared my place, he wouldn't believe you cooked."

There was a pause.  "That's fair," she said.

Her doorbell rang and he heard the deadbolt click.  "Come in," Nat said.  The door closed and the lock clicked again.  "How did you find me?" she asked, coming into Clint's view.

Steve followed, wearing his brown motorcycle jacket and holding something in his hands.  "I asked Director Fury where Clint was staying and he gave me this address.  He didn't tell me it was your place, or I would have called first . . . and I've interrupted your dinner, too."

"Have you eaten?"

"Yes, thanks.  Is Clint . . ."  He turned his head and trailed off. 

"Captain Rogers," said Clint, folding his arms.

"I, uh, brought your shirt.  I washed it and found some buttons that matched."  He set it on the nearest high stool. 

"Thanks."

"Least I could do."  Steve hesitated.  "I hope you'll accept my apology for . . . for earlier.  It was . . ."  He swallowed.  "I was way out of line."

Fair or not, Clint couldn't stop himself. "Was it from memory?"

“What?"  Steve flushed.  "No!  No, never.  I swear."

"So you two were never intimate?"

"No." A sad smile crossed his face.  "We were friends, I guess, for a while, but that's all."

Clint let out a breath.  Okay, then.

Natasha spoke softly. "Does Coulson know—"

Steve went the color of a spoiled tomato.

"—how you feel about him?"

"Oh."  Steve shot Clint a look of pure guilt before his gaze slid away.  "We don't . . . we don't talk much outside of work anymore."

"That doesn't answer the question," she said, gently.

"He doesn’t have to answer it, Nat," said Clint, knowing that he already had and that Steve honestly didn't deserve the torture of spelling out whatever had happened.  "His feelings are his business."

She raised an eyebrow, but let it go.

"I really am sorry," Steve said, finally meeting Clint's eyes.  "For whatever that's worth.  I wouldn't have . . .I'd just heard—"  His face contorted.  "It . . . It won't happen again."

Clint believed him.  "I'd appreciate that," he said.

There was an awkward silence. 

"I just hope I haven't screwed up the Avenger's chances of getting you back," Steve said.  "Agent Bishop is good, but we miss you.  All of us," he added.

"Good to know," said Clint.  "I'll think about it."

"Good."  Steve cleared his throat.  "Sorry to interrupt your evening."

"I'll see you tomorrow," said Natasha leading him to the door.  She said something that Clint couldn't hear and a rumbled response.

Clint started cleaning the kitchen.  He was scrubbing the skillet when Natasha's arms slid around him.  He stopped what he was doing and leaned back a little.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Not quite," he said.  "But I'll get there."

He didn't think it was a lie.

Chapter Text

Dambulla was a nice little town surrounded by gorgeous vegetation, but its weather made Clint's hard copy forms stick together and did weird things to his bowstrings.  He figured out how to compensate for the bow, if not the paperwork, and knew the extra training would come in handy later, but that didn't do much for his temper. 

But he knew it wasn't the climate that was making him cranky. 

There was still a certain satisfaction in intimidating supply clerks into confessing that they were reselling old SHIELD tech on the black market, but now that he wasn't using the job to hide, he just wanted to get it done. 

 At least this time, he could complain to someone. 

"If Phil chooses Steve," Clint told Nat, over his newly issued secure line, "then I’m choosing Novosibirsk—I’d rather risk frostbite than heat rash.  You can even say you told me so.” 

He’d meant it as a joke, mostly, but shouldn’t have been surprised when she focused on the part that wasn’t. 

"Why do you still believe he will?" she asked.  "He made his choice plain." 

"Did he?" 

"Didn't he?” 

“He seemed to.”  Phil had—he knew that.  But . . .  

“Clint . . . are you doubting him because you don't trust him or because it's easier than making your own decision?" 

"About what? “ 

“Who,” she said.  “Not what.” 

 “You mean Phil?"   

“No, I mean Stark,” she said, with an audible eye roll.  “You were happy with him." 

"Stark?" 

"Coulson,” she said, “made you happy." 

"Yeah," he said, dropping his attempts at humor.  “He did.  What we had wasn't a lie.  It just . . . wasn't enough." 

"It looks like he's prepared to give you what you want." 

It did.  He only wished he knew what that was.  “Are he and Steve speaking again?" 

"Yes and no," she said.  "Coulson is back to normal, but now Steve is avoiding him." 

"That's not a surprise," he muttered. 

"You can't make this about what Steve wants, either," she said.  "You need to decide for you." 

"I know."  He blew out a breath.  "What am I doing here, Tasha?" 

"Realizing that you've had enough distance?"   

He was about to reply when he heard something in the background.  

"I have to go," she said, in her Black Widow voice. 

"SHIELD or Avengers?" 

"Come home and find out," she said, and was gone. 

He sighed, put down the phone, opened his laptop, and pulled over the next damp stack of paper.  The sooner he was done . . .    

He picked up his pen, not knowing how to end that sentence.  

A few hours later, he finished with the last form, rubbed his eyes and stretched.   Time to hit the range—and do a little thinking.  

 Or a lot. 

### 

After three full quivers and a meal of Koola'ya and pol roti in the commissary with a couple of impressed agents who wanted to know if he'd ever met Agent Barton—"Never had the pleasure, but I'd love a friendly competition sometime.  I hear he's amazing."—he was back in his quarters, trying to dry off from a quick shower and sort through his options. 

This trip confirmed that he didn't want to be an inspector, not as a regular gig.  He had a knack for it, but Paraná aside, it just didn't provide the adrenaline rush he needed. 

So . . . Avenger or field agent?  

He could be a handler, too, now that he was a Level 6.  He wasn't sure he had the right kind of patience for that—sniper patience was more controlled adrenaline than cool temper.  Then again, all the junior agents he'd trained were still alive, so there was that. 

But he’d liked being a member of a regular team—a kick-ass team that had started to feel like a family . . .  

His phone rang. 

"Huntington," he said, playing it safe.  Only two people knew his number, but misdials happened. 

But he wasn’t prepared for the voice he heard.  "Clint." 

"Coulson?  Is Nat—" 

"She's fine. On her way to Rio for a close surveillance op." 

Clint relaxed.  "Nice."  He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder and pulled on a pair of boxers.  "That’s why she gave you my number?" He appreciated the courtesy call, but— 

"No, I found it myself—I knew who to look for this time.  And where, once you started filing the paperwork." 

"Oh."  That was flattering—or ominous, depending on Phil’s reasons. 

"How's Sri Lanka?" 

"Like a steam bath,” he said, hanging up his towel.  “I’d say ‘it ain’t the heat, it's the humidity,’ but it's pretty much both.  A lot of both. Food's good, though." 

"Remember Anchor Wat?" 

"How could I forget—my clean socks turned green."  Clint sat down on his cot.  "So, what's up?"  He barely remembered to leave off the sir. 

"Nothing.  I just wanted to hear your voice.  I miss you." 

Clint blinked.  He’d made a lot of just because calls, himself, but had never received one.  He almost asked for Phil’s confirmation number, but settled for casual. "Yeah?"  

"Yeah." 

Clint cleared his throat.  "How are the others?" 

"Fine.  Dr. Foster is giving a seminar here and Thor is busy showing her around Manhattan, Stark and Dr. Banner are making progress on that new polymer—" 

"The Incredible HulkPants Project?" 

"Yes.”  Phil sounded amused.  “The latest version is a really ugly purple.  You'd love it." 

"Hey—" 

"Natasha is on a plane taking a Portuguese refresher.  And Captain Rogers . . ."  His voice trailed off. 

"Is in love with you," said Clint into the silence. 

"He thinks he is." 

He snorted "What's the difference?" 

"He'll get over me.  I won't get over you." 

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the cool surface of the wall, pressing the phone to his ear. 

“Clint?” 

"I might be having trouble with that myself,” he said, when he could. 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah . . . But I’m also having trouble believing that you're passing up a chance to get into Captain America's pants." 

"I'm not.  I'm passing up the chance to toy with the affections of a confused twenty-four year old who is now allowed freedoms he never dreamed possible, and who is fascinated with the first openly bi-sexual man he's ever met." 

"Still," Clint said, unable to keep the grin out of his voice.  "Boy has a fine ass on him." 

"His abs are even better,” Phil said.  “If they were yours, they'd be perfect" 

"Wow . . .”  Clint closed his eyes again.  “Is that your way of telling me to hit the gym more often?" 

"It's my way of telling you that I don't need to figure out who I want—that decision was made when I realized life without you didn't mean a damn thing." 

"You've known for four whole months, huh?"  Nice to know all the time before that was wasted effort. 

"Try three years and five months," Phil said, evenly.  "But I shouldn't have assumed you knew how I felt." 

"I thought I knew," said Clint. "But then I figured I was wrong." 

"You weren't."  There was a pause.  "Do you still . . . How do you feel about us?” 

"I don’t know,” said Clint, slowly. 

"Oh." 

"But I think we may have potential." 

Phil exhaled.  "That's . . . When are you coming back?"   

"Soon," said Clint.  "I'll be home soon." 

### 

Clint managed soon in four days, which gave him enough time to wrap up the inspection, put the enterprising clerks on evidence-supported ice, and convince the local fences and black marketeers that trafficking in stolen SHIELD supplies wasn’t worth the profit margin. 

He arrived at LaGuardia twenty-six hours later, briefly thought about stopping at Nat’s place to clean up, and took a taxi to SHIELD headquarters to make his final report. 

Or tried to. 

According to the taxi dispatcher, the flying robots currently attacking L.I.C. were blocking the Midtown Tunnel.

“You want I should try the Williamsburg?” asked the driver, with the calm of a man for whom frequent robotic attacks had mostly become opportunities to add a couple miles to a fare. 

“How close can you get to the Tunnel?” asked Clint, peering up at the sky, where several silver squid-like things were zipping through the sky like Matrix extras, homing in on something  he couldn't see.

“How close you want?” 

“Close.” 

The driver thought about it.  “Twenty bucks’ll get you to Twenty-first and Jackson.” 

“What’ll fifty get me?” Clint asked, taking out his bow. 

The driver looked over his shoulder.  “What are you, one’a them Avengers or something?"

“Used to be.” 

“Seriously?  Wait a minute—you’re the Hawkguy.” 

“Yeah.  I’m the Hawkguy.” 

The driver shook his head.  "Well, I'll be damned.  That changes everything. Hang on," he added, making a right turn that threw Clint against the door.

The taxi made it as far as 11^th and 46^th before it was stopped by a police barricade. 

The driver leaned out the window.  “Hey!  I gotta Avenger has to get through!” 

“That’s okay,” said Clint, getting out.  “I’ll walk it from here."   He took out his wallet. 

"Keep it," said the driver.  “But could you sign this?  It’s for my kid.” 

Clint took the pen, wrote Hawkeye on the back of the receipt form and handed it back, along with two folded fifties and a business card with SHIELD's address on it.  "Can you take my stuff to this address?"

