The murder of Phil Coulson leaves Clint without an anchor...

The One Left Behind

When they told him that Phil Coulson was dead. Murdered. It was the first time that Clint had hoped that it was just his poor hearing tricking him. He actually prayed that he'd misheard and begged for Nick Fury to tell him different.

On top of everything else please, Christ, please not Phil. Not his best friend and Handler.

Clint was not graced with the mercy of shock and numbness that most were when given devastating and life changing news about a loss. He wasn't allowed the small reprieve because he was told how. Loki and the scepter… Loki whom Clint had helped destroy the Helicarrier, turn Hulk loose, Clint had a hand in killing Phil. No amount of reassurance that he had been under control, being used as a puppet could sooth that horror.

Clint had no family and very few friends. Phil had been the one to recruit him, stuck by him in the worst situations, Phil had been his Handler from day one and had never given up that position. Phil fought for him, helped him, been kinder and more attentive to the archer than anyone else in the whole of his life. Phil had been an anchor in the center of Clint's universe and now he was gone, a gaping hole left yawning open at his loss.

And Clint had just as much of the man's blood on his hands as Loki did.

The pain and guilt and self-hatred that fell over Clint nearly suffocated him. He'd been forced to walk very slowly to keep from collapsing or running or any number of other stupid things that would only end in disaster. The whole world has suddenly become a razors edge, precarious and threatening to push him off into oblivion.

The archer is left adrift. He had no rock, no anchor to turn to. No one. He didn't know what to do and for the first time in years there wasn't someone there to help him figure that out. He was alone and it was his fault.

Clint was at a loss, he didn't know how to grieve or how to heal from something like this. He did what he thought was best and thought would be the only way to function through this. He buried it all. Shut all the guilt and pain and loss, tucked it all into a tight box and shoved it down deep next to his heart where it wouldn't be jostled or bumped and accidentally broken open. Like Pandora's box is sat and waited for a chance to over run him and swallow him whole. It rotted and festered and Clint could only panic and throw more lies and denial over it to try and stop it from getting worse.

His nightmares became harsher, more haunted and left him shaking and gasping for air. He couldn't focus and his appetite suffered. Clint was coming apart the seams, spinning out of control and had no foundation to reach for.

The funeral came far too quickly. They'd wanted him to speak and it made Clint ill to think of that. Of speaking at the funeral of a man he'd help kill. His heart had seized up when he'd looked at the coffin and realized that it was Phil. That Phil was in there, that they were going to drop him down into a hole and cover him up and he would be gone…

He had to get away. He was ready to run. That rotting Pandora's box next to his heart was cracking apart, breaking under the weight of everything. He was dizzy, he couldn't breathe. Everything was spinning out of control.

A hand had falling on his shoulder. Light, but firm and steady and held on. It was like a line had been thrown in his direction and Clint latched onto it, tangling himself around it and let the maelstrom surge and rush around him, hanging tight to the line.

The hand guided him away from the gathering, the figures in dark clothes the deep hole in the ground and the oblong box that was Phil.

A low voice rumbled softly in his ear, telling him to breathe and try to relax, here, take his hand. Squeeze as hard as he wanted, it wouldn't hurt so it's okay.

Clint had grabbed onto the offered hand for dear life, forcing more of himself to center around this new anchor and offered line of stability. He'd shivered, almost convulsing as he tried to settle himself down and by sheer force of will he shoved the broken and cracking bits of that Pandora's box in his chest back together, stuffing everything away again. Stabilizing for the moment, staving off an implosion of emotion for another day.

The archer still shivered uncontrolled and looked around towards his new savior and met concerned blue eyes. Steve. They had only spoken briefly a few times and yet here the man was, soothing him, guiding him away for a moment to break and collect himself again.

The soldier was silent but he gently massaged Clint's shaking hands with his own, trying to stop the shaking. The archer shut his eyes and listened to Steve's voice telling him everything was alright, that he had been starting to hyperventilate, have a panic attack. Clint was forcing his breath to settle and his heart to slow.

For the first time in weeks Clint found for a moment he was flying out of control. For a brief moment of relief he had an anchor. Steve had become a center to turn his compass to. It was fleeting he knew, but for the moment Clint allowed himself to soak it in.

A/N: Its a bit shorter than I menat for it to be but without it becoming a novel about how important Phil was in Clint's life this descibes it well. Hope you guys liked!