(AN: please note that I have removed a short explicit C/C from this chapter. If you would like to read the story in full, please visit my AO3 page under the same penname. However this story still reads complete, if just a little strange, without it. Also, it's the only slash bit in the fic.)

Dawn comes slowly and Clint watches half-awake and sore as the sun creeps up the wall opposite his bed.

Morning training is grueling, especially with Clint still trying to adjust to the humidity change. His fingers are especially stiff and the repetitive movement isn't helping much.

The next day, he gets called out on a mission, simple, watching an operative's back as he conducted a meet with a supplier. Nothing's expected to happen and nothing does. With the winter coming, Clint bulked up on layers, but it's still not enough to prevent the cold from seeping in as he lay hidden on the roof next to the meet.

Afterwards, they pack him up alongside the gear and fly him home to wait for the next time SHIELD needs their pet sniper.

The mission following is much the same and Clint stares down the barrel of his rifle, distantly watching as people went about their day.

He takes two ibuprofen after they wrap up the site and lies down in the cargo hold, ignoring the chatter of the agents around him.

Clint walks back into his quarters, throws his bags onto the floor and strips off the rest of his uniform. He makes himself a bowl of stale cereal and eats it dry. Then he washes it down with a few gulps of bottled water before flopping face first down on the bedspread.

Sometime later, he jerks awake, having drifted off at the table. The headache is still there and its dull throbbing ache makes him feel fuzzy and slow, like the whole room is muted.

When he glances at the desk clock, Clint stills.

Phil is perched on the edge of his desk.

Leaning casually with his arms folded across his chest, he's been studying Clint. Slowly, Clint takes in the crisp suit, the charcoal shirt underneath, the way his dark striped tie held back with a silver tie clip slipped between the second and third button. Phil doesn't move an inch as Clint completed his evaluation, stock still with the hint of a smile playing across his face.

"You're not real." The loudness of his voice, stark in the small room even startles Clint himself. He licks his lips and says again, softer, "You're not really there."

The corner of Phil's mouth twitches up, "You're talking to me, are you not?"

"Yeah," Clint says haltingly, wondering if he should be getting into an argument with the supposed hallucination. His psychiatrist tells him to ignore Phil. That he'll eventually go away "You're a hallucination brought on by the high stresses of the job." he recites.

Phil laughs out loud, a short, sharp bark that cuts through the air, "How long did it take them to convince you of that?"

"No convincing. You're not real." Clint insists.

Phil pushes off the desk while Clint eyes him carefully. He watches as Phil runs his hands over the desk and the back of the chair and as he slides across the floors and dodges around his clothes before he comes to a full stop in front of Clint. He leans forward, one hand on Clint's thigh for balance, and the other coming up to caresses his cheek.

Guiltily, Clint leans into the touch. "Phil..."

If Clint takes a breath, he could smell the spicy scent of his aftershave. Phil smiles and leans in until his lips are just brushing past the curve of Clint's ear, his breath a warm tickle on his skin. "I've missed you."

Phil's hand cards through his hair, and Clint feels the press of his lips against the crown of his head. Clint takes a sharp breath, turning his head away. "You're not real. Natasha says-"

"Do you trust Natasha?" Phil interrupts mildly, his fingers coming down around the shell of his ear. The ghost of his breath against Clint's skin, causing him to shiver violently. "She would never betray you."

Natasha wouldn't. Clint knows that, but having Phil here makes things so unclear and he feels the need to reaffirm. "Never." he says, "Natasha is the closest thing I have to a family."

Shrugging, Phil replies, "You and I both know that doesn't mean anything. Barney was your brother. And he betrayed you."

Clint's mouth goes dry. Clint didn't think about Barney, not ever if he can help it. He doesn't think of the way he and Barney used to hide away amongst the leaves of the tree next to their trailer. Or how Barney talked the circus into taking them in, gesturing with one hand, while the other was circled tightly around Clint's sweaty little palm. How Clint couldn't raise his hands against him. And how the dirt scuffed around Barney's shoes and the rocks scattered in his wake as Barney walked away.

Clint shakes his head, willing the images to go away. "No, it's not the same. Natasha loves me. She would never lie to me."

"Oh, Clint. My poor, delusional Clint." Phil leans in closer now, a slow predatory invasion into Clint's space. He places his hands on either side of Clint, sliding them up the bedspread, and leans in close enough that Clint can make out the tiny wrinkles that spider out from the corners of his eyes.

"Nobody loved you." Coulson sneers and Clint recoils as though he'd been hit. "You were thrown out by every person who came close to you. No one could stand to be around you. Your father used you like a punching bag, and your momma didn't give a shit. Your brother sold you to the highest bidder. SHIELD was on their way to doing the same until I fixed you."

Clint shakes his head vehemently. "No. I'll get better. I'm a good agent." He protests weakly.