“Sure thing,” said the driver, glancing at the card. 

It was worth a shot—the paperwork had been electronically filed or couriered, his laptop would tolerate two bad passwords before frying itself and anyone who bought his dirty laundry on eBay deserved what they got.

"Hey," said the driver, when Clint started to move away.  He held out the fifties until Clint took them.  "You probably don't remember, but my sister's kid was on a bus got stuck during the Manhattan thing—you're the one got 'em both out and safe.  I'll get your stuff delivered all right—and you ever need a ride anywhere, you ask for Charlie Muñoz."   

Clint couldn't think of what to say, so he nodded and hopped the barricade.

A police officer stopped Clint, but only to give him directions.  Clint jogged towards Vermont, and then headed for the explosions.  Once he'd figured out the right block, he found a nice tall building and climbed the fire escape to the top.

Below him was chaos.

Chapter Text

The cybersquid must have had a purpose for swarming Long Island City, but they seemed to have set it aside for the moment to attack the people who were trying to stop them.

This didn’t appear to be a sound strategy.

Below Clint, Captain America was using his shield to knock the enemy back with their own deflecting pulse blasts, while Thor managed to bring a ‘squid down with his hammer and stomp it like an empty beer can.  Another zipped by with an arrow in its back, so Kate Bishop was on the job.  And there was no way those percussive explosions down the block weren’t Tony.

He couldn’t spot a black van with the SHIELD eagle on the roof, but he knew it was close.  He didn’t know if Phil’s field status had been reinstated, but he guessed either he or Stillwell were taking point.  Natasha was probably still in Rio, and the Hulk was nowhere to be seen or heard, which wasn’t a bad call—these squid things were relatively small and quick, which meant brute force wasn’t the best defense.  Bruce must be standing by, though, just in case.

Situational assessment done, Clint studied the creatures.  The pulse blasts had medium to heavy impact, but there was a significant pause between each set of two, as if the ‘squid had to recharge.

And their aim was for crap, which meant an inventor who had designed flying squid with tracking systems didn’t know how to calibrate a weapons system . . . or the weapons weren’t the point.

 He drew, waited for one to zip past, and fired.  The arrow seemed to wobble as it neared the thing, but it punctured the casing just fine and the resulting charge fried it on the spot.  Its momentum carried it down the street, where it skipped with a series of metallic clangs.

 Repulsors whined and suddenly Iron Man was hovering in front of Clint. "Nice of you to join us, Legolas.  You finally get Reindeer Games out of your system?"

"How's the functional alcoholism going, Stark?"

"Just peachy, thanks.  Heads up."

A small projectile came arcing towards Clint.  He caught it—a comms bud.

He stuck it in his ear. “Thanks."

"De nada," said Tony, in his ear. "It's one of mine, so you’ll have to go through the suit.  Patch him in, JARVIS,” he added, streaking away.

"With pleasure, sir.  Welcome home, Agent Barton," JARVIS added.

There was a general intake of breath over the feed.

"Hey, guys," said Clint.

"Hey, old man!" said Kate, firing.  Her shot swerved just before it hit—and bounced off. “Damn it.”

Clint squinted.  "Hey, pipsqueak," he said.  “Your sights are off.”

“It’s not my sight, it’s my arm. Watch out for the red blasts—they burn.”

“Good to know,” he said.  “But that’s not why you can’t hit the barn today.”

"Sit-rep, Hawkeye," said the familiar Keep Calm and Talk to Coulson Voice.

Clint fired an arrow at a squid moving too close to the party, but it veered off trajectory and a tentacle nabbed it.

“These things have magnetic fingers,” said Clint.

The cybersquid exploded.

“They aren't especially tough, though.”

“Ha!” said Kate.  “Not my fault.”

"Good to know," said Cap.  "Watch it, Iron Man.  Archers, switch to explosives or tasers."

"Right," said Kate.

"I only have two explosives left, and no tasers," said Clint.  "But I can slow 'em down for you."

"Do it," said Cap.  "It's good to have you back, Hawkeye."

"Thanks," said Clint, knowing that Captain America meant it, even if Steve Rogers didn't.

He drew and fired a rappelling arrow into a squid. The other end he looped around a handy ring in the concrete ledge.  The 'squid struggled, tangling itself up and firing randomly into Clint's building, unable to aim.

"Anyone want to put the poor thing out of its misery?"

A sudden lightning bolt blew it apart.

"Will that do, Friend Hawkeye?"

"Works for me, Thor," Clint said, coughing a little from the smell of ozone.

Captain America called out field commands and Coulson provided and required continuous information—and Clint followed both like he never stopped, grinning out of sheer relief.

He didn't know what was going to happen after the battle, but on the field, they were a team.  His team.

One choice down, one to go . . .

“Hawkeye!” Coulson said.

“Which one?” both Clint and Kate hollered.

"The pretty one?" Kate asked.

"Or the prettier one?" Clint said, nailing a 'squid to a billboard by two tentacles.

"Nice shootin', Tex," she said, finishing it off with an explosive arrow.

"Thanks, darlin'."

"Clint!" Coulson hollered.  "Jump!"

And even before  his mind registered that Agent Phil J. Coulson had just disregarded code names over the comms for the first time in living memory, Clint launched himself off the building, as it crumbled underneath him.

He reached for a rappelling arrow, knowing he was going to be too late, imagining that he could hear Phil swearing through the roar in his ears.

Before his fingers could find the right shaft, he slammed into something solid that knocked the wind out of him.  The world rushing past suddenly changed direction and it wasn’t until his feet were on a nice, stable roof that he could take a breath. “Thanks, Stark."

“No problem," he said.  "But stop supersizing the Happy Meals, would you?"

Clint offered him a finger.

“Hawkeye, report!” Cap shouted.

"Damn it, grandpa," said Kate. "Leave the dumb stunts to the kids."

“Are you hurt?” Coulson demanded.

“Shaken, not stirred," said Clint, checking his surroundings—he was a couple stories above the SHIELD van. "But I’m going to have an Iron Man-shaped bruise on my right side tomorrow.”

“Say the word and I’ll even it up for you, sweetcheeks,” said Tony. “Pepper won’t mind, as long as we let her watch.”

Clint swung around and fired two arrows in quick succession. “Why Mister Stark!” he said, grinning, “I do declare—“

“Cut the chatter,” Coulson snapped.  “Reports indicate sixteen total—thirteen confirmed kills, three unaccounted for.”

 “One is done,” said Kate, over the sound of a dead hunk of metal shattering on impact with the street below.

Clint winced.

There was a thunderclap. “Two is barbecue,” said Tony.  “Good shot, Point Break.”

“Thank you,” Thor said

“Where’s the third?” Coulson asked.

Clint searched.  “Last one's coming down Vernon like a bat out of—Shit!  It’s headed for the van!”

He yanked his last explosive arrow out of the quiver, but even if he killed the 'squid, it would hit the van.  “Coulson!  Out!”

The back doors opened, and a be-suited man leapt out and turned with an outstretched arm, just as the ‘squid landed square on the roof, creasing it almost in half, and began to pull the vehicle apart at the seams.

Instead of running, the agent stepped closer, reached into the wreckage and yanked another man out, letting go just as tentacles grabbed him and flung him across the street.  He hit a wall and landed hard on the sidewalk.

"No!" screamed Clint.  He had the arrow ready, but was forced to hold it while the second agent crawled away.

"I can—" said Kate.

"No!" Cap shouted. “Hold your fire!  An electric charge could explode the gas tank!”

"Get them out of there!" Clint hollered.

The second agent—Fallon, his name was Fallon—knelt beside Coulson and touched his own ear. “We can’t risk moving him," he said.

"EMP blast, JARVIS," Tony said in a voice like grim death, swooping in and turning his body sideways as he held out an arm.  A small, sleek barrel emerged from Iron Man's wrist.  “They want to play Matrix, I’ll shove the red pill down their goddamn throats.”

Clint didn’t see anything come out of the barrel or hear anything over the destruction of the van.   But the ‘squid suddenly went limp and Iron Man plunged about three feet before leveling off just above the tarmac.

"Whoops, little backwash there," Tony said, his voice crackling in Clint’s ear.

"Call a Medical team!” yelled Cap . . .

 . . . except it wasn't Captain America, because he'd tossed aside his shield, torn off his cowl, and was on his knees in front of the still figure of the first agent.  "Phil?" Steve said, his voice hoarse.  "Phil!"

A figure ran down the street with a medical kit—Bruce.

"Tony, get me down there," said Clint, not recognizing his own voice.  "Now."

###

Clint sat in the private waiting area of the Bellevue Trauma Center, numb from brain to bone.

SHIELD Medical was fast, but Bellevue Trauma Center had been seven minutes away and an ambulance had been nearby in case of civilian casualties. The staff had whisked Phil away and herded the Avengers into a private waiting room.

The Center was only supposed to stabilize Phil until SHIELD Medical took over, but it had been two hours and no one would say why.  Bruce had finally gone to find out what he could—he'd had a look on his face that said the Other Guy wasn't too happy about the wait, either.

Kate had stuck around to have her burn patched up but had finally gone back to SHIELD to debrief, escorted by an uncharacteristically silent Thor.   Before she left, she'd given Clint a long hug that he appreciated—she knew Phil meant a lot to Clint, even if she hadn't heard about the elevator kiss, which he knew was nearly impossible considering SHIELD'S industrial-strength grapevine.

“He’ll be okay,” she'd whispered.  “He’s Coulson.”

"Thanks," he'd whispered back.

"Hey, now," Tony had said, looking up from his Starkpad and waggling his eyebrows.  "When the spider's away, the hawks will play?"

They'd both turned toward him.  "Bite us," they'd said in deadpan unison.

Tony had made a face. "Sheesh, I take it back—you were obviously separated at birth by a time machine."  He'd lounged back on the couch, wearing a pair of jeans and an MIT sweatshirt that he'd had Happy deliver, along with a change of clothes for Steve, who had refused to leave.

From the uncharacteristically sympathetic looks Tony kept shooting at Steve, he'd remained ignorant of SHIELD gossip—which wasn't a huge surprise.  He clearly thought Steve was half out of his mind over Phil.

He was probably right.

But Clint couldn't spare the energy to give a good goddamn about that—or anything—right now. 

God, he wished Nat was here.  He'd left a message, but there was no telling when she might be able to respond.

Steve suddenly stopped pacing and Clint looked up to see Bruce at the entranceway with a tall man wearing a white coat and an air of tired authority.  “This is Doctor Everett Samuelson,” Bruce said.  “He’s in charge of Phil's care.”

“How is he?” Steve asked.

"Are you Clint Barton?" Dr. Samuelson asked.

"That's me,” Clint said, standing up.

The doctor moved past Steve.  "I'm told you're Mr. Coulson’s medical proxy."

 Clint blinked. “Yeah, I guess so."

 "Since when?" Tony asked.

"Couple years now," Clint replied absently, ignoring Bruce's look of interest and Steve's shuttered expression.

“Could you come with me, please?” asked Dr. Samuelson.

Clint followed him out to the nurse’s station.  He couldn't help making comparisons to the last time Phil had been hurt—he'd been upset then, but now he wouldn't have minded if the doctor had ignored him and said that Phil was fine and wanted Steve to drive him home.

Yeah, that last part was a lie.  "Is he going to be okay?"

The doctor offered a sympathetic smile.  "Mr. Coulson is still unconscious.  Because of the high risk of spinal and cranial injuries, we've convinced his, ah, regular doctors that it would be best to keep him here, despite the apparent security concerns."  He looked at Clint as though he expected an argument.

Clint didn't give him one. "Makes sense."  He would personally make sure Phil was secure.

Samuelson relaxed.  "We're also concerned about his previous injuries, in case they would affect his present treatment."  He paused.  "He has some significant scarring on his upper torso that indicates previous internal injuries.”

It was a leading statement, but Clint was willing to be led if it helped Phil.  “He was stabbed.  During the Battle of Manhattan.”  Or right before, but the time frame was good enough.

The doctor’s eyes opened wide and Clint wondered if it had finally dawned on him exactly who those weird people were in the waiting room.  “I  . . . see.  We were told you could release his medical records."

"I can try."  Clint took out his phone and punched in a number.

There was a long beep. "Records," he said clearly.  He waited for the prompt, then punched in another number.  "Five-nine-seven-seven-November-Charlie-Tango-Juliet,” he said, when the call was connected. "This is Agent Clint Barton.  I want Agent Philip Coulson's redacted medical records for the past two years sent to Bellevue, attention Doctor Samuelson—no, ASAP is too fucking slow and immediately is pushing it.  Good."  He ended the call.  "You'll have them in ten minutes."

 Doctor Samuelson stared at him.  "Um, thank you."

Clint nodded.  "When can I—we—see him?"

The doctor's expression softened. "We're finishing up some tests," he said.  "As soon as we can fit a visitor's chair into the room, we'll come get you.  And meanwhile, the cafeteria serves really bad coffee."

Clint rubbed his eyes and managed a chuckle.  "Thanks, Doc."

"You're welcome, Agent Barton."

###

Dr. Samuelson hadn't been kidding about the coffee, but it wasn't that much worse than Nat's and Clint was at least marginally more awake when a nurse arrived with Phil's personal possessions.

She held out the manila envelope in Clint's direction, but Tony made a grab for it and Steve  snatched it out of his reach just in time.

"C'mon Cap, don't you want to see what Coulson keeps in his pocketses?"

"That's none of our business, Tony," Steve said.

"It might be Clint's," Bruce said, from the corner.

"Why?" Tony asked.  "Medical Proxy isn't the same as Next of Kin."

Bruce shrugged.  "SHIELD regs?"

Steve hesitated, then offered the envelope to Clint, who couldn't bring himself to touch it.

He knew  it was Phil's stuff, not his effects, but he still couldn't do it.  "Make a list," he said.  "He'll want it later."

Steve looked like he wanted to protest, but produced a pencil.  "Wallet," he said, setting it next to him and making a note on the envelope.  "Phone—damaged.  Keyring—four keys."

"I didn't know Agent was into jewelry," said Stark, peering over his shoulder.

"Looks like a dog tag chain," said Steve, pulling it out.

Clint frowned.  Phil never wore his tags in the field.

Steve held up the chain. Gold dangled from it.

Clint froze.

"Agent is married?" Tony said.

"There's two of them," said Steve, staring at them.

"Agent was married?"

Steve swallowed.  "They look . . . new."

Tony grabbed the chain out of his hand.  "They're engraved.  PJC and a paperclip—that's adorable.  And this one . . ."  He grinned down at Steve, obvious in his expectations.  "Has . . . CFB and an arrow?"  He looked up.  "Clint?"

Clint tried to draw in a breath, but he'd forgotten how.

He remembered Phil's new habit of touching his chest, fiddling with his tie—and the clink he'd thought he'd heard during that brief kiss. But Phil hadn't said a word.

He'd been waiting for Clint to make up his mind.

"Head between your knees."  Bruce put a hand on his upper back and pushed him gently down.  "In and out."

Clint leaned forward, his shaky hands on his thighs.  "I'm okay."

"Yeah, you look it," Bruce said.  "Sorry Tony spoiled the, ah, surprise."

Clint shook his head. "I bought them," he said, hearing his voice rasp.  "A while ago.  I left them behind when I moved out."

"You moved out?  Of my Tower?" Tony shook his head.  "Wait, never mind about that right now—you and Agent have a thing going?  I thought he and Steve were—I mean, I thought you looked a little green when you heard about that, no offense, Brucie, but . . ."  He stopped, took a deep breath,  and turned on Steve.  "Agent was cheating on Clint?  With you?  How is that even possible?"

Steve looked away.  "I keep telling you—Agent Coulson and I were on a mission."

"Yeah," Tony said, waving his hands.  "But I didn't think you meant a mission mission."

Clint forced a chuckle through a tight throat.  "Neither did I."

Tony blinked.  "Holy shit."

"Yeah," said Clint.  "Pretty much."

"And it's still not right, is it?" Bruce said in low voice, glancing at Steve, whose head was bowed.

Clint shook his head.  "Not by a long shot," he whispered.

Chapter Text

Clint should have known Tony wouldn't let it go.  It was common knowledge that the man's favorite coping mechanism was to poke at people, places, and things until they exploded.

He was probably trying to get at Clint, but it was Steve who was starting to visibly grit his teeth.

"So, you and Agent are what now?  Taking a break?  Amicably separated? Tolerating each other for the sake of the children?"

"None of your business, Stark."

"This explains why things have been so tense in the Tower lately.  I thought maybe Agent had shocked Steve with his deviant sexual demands, or even vice versa—who knows what super serum could do to a guy's libido . . ."

"Stark,” Steve said.

" . . . But I guess he was just missing his own personal Cupid.  Or should I say cellist?"  He frowned.  "Was there really a cellist?  'Cause if there was, I'm in danger of losing my status as Team Playboy to a man who probably uses the Office Max catalog as a—"

"Tony," said Bruce.  "You might want to remember that you aren't wearing your suit right now."

"Yeah, yeah.  Sorry. . ."  Tony plopped down next to Clint.  "So, seriously, how come I didn't know what was going on under my own roof? Don't tell me SHIELD supports that DADT crap—Fury may be a badass liar who lies like a badass, but he's not a schmuck."

"Phil wanted to keep us a secret," said Clint.

Steve looked up, his forehead wrinkling.

"From us?” Tony's hurt expression was just a tad too pouty to be genuine.

“From everyone.”

“Why?"

Clint wasn’t about to explain Phil to Tony Stark—even if he’d known how. "You'll have to ask him."

"Maybe I—.”  Tony inhaled sharply.  “Oh, crap! Please tell me Natasha knows."

Clint snorted.  "She knew before we did.  And she approved."  More or less.

“Whew.”  Tony sagged in exaggerated relief.  "I wasn't looking forward to witnessing that conversation."

“Sorry about the honeymoon pool."

"No, that’s okay."  Tony coughed a little.  "Sorry about being so happy about someone else dating your, um, person."

"S'okay.  I know you meant well.  Or as well as you ever do."

Tony nodded.  After a moment, he said, "You two are still together, though, right?  Or getting back together?  We didn't mess it up?"

“No one messed it up, Tony,” Clint said.  "Except maybe us."

Steve got up and crossed the room to the window.  Bruce followed him and said something Clint couldn't catch.

“You sure about that?” Tony said, raising both eyebrows.

"We . . . we need to work some stuff out."  He braced himself for the inevitable question: You and Agent or you and Agent and Cap?

But Tony just nodded and looked at his hands.  "I know how that goes.  Worth it though,” he added, “in the long run.”

“I guess.”  If they could glue the pieces into something better.  If Phil was around to try . . .

No.  Clint couldn’t lose him like that.  Even if they decided to call it quits, the idea of a world without Phillip J. Coulson in it . . .

No.

“And no matter what happens,” Tony was saying, “you’re back on the team, right?”

That he could answer.  "If you'll all have me."

Tony clapped a hand on his shoulder.  "Most of us didn't know we'd lost you, Legolas, or we would have brought you back.  We take our abandonment issues seriously around here, y’know.”

“Yeah.  Thanks.”

“No problem.”  Tony frowned.  "But we can still keep Merida, right?  'Cause she actually makes purple look good.  And I like her sass.”

“Does Pepper know that you're going around admiring other women’s . . . sass?" Clint asked, wondering if Tony had ever called out the wrong name during sex.  Doubtful—he’d probably learned a long time ago to keep everything generic.

“I'm a vocal admirer of women, men, the occasional alien, and fine engineering.”  Tony winked.  “That’s one of the first things we worked out.”

It slipped out before Clint could stop it.  “How?”

For a moment, it looked like the answer was going to be a patented Stark wisecrack, but then the smirk disappeared.  “It helps that she knows me.  The good, the bad, the fabulously fucked up.  She knows all the things I can’t be trusted with . . . and for some strange reason I can’t hope to understand, she believes me when I tell her that her heart isn’t one of them.”

"You're a lucky man."

"You know it."

“Tony?”  said a voice.

“Pepper?”  Tony looked up and his whole face brightened.  He leapt up and crossed the room to hold her.  “He’s going to be fine,” he said, rubbing her back.  “He’s Agent Double-O Indestructible.”

Dr. Samuelson came into the room and Clint stood up.

"I have some encouraging news," said the doctor.

“He's awake?” Bruce asked.

“Not yet, but there's no sign of brain damage or cranial bleeding. And he can have visitors.  Only one at a time for now,” he added, as everyone moved at once.  “Agent Barton?  I assume you're first?”

Clint took a couple of steps, but Pepper reached out and grabbed his arm.  “Wait," she said.  "I know Phil is your friend as well as your co-worker, Clint, but don’t you think Steve should be the one—”

"Pepper," Tony said.

She turned on him. "Tony Stark, you're the last person I'd expect to stand between Phil and his—"

“Pepper,” Steve said, his voice agonized.  “I’m not—”

“No, Steve. Relationships should take precedence over SHIELD protocol.  And it’s important that Phil hears your voice—the doctors will tell you that.  He needs you right now.  Clint understands, don’t you, Clint?  What?” she said, as a grimacing Tony pulled her bodily out of Clint's way.  “What’s wrong?”

Tony looked at him. "Go," he said, and began speaking quietly in Pepper's ear.

Clint went.

As the door closed behind him, he heard her say, “Oh my God.  What have we done?"

###

One of the perks of making the CEO of Stark Industries feel overwhelmingly guilty was that she’d immediately convinced the hospital to let Clint ignore regular visitor’s hours.

He would have anyway, but at least he didn’t have to waste time arguing or hiding.

Instead, he used the time to write his report on the cybersquid attacks.

And think.

And talk to Phil.