"They're lying to you. Haven't you noticed? Ever since you started taking their medicine, you can't concentrate, you can't shoot, and you can barely stay awake."

"It's not true." But he's hesitant, mind whirling around the accusations.

Coulson eyes glow triumphantly, his grin sinister, "They just can't stand it. They can't stand that it was me you needed. They're making you sick Clint. They're telling you lies."

Clint's heart rate jumps. When he speaks, his voice sounds tiny and weak and Clint hates it. "It's not true. I'm already sick. There's something wrong with me. You're not here. Tasha would never lie."

Coulson scoffs, "She's poisoning you. All those pills, all those drugs are just going to kill you. Fury never wanted you around. Hill never wanted you around. You know how hard she fought against taking you on. You've been a dead weight to Natasha for years. She couldn't wait to be free of you and now she's just taking her chance. They're all waiting for you to screw up and you're gone."

Clint claps his hands over his ears. "They're not. I'm a good agent. I'm a good sniper." Clint cowers, scooting back in the bed until he hit's the far wall, sobbing. "Go away." he cries, knees drawn up and curled in on himself.

"You're nothing." Coulson roars.

"It's not true." Clint moans, "I'm a good agent." Coulson pushes off the bed, and walks around slowly as Clint continues his mantra, eyes shut and hands pressed tightly over his ears.

The sneer curls around Coulson's mouth, distorting it his face, twisting it into something Clint can't recognize. "You were never anything without me."

That night, Phil climbs into bed with Clint and whispers to him as he cries.

He smooths back Clint's sweat-soaked hair, fingers scrapping lightly along his scalp. Rubs his back as he catches hitching breaths.

"I'm so sorry." he says softly whispering into his hair. Phil brushes the tears out from under Clint's eyes, the pads of his thumb rough against his skin. His apologies gentle and low as he steadies Clint's trembling hands. "You know I didn't mean it."

And Clint buries his face into his neck, snuffling into the soft skin where his neck meets his shoulder. He hiccups slightly while Phil shushes him and pats his back.

Phil presses kisses to his neck and whispers that he loves him. He'd only wanted to help him. "Let me make it up to you."

"You're not real." Clint breathes into Phil's skin.

Phil looks down at him fondly, "Oh Clint. They've been telling you lies."

Phil caresses a hand against Clint's cheek and it's warm and firm and burns a line of fire everywhere it touches. "Is this not real?" He presses his lips to his neck, "Or this?"

Clint bites his lip, shudders against Phil's touch. "I.. I don't-"

"Shh." Phil catches Clint's eye and he can't break his gaze away. "Trust me. You know I'll never lead you wrong."

In the morning, Clint jerks awake to the sight of an empty bed. His skin is cool and tacky with sweat, the sheets in a tangle around his legs. The room is quiet, near silent except the sound of his breaths.

He stumbles into the shower, stepping into the spray before it's fully warm and stands shaking under the running water. Eventually the water warms enough to soothe away the goose bumps down his arms, but he can't stop feeling cold inside, deep enough that nothing seems to penetrate.

He can feel phantom hands on his shoulders, running down the broad planes of his deltoids, sliding down his arms, grasping at his hips. His skin tingles and burns cold in their wake. He shivers.

Clint stays under the water until the entire bathroom is thick with steam, fogging the mirrors until he can't see himself in them, can only see the faint outline of a person. For a second he thinks he sees the outline of someone standing next to him, and he jerks his head to the side, but there's no one is there.

As he brushes his teeth, he eyes the pill bottle sitting next to his toothbrush holder. The tablets were a strange shape. Yellow and round, and so deeply scored that the sides sloped down towards the middle, two halves tumbling down to meet.

Clint picks up the tablet, pinched between forefinger and thumb and brings it in close, examining the tiny letters stamped on the flat side. It doesn't look like anything special.

"Morning." Natasha greets him as he settles into the quinjet. She hands over a cup of coffee and goes back to work. She's checking over her equipment casually as she speaks, but Clint knows she's not missing anything in his stance or expression. "You look a little rough today. Tough night?"

"Nah." Clint replies, as he stores his arrows in preparation for flight. He's taken to wearing a quiver on his back and one strapped to his thigh, which instantly doubled his ammunition stores, but means there's twice as much fiddling around to do before a mission. "I'm still waking up, I guess. Things are good."

"You didn't answer my calls last night." She leans across the space between them, face earnest. "I was worried about you."

Clint shrugs, "I went to bed kind of early."

"That's not like you."

Clint doesn't meet her eyes. "I didn't feel like staying up."

Natasha narrows her eyes, "Did something happen last night? Did he come back?"

"No," Clint says. He finishes packing his gear and sits down, the seat closest to the door, feels the brush of a hand against his thigh, the whisper of words in his ear, the caress of fingertips against his jaw and he shakes his head. "No, Nat, he's gone.