During the day, between the steady stream of interruptions from Avengers and various SHIELD personnel —most of whom offered him the chance to rest up and eat a decent meal and argued with him when he refused—he described the declassified parts of what he'd been up to since he'd left New York, including some of the stranger bribes he'd been offered in Paraná, the interesting parts of Novosibirsk, and the weirdest things he’d eaten.

At night, when no one came by but the night staff at timed intervals, he talked about other things.

About how, at first, he hadn't expected anything more than what they'd had—the hours or minutes outside of missions and away from SHIELD.  He’d been so stunned that Phil Coulson actually wanted him, so disbelieving that he might finally be allowed to have something that he'd wanted for so long, that it never occurred to him that he could have asked for more.  He might have thought about how good it would feel to have everyone know Phil Coulson had chosen him, but he thought he’d understood Phil's reluctance.

But even though he loved their time together—not just in bed, but sharing meals, watching TV, or just hanging out in Phil's office— the restrictions had started to chafe after a year or two, even if Clint had thought it was worth the closeness.

The holidays spent alone—unless there were missions—because Phil hadn't told his sister about Clint.  The times when junior agents with obvious competence kinks had all but fallen at Agent Coulson's feet, and Clint couldn't drive them off without causing gossip.  The times when someone had flirted with Clint in Coulson's presence and Coulson hadn't seemed to mind. 

All the times he wanted to lean against Phil for just a few precious moments without worrying about who might see.

. . . And then Loki and his fucking spear had driven it home that being Phil's medical proxy was a convenience that only counted outside of SHIELD Medical— it didn't place him on any official notification lists or make him any more important than any other asset assigned to Agent Coulson.

If Sitwell hadn't thought Captain America and Iron Man should know that news of Agent Coulson's death had been exaggerated, if not greatly, before Tony and Steve had told the team what Fury had told them . . .  there was no telling what Clint would have done.

The rings, in retrospect, had been a way to keep that from happening again.  Even if Phil hadn't wanted to have a ceremony or even file a FRat-3g-542, the engravings would have told someone, even posthumously, that Clint had mattered to Phil.

Except by the time he'd bought them, it had seemed like he hadn't mattered all that much.  Not even enough to be told he never really had.

And now . . .  Even with the misunderstandings more or less cleared up, there was no way Clint was going to go back to that.

He wanted equal say and compromises and public declarations and mutual trust.  He wanted a public partner as well as a private lover.

A willing partner.

He was pretty sure he wanted Phil to be that partner.

But if Phil couldn't or wouldn't give him what he needed . . .

Then Clint could and would settle for knowing that Phillip J. Coulson would still be around kicking ass and committing names and other pertinent information to his mental files.

So it would be great if Phil would wake up and start kicking.  And filing. And giving Clint his opinion on all this stuff.

Now would be good.

Please.

###

"Guess what," said Tony on the second morning, his voice disgustingly cheerful.  The ridiculously large travel cup of what smelled like designer java in his hand might have had something to do with it—Clint was beginning to suspect the hospital of using what they called coffee as job security.

"No," Clint said, rubbing his bristly face and trying to straighten his spine after several hours dozing upright.

Tony grinned.  "The Eency Weency Spider has decided to crawl up our spout again."  He stepped aside and frowned.  "That sounded a lot less suggestive in my head."

"Only in comparison to everything else in there, Stark." Natasha said, keeping her eyes on Clint.  "How is he?"

Clint blinked at her.  "Still unconscious.  He’s probably just catching up on sleep."

She moved toward him and he stood up and they wrapped their arms around each other.  "How are you?" she asked.

"Better now," he said, breathing the scent of her hair.

"And you wonder why there's a honeymoon pool," said Tony, rolling his eyes.  "Any chance you can talk Legolas here into taking a shower and a nap?  If he goes any more Stinky Grumpy Cat, Agent's not going to want to wake up."

Natasha stepped back and gave Clint a look.

"Only if you stay with him," he said.

"That's why I’m here," she said, slipping into his seat.  "Go away.  Six hours."

"Four."

"Five, and if I see you before then, I'll knock you out for eight."

He was almost too tired to smile, but tried.  "Done."

"Happy will meet you at the entrance," said Tony.  "He'll take you to the Tower."

"I don't have any stuff there," Clint said, though he was pretty sure Nat didn't want Tony knowing about her place.

"Kate dropped off a duffel bag, a suitcase, and an unbelievable story about a taxi driver named Muñoz with a serious case of Hawkguy worship."  He grinned.  "Told me to tell you she'd be glad to keep the Hawkeye handle if you wanted to call yourself The Shadow."

Natasha looked puzzled.

"Mutant superhero from the thirties," said Clint, grinning.  Looked like his risk had paid off—that had to be a good sign.  "Had a loyal taxi driver named Moe.  I think Alec Baldwin did a movie once."

"Speaking of old time superheroes and good-looking actors," said Tony, "Cap wants to know if he can visit."

Clint had noticed that Steve hadn’t been by after the first afternoon, but hadn’t been able to muster up much concern.  "I'm not stopping him."

"You kind of are," said Tony.  "Not on purpose maybe, but you know how he is."  He waved the hand not holding coffee.  "Manners.  Plus, well . . . when the guy gets an idea lodged in that thick skull of his, it kind of hurts when the truth knocks it out."

"Right," said Clint, suddenly too tired to give a damn.  "Tell him the door is open." He glanced at Nat who gave an imperceptible nod.

"Go on," she said.  "I've got this."

He nodded and went to the hospital bed.  "Nat's making me clean up and get some rest," he said.  "I'll be back this afternoon.  Save me some Jell-O."

He hesitated, then kissed Phil's forehead and left.

Chapter Text

Somewhere over his head, which was buried face-first in the most comfortable pillow ever created, Clint heard voices.

"Sir, I was instructed by Agent Romanov to wake Agent Barton no earlier than—"

"Overruled, JARVIS.  C'mon, Barton!"  Two sharp claps.  "I thought spies slept with one eye open!"

Clint turned his head just enough to confirm that Tony was his next target once he woke up.  "Whuzz?"

"Coulson's awake."

Clint sat up, ignoring the screams of his stiff muscles.  "How soon can you get me there?"

Tony grinned and the Iron Man suit built itself around him.  "Three minutes after you tie your shoes."

Five minutes later, they dropped onto Bellevue's helipad, Tony's boots absorbing the impact.  "Thank you for flying Stark Air," Tony said, as his armor released him and closed up.  "Don't forget to return your stewardess to her upright position."

The empty suit took off, presumably back to the Tower, and Clint sprinted for the door, Tony on his heels.

Dr. Samuelson looked up as they reached the nurses' station.  "Agent Barton!  That was quick."

Clint reluctantly stopped. "How is he?"

"Agent Coulson has regained full consciousness.  He's in some pain from the numerous contusions and deep tissue bruising, but there doesn’t appear to be any neurological damage."

He exhaled. "Thanks.  Thank you. "

The doctor smiled.  "My pleasure, Agent Barton.  There doesn't appear to be any memory loss, apart from some details about the, ah, incident.  He recognized Agent Romanov and Captain Am—Captain Rogers immediately."

"Captain Rogers?"

"He was present when Agent Coulson woke up."

Of course he was.  "Great."

"We had to reassure him several times that you were unhurt before he let us examine him," Dr.  Samuelson said, his eyebrow quirking.  "It might lower his stress levels if you let him see for himself."

Tony bumped his shoulder.  "Sounds like a good idea."

"Sure," Clint said, telling himself to knock off the junior high jealousy. "Nat probably wants a coffee break, anyway."

"Agent Romanov went for coffee while we were running our tests," Dr. Samuelson said.  "She told me to call her if you weren't back before we were done, but since you're here now, did you want to—"

"She left Phil?"

"Captain Rogers should be with him."  The doctor frowned.  "That's all right, isn't it?"

“Perfect," Clint said though gritted teeth.  "Thanks, Doc."  He swung away and strode down the hall.

"Hey, don't go Other Guy on us, Legolas," said Tony, catching up at a jog.   "Maybe Romanov doesn't know that Steve—"

"The hell she doesn't."  Clint caught sight of Nat leaning against the wall by the door to Phil's room.  She looked at him, raised her eyebrows as if she knew what he'd been thinking and put her finger to her lips.

Tony pushed Clint until they were both on the other side of the door frame.

"Steve,” said Phil, his voice slurring a little, “I've tried to be polite about this.  I know I gave you some mixed signals when we first met, and the mission confused things even more—but I'm not interested.”

“Don’t worry,” said Steve.  “I got the message."

“Oh,” Phil said.  “ . . . Good?”

Clint shifted, but Tony caught his arm. "Wait," he whispered.

"Why didn't you tell me you were the one who wanted to keep your relationship secret?" Steve's voice was steady but there was some pain in the question.

There was a pause. "Because it wasn't any of your business?"

"Neither was anything else you told me when you were falling apart and needed someone to talk to."

"You didn't have to—"

"That's not the point, Phil!" He sighed.  "Look, if you’d just told me, I wouldn’t have made a fool of myself thinking that Clint was the one breaking your heart.  And maybe I wouldn't have fa—I wouldn't have tried to pick up pieces that weren't even there."

“I told you it was my fault."

“You told me how worried you were that you weren’t good enough for him—hell, you let me think he had one foot out the door since the beginning.”

" . . . I was wrong about that."

"You think?"  Steve snapped, in a way Clint had only heard him use on Tony.

"I know I messed up with Clint, but I never led you on.  I told you more than once—"

"I thought you were making excuses for him—not yourself."

Phil didn't answer for a moment.  "I didn't want to admit I'd driven him away."

"I thought you deserved better."

"There is no one better," Phil said, his voice tired.  "Clint is one of the best men I know.  You think you had it tough growing up?  Clint has been hurt and betrayed all down the line.  He should have given up so many times, and he keeps grabbing every opportunity to bring himself up again. I hurt him, and he picked himself up and went on without me—I hated that because I’m selfish and jealous and pathetic, but I love that he can do that, against the odds, against everything life throws at him.

"He's infuriating and mouthy and loyal and brave and smart and his body, God . . . I didn’t know how colorless and empty my life was until he showed up and forced me to pay attention.  He's everything I never knew I needed.  And my real mistake was not telling him that, not showing him, over and over, until he believed it."

"Wow,” Tony whispered.  “In Vicodin Veritas.”

Natasha pointed at Clint and raised her eyebrows.

Clint took a deep breath and walked into the room, stopping just inside.

"I'm sorry I dumped all my insecurities on you when I should've been talking to him and I'm sorry my pride got in the way," Phil was saying, his eyes half-closed.  "I didn't mean to hurt you, too."

"I know," Steve said, sighing.  "I'll get over it."

"It's not that he's better than you or that he's more worthy of me.  You just aren't him."

"Yeah," Steve said.    He looked up and saw Clint.  "I'm fully aware of that."

Once again, Clint was reminded that Captain America might be a timeless icon, but Steve Rogers was younger than his years.

"I don't know if he still loves me, or if I screwed it up for good," Phil was saying, his eyes closed.  "But if I work hard, maybe I can at least win back his trust.  That'd almost be, well, no . . . But it was such a gift, knowing he trusted me."

"He jumped off a building because you said so," Steve said, still looking at Clint.  “That shows a lot of trust.”

Phil nodded.  “Trust for Coulson.  Not for Phil.”

"I'm pretty sure it's both."  Steve swallowed.  "You . . . you should have seen his face when he saw the rings."

Phil clutched at his sternum and flinched in pain.  "Where . . . ?"

"They had to take them off for the scans.  Clint is keeping them safe."  Steve's expression said that this had better be the case.

"He'll think it's a trick."  Phil swallowed.  "He's probably tossed them already."

"Are you kidding?" Clint said.   "You have any idea how much I paid for those things?"

Phil's eyes opened wide.  "Two month's pay, you said."

"Good memory."

"For some things."

Steve stood up.  "I'm pretty sure I hear Tony calling my name."

"That's Nat," said Clint.  "Could you take them both with you?"

"I'll do my best.  Clint," he said, moving closer.  "I'm really sorry for—"

"Forgiven," Clint said, grasping his arm.  "Forgotten.   All of it," he added, with a meaningful look. 

He could afford to be generous—half his fears had disappeared, just like that.

Steve flushed, but nodded.

"And if you ever need to talk . . . You could probably do worse than Tony."

Steve gave him a doubtful look.  "Are you sure?"

"Sure he's sure," said Tony, appearing in the doorway.  "C'mon Cap, I'll buy you a drink."

"That's not going to make a dent," Steve said, but followed.

"Then I'll buy you a bar.  Hey, Romanov, come help pick out the vodka for Steve's new bar.   And a name.   How about Spangles?"

"Tony . . ."

"Going Commando?"

Natasha paused in the doorway and gave Clint a small, knowing smile of affection, which he returned.  "Are you buying him a bar or a strip club?" she said, before moving on.

"Why not both?  We'll find him a hot accountant . . . Or maybe a doctor.  Is Samuelson single?"

"Tony, I swear to. . . "

Clint chuckled and sat down.  Phil moved his head very carefully.   "I think I missed something."

"Probably.  You've been out for two days."

"So they tell me."  Phil's gaze roamed over him.  "You aren't hurt?  The last thing I remember is the building coming down."

"Tony caught me.  I'm—"

"Shaken, not stirred?"  Phil's blue eyes crinkled in the corners.

"Yeah."  Clint grinned.  "One of the cybersquids targeted the van.  You pulled Agent Fallon out, but the 'squid tried to throw you through a wall."

"That explains the intense pain."  Phil shifted and winced.  "How's the wall?

"It refused medical treatment.  One less M914-c to fill out."

Phil frowned.  "You mean M914-d."

"Hey," said Clint, taking his hand, "if it can indicate a medical preference, it's sentient enough for me."

Phil blinked at him. "You weren't here when I woke up."

"Natasha made me take a shower and a nap."

"I didn't know if you—she told me you were all right, but . . . It was too much like the last time."

"I know," Clint said.  "You scared me, too."

Phil's eyes slid shut.  "That's comforting."

"Sap."

Phil smiled, eyes still closed.  "Do we still have potential?"

Clint squeezed his fingers.  "Yes.  Go to sleep."

"Okay.  Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"I don't want you to say yes, just because I'm hurt."

Clint's mouth went dry.   "I won't," he said.  

"Oh . . . Good."  Phil paused for so long, Clint thought he'd fallen asleep, which was a best case scenario. 

He didn't know what he would say if Phil asked for the rings back—or worse, one ring.  It would be all too easy to say yes.

But he'd learned his lesson.  

Potential was one thing, but it was way too soon for anything else.   

"Clint?" Phil said suddenly.

"I'm here."

"Now that we're on equal footing . .  ."

"Yeah?"

"Could you help me fill out the paperwork on this one?  Those G-37h forms are tough enough when I'm not one big bruise."

Clint couldn't help it—he started to laugh and once he got going, he couldn't stop. It had been a long time since he'd laughed like that.

Come to think of it, Phil had been responsible for the last time, too.  Clint had forgotten that.

"Sure," he said, finally, wiping his eyes. "That I can do." 

Phil squeezed his hand.  "Thanks," he said quietly.  "Be here when I wake up?"

"I can do that, too," Clint said, but Phil was already asleep.

Chapter Text

It was nine days before Dr. Samuelson released Phil to SHIELD Medical. Tony kept saying that he was holding out for Steve's digits, but Clint knew for a fact that he'd asked Natasha out for coffee on day five.

Shortly afterward, Nat had mentioned to Clint that she hadn't thought of how convenient it had been to let people assume that she and he had an exclusive relationship.

"We do," he'd said, from his usual seat next to Phil's bed.  "Just not a romantic one."

"That's sweet," she'd said, and he could tell she meant it, even if her eyeroll mocked him.  "Unhelpful, but sweet."

"You don't need any help," Clint said.  "I don't know how you refused Dr. Samuelson, but he's been smiling like you accepted."

"Yes," she said. "But if I'd used you, it wouldn't have been as much effort.  I suppose those days are over?"

Clint had noticed that Phil had paused the episode of Hoarders he was playing on his laptop.  "Yeah," Clint had said.  "Sorry."

She'd shrugged.  "It's worth it to see you happy."

Clint still wasn't sure if she'd been talking to him, Phil, or both, but Phil had smiled and returned to his show, so it probably didn't matter.

Once SHIELD Medical had Phil in their clutches, they put him through an unmerciful battery of stress tests before clearing him for light duty and allowing him to babysit the Avengers—if only from the relative safety of headquarters.

That, Clint knew, had done more for Phil's stress levels than heavy-duty painkillers or enforced rest ever would.

Knowing that HQ was reinforced and fireproof was currently helping Clint's stress levels, as SHIELD tracked a fleet of rogue tanker trucks that had spent the day quietly draining gas stations throughout all five boroughs before someone had finally noticed the hoses hadn't been filling the underground tanks.

And then someone else noticed that no one was driving the trucks.

The immediate fear was that the unmanned tankers were going to be deployed as giant Molotov Cocktails, but SHIELD had determined that they were all heading away from the city, taking I-87 North for a harrowing mile or two before switching to the back roads.

They weren't being particularly evasive about it either, stretched out in an irregularly-spaced, slow-moving caravan that wouldn't have challenged a bright kid on a tricycle, much less a group of superheroes in a Quinjet.

"So, if terrorism is out, is this ransom or hoarding?" asked Tony, who had been willing, for once, to admit that covert tailing took a higher level of invisible than Iron Man could manage in the dark—if at all—and that it would be better if repulsors and gas didn't mix until they had to.

"Environmentalism?" Bruce said, watching the feed from the 'jet's cameras though his Starkpad.  It helped his stress levels when he could see what was going on from all angles.

"Independent sentient machine army?" Clint suggested, wondering how reality had reached the point where that wasn't a joke.

Tony frowned, clearly considering it.

Bruce looked up. "Fuel would be the primary concern of any—"

There was a loud whumph. The 'jet rocked.

"Talk to me," said Coulson.

Another whumph. Natasha swore as she fought the brief turbulence.

"Are we under attack?" Thor asked, standing and reaching for Mjölnir.

"If we are, they're lousy shots," Clint said, watching Bruce, who offered him a shake of the head that he hoped meant the Other Guy wasn't worried.

Bruce didn't look worried either.  "I don't think so," he said, indicating his 'pad.

"One of the tankers rear-ended another one," Steve hollered back from the co-pilot's seat.  "Both exploded."

"Agreed," said Coulson.  "There's no indication that they've noticed you."

"So much for sentience," Tony said.  "Even Dummy knows better than to tailgate a 160,000-pound bomb while lugging around another 160,000-pound bomb.  I think."

"At least he'd have a fire extinguisher ready," Bruce said.

Tony rolled his eyes.  "There's that."

"Was it an accident, or deliberate?" Phil said

Bruce turned his 'pad and showed Clint the wreckage.

"All the explosions did was leave a mess on the asphalt," Clint said.  "There's next to no traffic and no obvious targets. They didn't even block all the lanes—and if they had, they'd be blocking themselves."

"I'm thinking programming, not AI," said Tony, leaning over as well as he could in his armor to see the screen.  "Maybe remotely controlled by someone who looked away for a minute."

"That's comforting," Nat muttered.

"Keep following the trucks," said Phil. "I've alerted emergency services."

The rest of the tankers drove on, finally pulling into a small abandoned airfield about twenty miles outside of the city.  Clint thought he could hear the sound of air brakes over the Quinjet's engines.

Nat set down the 'jet behind a convenient hill and Steve unbuckled.  "Widow, Hawkeye, you're with me," he said, releasing his shield from its brackets and pulling down his cowl.  "The rest of you wait here until we figure out what we're up against."

"I can be stealthy," Thor said, his voice ringing in the small space. "I will come with you."

"It's better to hold our heavy hitters in reserve," said Captain America, with all evidence of sincerity.  "If everything goes to hell, we'll need you."

Thor wasn't having any. "Another reason I should be on hand."

"That would be ideal," Coulson said, in his Respectful but Immoveable Agent tone.  "But electricity can spark gasoline fumes.  For the sake of your more flammable teammates, would you be willing to wait for their call?"

"Of course," Thor said, sitting down again.  "I understand."

"Thanks, boss," Clint muttered, shouldering his quiver.

"You're welcome."

"Quite flirting and get going," Tony said, winking at Clint.  "The anticipation is boring me to death."

Nat rolled her eyes and triggered the hatch.

As they moved past the row of tankers, Clint half expected the hoses to shoot out like oversized tentacles, or at least a couple of anti-theft alarms to start screaming, but the trucks remained motionless and silent.  "Looks like Stark was right," he muttered.  "Remote controlled."

"Stay alert," Coulson said.

On Cap's hand signals, Nat slipped around the back and Clint scaled the building to a high window, left open for ventilation. 

He eased inside and along the beams, finding himself a central perch.  "I'm set," he murmured.  "It looks like a cross between a junkyard and Tony's workshop on a shoestring budget."

"Hostiles?" Phil asked.

 "No guards, no minions.  Just one middle-aged guy welding a laser on something that looks like a metal dachshund." Clint wondered what it was supposed to be, but lost interest when he saw the pile of cybersquid tentacles on the other end of the table. "This is the same fucker who built the 'squids," he said.

"You're certain?" Coulson said.

"Yeah," Clint said, spotting part of a familiar-looking robot.  "He might be the one who tried to strip down the Statue of Liberty, too."

"I sank his boat," said Tony.

"Maybe he can swim."

"Cut the chatter," Coulson said.  "Sit-rep."

"All clear," Nat said, from the other side of the hangar.

"Clear," Cap said.

"Hawkeye?"

"I have the shot."  He knew what his voice sounded like and didn't give a damn.

"Tranqs only," Coulson said.  "We need answers."

There was a pause that Clint didn't bother to fill.

"Hawkeye, confirm."

"Fine, tranqs," Clint snapped, not caring if his opinion about that sounded loud and clear.  "I'll need to find a different angle."

"In your own time."

"Cap?" Clint said, taking aim.  "Could you get his attention, please?"

Captain America walked out about twenty feet in front of the worktable and cleared his throat.

The guy looked up, and Clint took him down.

###

"So, let me get this straight," said Clint, shoving away the rest of his fries. "This Joe Schmo—"

"Gerry Schmirtz.  Calls himself The Scavenger."

"—is saying he only built those kleptobots so he could steal more materials so he could build more kleptobots?"

"Yes.  It appears to be true."  Phil took a small bite of blueberry pie.  He looked tired—actually, he looked like someone who'd gone against medical advice and stayed up debriefing several Avengers, collating their observations with the reports of the clean-up crew and city emergency services, and then spent the following morning going over it all with Fury, while operating on an hour's nap and a forbidden mug or two of BAMF!Espresso.

Clint was sure that’s how it had gone down, which was why he'd taken away Phil's coffee cup the moment they'd reached their regular booth at Meg's.  The waitress had taken one look at Phil and brought him a pot of chamomile tea without being asked. 

Phil was drinking it without comment, which was worrisome.

"So he's blaming the Avengers for the thefts, because we keep breaking his stuff?"

"Yes.  That also appears to be why his tankers were, to quote Stark, dumber than snot, and why there wasn't a machine army waiting for you."

"I regret nothing," said Clint, fiddling with a straw wrapper.  "What the hell was he trying to steal in Long Island City?"

"Schmirtz won't say, but Stark says Pepper suggested there might be lead and copper in the roofs of the older buildings."  He sampled a slightly bigger forkful of pie.  "He claims he stole the gas because he needed money for a decent lawyer.  According to his computer files, it looks like he was going to auction off the tankers on eBay."

Clint blinked.  "Is he sane?"

Phil shrugged.  "He's a textbook hyper-systemizing savant; his genius is very narrowly focused, and doesn't include much outside that focus."

"Including common sense."

"And empathy.  He said the 'squid that attacked me was just trying to strip off the alloys armoring the van and it wasn't his fault I was using it at the time."

"Seriously?  I should have nailed his neck to the table. Asshole."

"Sociopath," Phil corrected, looking oddly pleased.  "Thank you for not killing him."

"Just following orders," Clint muttered, wishing he hadn’t.

"Schmirtz is facing several charges:  defacing a national monument, firing weapons within the city limits, property damage, one hell of a grand theft charge—we still don't know where he found all those tankers—and probably tax evasion."

"And what is he getting for hurting you?"

Phil reached out squeezed his hand.  "Interrogations from Director Fury, Hill, Sitwell, and Tony Stark—before we turn him over to the IRS."

Clint whistled.  "Frisk him for business cards after Tony leaves."

"I don't think that will be a problem," Phil said. "Stark told me he'd rather marry Justin Hammer in the lobby of the Tower than work with someone who didn't understand that people weren't acceptable collateral damage."

"You believe him?"

Phil chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed.  "He was emphatic, even for him."

Clint grinned.  "He didn't say marry, did he?"

"No."  Phil finished his pie and wiped his mouth.  "Are you done?"

"Yeah."  He reached for the bill.  "Heading back?"

Phil frowned.  “Medical banned me from the building until tomorrow morning."

"Wow—didn’t see that one coming.”

Phil shot him a look that didn't thank him for the sarcasm, but spoiled it with a huge yawn he couldn't hide behind his hand.  "Walk me home?" he asked, when he could.

 “I have a better idea,” Clint said,taking out his phone and hitting  a button.  “Hey, Charlie?  It’s me.  Yeah.  You anywhere near Bryant Park?  You know Meg’s?  Nah, just need a ride, but if you’re busy—great, thanks.”  He hung up.  “Taxi’s on its way.”

“You have a taxi service on speed dial?”

“Just one taxi.  I met the driver during the cybersquid attack.  Kate calls him my Moe—never mind.”  He went to pay the bill.

Ten minutes later, a taxi pulled up.  “Yo, Hawkguy!” Charlie Muñoz said, as they climbed in.  “Where to?”

Clint gave Phil’s street.

“That's what, twelve blocks? You getting lazy on me, Hawk?”

“My friend here’s had a rough day.  But you can take me home after.”

Charlie eyed them from the rearview mirror. “You work together?”

“I’m just a paper pusher,” Phil said, pleasantly blank.

Charlie snorted.  “No, you ain’t.  But if that's what you're goin' with, I won't argue."

"He really does push paper," Clint said.  "A lot of paper."

"Sure, but there's more to it, I can tell—but I won't, so don't worry about it."

Phil shot a look at Clint. “That might be easier said than done.”

“No, seriously,” said Charlie.  Any friend of this guy,” he said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder at Clint, “is okay. I owe this guy.  Big time.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “No you don’t. We’re even.”

“No we ain’t, and yeah, I do.  You know what this guy did for me and mine?”

“What?” Phil asked, his eyes crinkling.

Clint groaned.

“Well, see, it wasn’t enough that he pulled my sister’s kid out of a bus in the middle of the Battle of Manhattan. . .”

As Charlie went on, and on, about the autographs and the updates to his nephew’s elementary school gym—hell, there wasn't anything else Clint needed to spend his money on, now that he had three Natasha-approved suits—and all the extra fares he was getting from Clint’s “company,” Phil took his hand. 

Clint glanced at his face and had to look away—he was too old to blush, damn it.

“ . . . and he always over tips,” Charlie finished, pulling to a stop in front of Phil’s building.

“Not after all that, I don’t,” Clint said, but he did, anyway. 

"Pleasure as always, Hawk.  Nice to meet ya, Hawk's friend—if you ever need a taxi, gimme a call."  He suddenly grinned and saluted Phil.  "You two take care of each other, aright?"  He drove off before Clint could say a word.

Phil raised an eyebrow. "Looks like we have his blessing, Lamont."

Of course Phil knew The Shadow's real name.  "That's great, Margot."

"He's observant.  We should think about recruiting him."

"We have.  By this time next week, he’ll be on the books as a civilian resource and limited courier.  And he’s not that observant—I told him I needed a ride home.”

Phil cleared his throat. "I might have told him to take off.  He knows military hand signals, too."

"Convenient," Clint said, for lack of anything intelligent to say.

"Want to come up for a while?" Phil asked.  "You can confiscate my coffee."

"Natasha already did that," Clint said, though he was already moving to hold the door.  "She texted me before lunch."

Phil looked disgruntled for a moment, then sighed and led Clint to the elevator.  Once the doors closed behind him, he slumped a little, then squirmed as if his back hurt.

"You okay?" Clint said.

"I'm getting old," Phil said.  He looked up and smiled.  "But I guess it beats the alternative."

Clint caught his eye. "Yeah, it does."

Phil took a breath, as if he was going to say something, but only nodded.

Phil's apartment was one of three on the floor and the only one with a biometric lock hidden in what looked like a second deadbolt, a small camera eye in the peep hole, and enough steel reinforcement to tempt Gerry Schmirtz. 

Phil opened the door with practiced ease and rearmed everything once it was closed and locked, while Clint looked around like a first-time guest. 

He hadn't been in Phil's apartment since well before he'd tried to resign, and he wasn't sure it was part of his comfort zone anymore.  It had never really been his home, even if he'd known the contents of every room by heart and had been able sleep soundly in most of them.

The layout and the furniture were the same, but Clint couldn't help noticing that there were more blank spaces on Phil’s living room walls and empty places on almost every flat surface.

And a lot less Captain America.

"Phil?" he asked, following the other man into the kitchen.  "Where's your collection?"

Phil held up a finger and waited until the yawn let go of his jaw.  "Sorry," he said, working off his tie.   "I donated it to the Brooklyn Museum.  Most of it," he added.  "The collector cards and a few other things are in storage."

“Why?”

“There are a lot of good childhood memories of my Dad tied up in those, so I thought—“

“No—why did you give away your collection?”

"I didn't need it anymore."  Phil draped his jacket over the kitchen chair.  "And I know it bothered you."

To see Steve’s face or shield or both everywhere he looked?  Just a little.  But that stuff had made Phil happy—and the idea that Phil had given it up to make Clint happy . . . "You didn't need to do that."

"I wanted to.  I was pretty much done with it, anyway.  I'm thinking of starting something new."

"Yeah?"

Phil went over to the low bookcase against the wall, picked up something, and held it out:  a small plastic figure that had bare Popeye arms—one bent, one straight--and a purple and black tac suit.  It was holding an unstrung, gold plastic recurve bow in one tiny fist.  "I thought I'd start collecting this guy.”

Clint forced a frown.  “You took him out of the box.  He’s not mint anymore.”

“It’s not that kind of collection."  Phil looked at the figure and ran a finger down the ridiculously muscled chest.  "I'd like it to be more hands-on."

A tingle, like an electrical charge, zinged through Clint's entire body, but he forced himself to ignore it.  "That so?"

Phil nodded.  "I was hoping you might want to add to it, sometime."  He yawned, then winced as he straightened his shoulders.  "Maybe when I'm not dead on my feet and behind on my painkillers.  I'd better lay down before I fall down."

Clint nodded, not knowing whether to be disappointed or relieved.  "I'll consider your request," he said, trying to keep things light.

Phil held out a hand.  "Sleep on it?"

Clint hesitated. 

A strange expression flickered across Phil's face, but he held Clint's gaze with his own.  "I mean actual sleep.  Until you want—I just . . . I miss you."

Clint reached out and took Phil's warm fingers in his own.  "Me, too," he said. 

Chapter Text

"Agent just smiled at me," Tony said, coming into the R&D range and setting a black case on the ammo table.  "Me. On his way to Fury's office.  Should I be happy for you two or should I be calling the Mark Twelve for my own protection?"  He tapped his bracelet.

Clint drew back his bow and thought about it.  "Provisionally happy?" he said, releasing.  The slender arrow thocked into the tiny yellow dot in the multicolored starscape at the back of the range.

Tony looked at him and nodded.  "I can do that."  He snapped open the case, selected a weird-looking arrow and handed it over.   "Flexible shaft, liquid center.  Sort of a curve ball on a stick."

"Cool." Clint examined it, nocked it, and held the draw for a moment to get the feel of the thing.

"So.  Is he moving in or are you moving out?" Tony asked, leaning against the table to watch.  "I wouldn't ask, but Pepper needs more closet space for her shoes, so if you're planning on shacking up at his place, we won't have to add another floor."

"Neither, yet."  Clint exhaled.  "We aren't . . . We're taking it slow this time."  Tortutously slow.

Flirtation without follow-through was one thing, but it hadn't been easy ignoring his raging hard-on when he'd woken from their six hour nap the other day, or that  Phil, still asleep, had been sporting a matching one—but he'd done it, slipping away to start dinner.  It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but he'd almost forgotten why.

"Sex doesn't solve anything," he muttered, in what was quickly becoming a mantra.

"Not even close," Tony said, squinting at the target.  "Though outstanding sex is a great incentive for working on the other problems.  Try for the green dot in the lower left corner, but maybe aim for the red cluster thing near the blue—"

"Got it."  Clint made the shot and they walked over to look at the results.

"Any problems?"

Clint raised an eyebrow.  "With the arrow or with—"

"The arrow," Tony said, grimacing. "Agent's smile was disturbing enough, thanks; I don't want to know all the nasty details of your personal lives."

"Sure you do."

"Lies and slander.  I've put aside such childish ways."

"Unless it makes Steve uncomfortable."

"That's not childish, that's entertainment.  Plus the kid needs to loosen up a little.  Whatever you're doing—or not doing— seems to be working for Agent."  He coughed.  "Not that I'm asking for specifics.  At all."

"'Course you're not."  Clint clapped him on the shoulder and walked back to the table.  "It pulls to the right," he said over his shoulder.

"Really?  From the cut of his suits, I would've thought—wait, are you taking about the arrow?  Clint?"

###

To Clint's total lack of surprise, the lengthy and half-classified job description for Level Six Agents-turned-Avengers still ended with that ambiguous little kicker, Other Duties as Assigned.

But at least he had more say in how he could perform those assigned duties, which helped the next time undercover mission specs had Clint and Natasha playing lovers under Phil's watchful eye.

“Are you okay with this?” Clint asked, as they hammered out the details in Phil's office.  "I mean, personally okay?"

Phil blinked.  “I trust you.”

“That’s not what I asked."

“I’m as comfortable as I ever was,” Phil said.

At one time, Clint would have taken that at deadpan value.  But this time, Clint was listening.  "I'm not. No offense, Nat."

"None taken," she said, from her cross-legged perch on Phil's couch.  "On-site backup?"

"Done," he said.

Phil’s expression didn’t change, but his shoulders relaxed as he paged through the parameters.  “Unfortunately, you need a visible partner on this one,” Phil told her.  "Is there anyone else you feel as comfortable with?  If not, I'll deal with it.”

Clint appreciated Phil's subtle admission almost as much as he approved of his question—Nat was fully capable of effectively working with other agents, but too many people had crossed too many lines in the past, and he knew she preferred someone she could trust to go as far as she led and no farther.  This was part of the reason she'd let him go so far that most people assumed they didn't have anything separating them but a finish line.

He knew Phil knew better . . . But he also knew first-hand how much insecurity cared about logic.

“Besides you, sir?” Nat asked, fluttering her lashes.

Phil didn’t choke on his coffee, but he did pause significantly before swallowing.  “Sorry," he said. "My dance card's full."

“And I can’t watch your six if I’m busy ogling his,” Clint said, grinning.  “Try again.”

"Steve," Natasha said, after a moment.  "He makes a better boytoy than Clint, anyway."  Her tone was just this side of a challenge.

Clint shot her a look—she'd been testing Phil ever since he and Clint had started openly dating—but couldn't help checking Phil's reaction.

Phil raised an eyebrow.  "You break him, you buy him," he said calmly, making a note.

"Done," Nat said.

Clint blinked.

Phil dropped him a wink that had him forgetting for a moment why being a broken and bought boytoy wasn't a good basis for a stable relationship.

He sighed.

At least he'd have yet another new 'home movie' to watch in the shower.

###

Sex might be an incentive, Clint thought a few weeks later, as he stalked down the corridor, but dinner apparently wasn't.

The first time Phil had missed a date without calling or texting, the cause was Fury-related and Clint completely understood.  Fury Happened, and there wasn't much use complaining about it.

The second time, Phil had knocked on Clint's door two hours after their reservation time, complaining that the clock in the Lower Level Archives was glitching to Pacific Standard Time.

This didn't mean he couldn't have looked at his watch, but Clint decided to give him a mulligan, on the grounds that Clint had been the one to miss lunch the previous week while testing a new acid arrow that Tony swore would fly straight and not melt the inside of the quiver like the last three.

But tonight, they'd had reservations. At a restaurant that took reservations.  And Phil had his phones turned off.

Clint was wearing his new Prada suit, which didn’t suck as much as he thought it would, but he’d been cooling his heels in it for over an hour, which did.

He felt some of the old insecurities surface, and shoved them ruthlessly down as he walked into the office, without knocking.  “Hi,” he said.

Phil looked up blearily, then jerked and glanced at the lower right corner of his screen.  “Oh, shit,” he said, rubbing his eyes.  "I did it again."

“Yeah.”

"I’m sorry."  To be fair, he looked it.

And to be even more fair, he was surrounded by the literal mountain of paperwork generated by a SHIELD mission gone FUBAR, which had ended in a no-holds-barred Hulk-led extraction and a shitload of M914-d forms, plus a couple of M914-cs. 

In the past, Clint would either dismiss his disappointment or sulk in a bid for more attention.  Neither reaction had worked very well in the long run . . . Maybe it was time to try something new.

"So am I," he said, instead.

"I lost track of time," Phil said, rubbing his eyes.  “These have to be in first thing in the morning—they represent the only oversight SHIELD has on the Avengers, and if the World Council doesn’t think we’ve got  handle on them—“

“Boom," Clint said.  “I know."  He did know.

“I’m sorry,” Phil said.  “I really am.  But this is important.”

Clint nodded.  “How important are we?"

Phil huffed with a touch of the old impatience. “You know you're the most—" He shut up.  “No,” he said.  “You don't, do you?”

“Not always,” Clint said. “I’m working on it, but this kind of thing really doesn’t help.”

“You're more important to me than anything in my life,” Phil said, as seriously as if he was reporting to the WSC itself.  “But that doesn’t mean this stuff isn't."

“Then delegate.”

Phil sighed. “There's no one available with the right clearance and understanding to adapt the paper trail to the Avengers' particular, ah . . ."

"Idiom, sir?"

Phil chuckled and tossed down his pen. "Yeah. Idiom," he said, cracking his neck and wincing.

Clint walked over and picked the top form from a pile.  “What about me?"

"What about y—" Phil's head snapped up, his tired eyes opening wide.

"I've got clearance and I know how to finagle the forms—just ask Entwhistle.  The FKs are still off limits and you'll need to correlate the mission reports if I was involved, but I can take the AB-972s off your hands and most of the M914s, unless it was directly my fault.  And God knows I can do the reverse-requisition stuff in my sleep."

Phil looked like Christmas had come early.  “What about the G-37h triplicates?” he asked slowly.

“We could split them."  Clint waggled his eyebrows.  "Or trade them for future favors.”

“That," Phil said, his eyes going dark, "sounds too good to be true.”

“I do have a few conditions."

"Name them."

Clint held up a finger. “We set a timer and take regular breaks—no more of this working through dinner crap for either of us." Another finger.  "The point of my offer is to free up time to spend together outside of work, so you won’t be spending that freed-up time on SHIELD business." A final finger. "That means setting a paperwork schedule and sticking to it.”

“Total hours spent per week or forms completed, not specific time of day,” Phil countered.  “Our lives are too erratic for that.  And there may be—will be— emergency deadlines.”

“To be defined by a neutral third party," Clint said.

" . . . Bruce?"

"Works for me.”

“And you'll schedule your range time.”

Clint grinned.  “If you’re available, why the hell would I be at the range?”

“Two words:  Tony Stark.”

“Two words: Wednesday mornings.”

“Since when?”

“Since Fury moved your weekly meeting.  Tony’s usually free then, if he’s awake, so I figured I’d use the time you’re trapped in there with the rest of upper management to get some stuff done.”

“Stuff, or stuff you and Stark know we wouldn't authorize?"

Clint shrugged.  “What Hill and Fury don't know won’t hurt me until I work up a decent defense.  And what you don’t know won’t raise your blood pressure.”

Phil snorted.  “You’d be surprised.”

 “No, I wouldn’t.  Deal?"

"Deal."  He shook Clint's hand and held on.

"Hungry?"

"Starving."  Phil grinned.  "But that suit is way too good for Meg's."

Clint hesitated, then pulled up the visitor's chair, sat down, and stole the pen. "Pad Thai?  Bet we could clear a space before it arrives."  He turned the nearest stack around.

"Have I told you lately how much I love you?" Phil said, digging for his desk phone.

Clint smiled and initialed the appropriate corner before the pen was gently taken away.  He looked up.

"Because I do."

"Yeah?"  Clint swallowed.  "How much?"

"All of it."

"Me, too," Clint said, when he could.  Because it was nothing less than the truth.  "All of it."

Phil's smile grew into the goofiest thing Clint had ever seen.  "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Clint was pretty sure his smile was just as goofy. "Can I have the pen back?"

"No," Phil said, his eyes shining.  "Get your own."

###

Clint woke gradually, feeling warm and well-rested and safe for the first time in what seemed like forever.

 It took him a few long, lazy seconds to figure out how to open his eyes and a few more to bother trying.  He finally pried open the left one and saw a miniature, plastic version of himself poised to shoot a tiny arrow into the alarm clock.

Phil's clock.  In Phil's apartment.   Next to Phil's bed, where they'd both collapsed after sending the final report to Fury around three am.

"Mmmm," a sleepy voice muttered into the nape of his neck.  The arm around his waist, so comfortable that he hadn't consciously noticed it, tightened and something hard pressed firmly along the cleft of his ass, its heat easily felt through two layers of boxer brief cotton.

Clint was aware that his own body was extremely happy about this.

He was also aware that Phil wasn't actually awake, yet—there was still time to slide out of bed, find his pants, and . . . what?

Sneak out and do another Walk of Sha—Walk of Self-Respect back to the Tower?   Go downstairs and make enough coffee to cure a paperwork hangover?  Watch Hoarders so he wouldn't have to acknowledge Phil's disappointed acceptance?

Pretend one more time that he didn't want Phil to slide his hand lower and touch his desperately swollen cock the way he'd been imagining for months?

Why?

To keep the moral high ground in a fight they weren't having?  To punish Phil for things he hadn't even done . . . and maybe for some of the things he had?  To keep a part of himself safe, in case it all went to hell?

Yeah . . . That one.

Except it had already gone all to hell and it had hurt like . . . like nothing since Barney had left him for dead. Even Loki hadn't managed that level of pain.  But Clint hadn't lost himself this time—kind of the opposite.

And he'd earned a do-over.  No, better than a do-over.

So the real question was: did he want to protect himself more than he wanted to find out if Phil tasted as good as he remembered, in all of Clint's favorite places?

The arm tightened again and began to pull away.  "What time is it?" Phil murmured.

Clint smiled.  "Time to close some distance," he said. And rolled over.

"Good morn—mmm, Clint.  Wait, are you sure you want—oh.  Oh."

Phil tasted even better. 

Everywhere.

Chapter Text

Three Months Later:

Clint emptied another drawer onto the bed and started sorting it out.  He didn't know when he'd started accumulating so much stuff, or at least so much he wanted to keep. 

This was apparently one of the hazards of trying to settle down.

He regarded the last black tee-shirt and set it aside for Natasha—she was spending this week in the Tower, so he'd hide it under her pillow before he left.

The front door gave the double bleep that meant someone had overridden the privacy lock—and since JARVIS remained silent, Clint was pretty sure he knew who it was.

"Back here," he called, zipping up his last bag.

“I hear you’re leaving again,” Tony said, leaning against the doorframe.

"Thought I’d try running away from the circus this time.”

Tony winced.  “What if we all promise to stop asking—?"

“No.  Thanks, but . . ." Sometimes, all the promises and compromises in the world couldn't make a situation better. "Maybe we could try again, later on down the road, but right now . . ."

“I get it—I grew up in a goldfish bowl and it’s still tough sometimes.  I'm gonna miss your weird muppet-face and your incredibly sad taste in trash television, but I get it."

“Thanks, man.  For everything.”

“Any time," Tony said, his tone light, but his expression serious.  "Still on for Movie Wednesdays?”

"And Sunday dinner," Phil said, behind him.  "The Forces of Evil and Bruce's Lentil Dal willing. You ready to go?"

Clint looked around.  "I think so. Have you seen my shaving kit?  The purple one?"

"It's in my office," Phil said, his expression the exact opposite of his calm, disinterested Agent Voice.  "You left it after the Chile debrief."

"Oh, right," Clint said, suppressing a grin. "I'll get it later."

"No rush."

Tony shook his head.  "All your stuff fits into three duffels and a suit bag?  There's something wrong with this picture."

"That's just what I was thinking," Clint said.  "Never thought I'd ever own a suit, much less a special bag for hauling them around."

Phil slipped past Tony and picked it up.  "You'll get used to it."

Clint pulled him over for a good midmorning kiss.  "I hope not," he said, matching Phil's smile.

"Awww," Tony said.  "JARVIS?"

"Photo opportunity captured, sir."

"And that's why we need our own place," Clint said, resting his forehead on Phil's. "No offense, JARVIS."

"None taken, Agent Barton."

"Yeah, I'm maybe taking a little bit of offense, here, what with you shunning my hospitality and all," Tony said, sticking his hands in his pockets. "But Pepper's taught me all about the importance of together-alone time, so I guess I can see why you'd want more of it—"

"And yet here you are," Phil said.

"—without all the pressure of everyone's hopes for the Coulson-Barton Engagement Pool.  This Saturday's good for me, by the way."

Phil moved away from Clint.  "We'd better go; the moving van is waiting."

"You need a whole van for this?" Tony asked.

"My apartment can't be packed into three bags," Phil said.

"And he has a literal army of suits," Clint added.  "All hanging in tall cartons with closet rods in them.  I didn't even know they made stuff like that."

He was still a little surprised that Phil had been willing to leave his apartment for a new place with him—one that would belong to both of them equally.  And might be the real home Clint had always wanted . . . though he was beginning to understand—to believe—that home was people more than places.

"Want some help?" Tony was asking.  "I think Thor's around.  Steve, too.  They'll have your stuff unloaded in under twenty minutes and they'll work for pizza and beer. Though with those two, that might run you more than buying an entire moving company—"

"We appreciate you offering their services," Phil said, drily, "but we're trying to keep a low profile in the neighborhood."

"Which is why we're using real movers instead of making the junior agents do it," Clint added. "Plus, these guys are bonded, won't gossip, and won't get nervous holding big boxes of glassware originally owned by the great-grandmother of Agent Philip J. 'Shot a God and Lived' Coulson."

Phil didn't quite shudder, but he closed his eyes for a moment. "Never again."

"Right. Low-profile," Tony said, as if trying to remember what it meant.  "Guess that means you don't want a housewarming party?"

"We'll let you know," Clint said, slinging two of his bags over his shoulder.

"We'll let Pepper know," Phil said, picking up the other bag.

"Hey," Tony said, as they left.  "You know you'll always have a home here, right? Both of you, no matter what happens or doesn't happen or whatever."

"Thanks, Tony—"

"That's very—"

"You know, unless Pepper buys more shoes."

###

Six Months Later:

Clint had spent the last two days analyzing the newest inspection reports from Paraná with Entwhistle and Radley and the whole morning reporting their findings to Fury.  Despite a few hiccups in the new regulations and an argument betwen HR and Legal that almost escalated into MMA territory, he managed to escape the Director's Office a little after noon, desperately needing some solid food to boost the blood in his caffeine stream. 

Natasha was probably still going over her latest mission parameters with Phil, so he went down to see if they wanted to grab some lunch.  He'd barely knocked on Phil's door when the doorknob was wrenched out of his hand and he was dragged inside, engulfed in a bear hug, and kissed on both cheeks.

"Clint!" boomed a voice. "Is good to see you again!"

"Gregori?" Clint said, once he had his breath back.  "What are you doing in New York?"

"Second honeymoon," he said, grinning.

"Routine perzonnel evaluation," corrected Yvonne, who gave Clint a slightly gentler hug and two far less bristly kisses before sitting on the couch with a smug-looking Natasha.

Gregori nodded. "That is what I said.  And I am pleased to see that you and Philip have found each other again."

Phil looked confused.  "You've met Clint?"

"I did an inspection of his outpost last year," Clint said.

"Among ozer zings," Yvonne said. "Agent 'untington was a very busy man."

"A busy man with a broken heart," Gregori added.  "I was not happy with you, Philip."

"You made that very clear," Phil said. "Though you didn't mention you knew the particulars."

Clint stared at Nat, who shook her head.  "I didn't tell him," she said.  "I didn't have to."

"Of course you didn't," he said.  "All right, Sherlock, spill it"

"Philip and I went through SHIELD training together," Gregori said, spreading his hands.  "For years I know him—he helped convince my beautiful Yvonne that I am a good man and he stands for me at our wedding.  So when he mentions the name of a certain archer every time we talk, I think there is maybe something there, though he will not admit much, as if to say anything is to ruin it.  Until it is ruined."

Phil looked at his desk.

"And then that same archer appears at my door looking half-dead, in here," he said, thumping his chest, "and lets me pry out his pain over a high-level agent, who can only be one man. And I think that his tale cannot be the whole truth."

It was Clint's turn to look away.

"Because my old friend Philip is an honorable man and my new friend Clint is loyal and both of them need to shut up and listen to the other and choose love over fear, yes?  And I think maybe you are doing this?"

Clint and Phil looked at each other.  "We are," they said.

"It took long enough," Natasha said.

"Ze important zings always seem to," Yvonne murmured.  "But it is worth the bozer.  Most of ze time," she added, looking at her husband with exasperated affection.

"But we will not be waiting so long to dance at your wedding," Gregori said.  "Yes?"

Clint went still, but Phil's smile didn't waver.  "Stranger things have happened," he said.  "Clint, we were all heading out for lunch.  Do you have time?"

"For you, always," he said, ignoring Natasha's raised eyebrow.

"Always?" she murmured, as they followed Phil's brief sightseeing tour of the part of New York between the SHIELD offices and Meg's.

"Always."

"Then why—?"

He exhaled.  "Because I'm not there, yet.  And I don't want him to ever think I was pressured or guilted into something I don't want," he said. "We've come too far for that."

She was quiet for half a block, then slid her arm through his.  "When did you get so smart?"

His laugh had Phil glancing back, and Clint's heart skipped just seeing his inquiring smile. "Did I?" he asked, absently.

"Relatively speaking," she said, patting his shoulder. "Your baseline isn't all that high."

###

One Year Later:

The office door was closed. 

It took everything Clint had to open it, but it had to be done.

No, that was a lie—he could walk away and try again later.  It would be easy to wait a little longer. . .

But the easy way had never been his style.

Clint opened the door, walked quietly to the desk, and waited as Phil finished jotting a note or two onto a report.

To anyone else, Phil would have seemed his perfectly groomed, unruffled self.  But Clint saw the tired lines around the blue eyes.  An op had gone bad a few days ago, and Phil was still trying to pick up the pieces.

He opened his mouth, then closed it.  Even if Phil would accept his help—and Clint knew he would, after a brief struggle with his overdeveloped sense of responsibility—that wasn't the conversation he was here to have.

Not yet.

He managed to get his expression under control as Phil looked up.

"Clint?"  He set down his pen.

"Sir."  Clint handed him the packet and stood at attention. Just another mission, he reminded himself.  Just another sit-rep.

Right.

Coulson started to say something, clearly thought better of it, and opened the folder.  “What’s this?” he asked, frowning as he paged through the carefully completed forms.

"The forms re-appointing you as my medical proxy, next-of-kin, and sole beneficiary.  It’s been approved by Personnel and cc'd to Fury and Hill, but I wanted to deliver your usual hard copy in person.”  He took a deep breath.  "All I need is your initials and signature on the FRat-3g-542 in the second section.  If that meets your approval."

Phil stared at him, eyes wide.

"There's a signing bonus," Clint said, holding up the chain he'd been keeping safe for so long, the two gold rings clinking softly together.

Phil picked up his pen, turned to the right section, and for the first time in Clint's memory, initialed, dated, and signed a form without reading it.

A second later, he was around the desk and taking the chain.  He slid the rings free, checked them, and gave one to Clint.

He held out his left hand.  Clint did the same.

They each slid a ring onto the other's finger, then stepped into each other's arms.

"I wanted this," Phil whispered.  "I wanted this so much and I didn't even know until I screwed it all up that I—Clint, I'm so—"

"Don't," Clint said, holding on and pressing a kiss to a particularly sensitive spot below Phil's ear.  "It wouldn't have had a chance in hell of working back then.  We both needed time to figure things out."

"And what did you figure out?" Phil said.

"That it needed to be now."

"Ah," Phil said, bringing his ringed hand to Clint's face and kissing him as if it was the only thing worth doing in the world at that moment, and the several moments following.

"Purple kit?" Phil gasped.

"At home, damn it.  Remember the—"

"Right, right.  Just as well."

"No, it's not."

"No, it's not."

They laughed and breathed together, letting their pulses slow.

"Who won Sitwell's pool?" Phil asked.

"Pretty sure it's Natasha."  Clint frowned.  "But that's not—"

"I know." Phil huffed a laugh. "But I'm sure she'll give us a lovely wedding gift with her winnings, anyway."

"Probably." Clint pulled away just enough to look into the blue eyes he loved.  "And then Fury will send us on a working honeymoon to Omskaya for not waiting five more days."

"I could have waited," Phil said, and Clint knew he meant it, not because he didn't care about an official commitment, but because his trust in Clint, his trust in what they'd built together, was that strong.

"I couldn't," Clint said, homing in on Phil's lips again. "And not just because I'm more afraid of Nat."

"Well," Phil said, when he could.  "Gregori claims Siberia is the land of romance."

"I could see that," Clint said, grinning.  "From a distance."  

"Tahiti distance?'

"Perfect."

And it was.