A/N: So, this was a fic that originally started off as a request for some fluff, that kind of grew as I was writing it and became this thing! It's a bit more angsty than I planned, but oh well *shrugs* Hopefully you all enjoy it :)

5. Croatia

"Agent Barton," Phil intoned evenly, pinching the ridge of his nose lightly. "For the last time, will you please just eat the damned food? I'm not explaining to medical that you collapsed on a mission because you thought it would be a good idea to disobey orders and starve yourself."

Clint eyed him suspiciously from across the room, tension and mistrust written all over his face as he never let his eyes stray off the plate of whatever it was that his handler had dumped on the table.

"And for the last time, Sir, I'm not eating that shit."

Clint could see just how frustrated Coulson was getting, but that didn't mean Clint was suddenly going to buckle and bow his every whim, even despite how much his mouth was watering and his stomach was gurgling from the prospect of getting something warm and filling in him.

He couldn't afford to let his guard down.

Letting it down for even a split second would get him killed, and Clint had fended for himself and managed to survive for way too long to let some bureacrat in a fancy suit be the one who managed to take him out.

Coulson gave out a heavy sigh, resting his palms on the table. Clint was trying his patience. Good, the archer thought. Maybe this would finally be the way to worm under his skin and grind him down enough that Fury would stop leashing Clint to all of these glorified babysitters.

When Coulson's eyes met his, Clint couldn't help but give a challenging smirk at the irritation beginning to build beneath the Agent's calm exterior.

"Agent Barton, you need to eat. You need to rest. God help me, you need to get your head into this mission and take it seriously, otherwise we're both going to be screwed. I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, but I'm trying to keep an eye out for your welfare, and it would be much appreciated if you could at least humour me, Barton."

There was something to Coulson's words, a sense of authority and direction that automatically made Clint bristle, but the tone of his voice stood at a complete counterpoint. It almost sounded caring and friendly, like he was sharing a joke with him that Clint didn't quite understand, and damn didn't even that brief thought make Clint feel like he had been kicked in the gut.

Coulson was complicated to read, more complicated to understand than anyone else Clint had come across. He suffered no nonsense, let nobody undermine him, and had to be in control of anything that could possibly happen; a typical, stick up the ass paper pusher Clint had instantly labelled him when Fury had introduced Coulson as his new handler and last chance. However, he was warm, he seemed completely honest, and there was this edge of respect and otherworldly wisdom that underlined every word and gesture he directed at Clint.

In short, Clint didn't know whether Coulson was the type of guy to ruthlessly poison him without remorse for the sake of removing an errant variable and making the mission easier, or the man who'd help Clint stand up on his own two feet and become a reasonably civilised human being.

But damn, Clint was the worse kind of sucker for some care and attention, some affectionate words and gentle smiles that usually ended up making him look like the world's biggest fool. He was practically helpless in the face of any sort of kindness; Trickshot and Barney had both said he was too soft, too naive and stupid, and the abuse that had come from his own inability to resist seemingly good intentions had been enough to make him harden.

But God, he almost felt dizzy from the lack of food and water he'd had over the last 48 hours since Coulson and the rest of the team had arrived in Croatia. He'd been offered breakfast, dinner and hot drinks by various different people, but Clint had shrugged them all off. He'd seen one too many corpses of marks who'd had their stuff laced with shit to eliminate them from the picture, both at the circus and whilst going freelance. He wasn't anywhere near idiotic enough to expose himself to that sort of risk.

"I've already eaten." Clint drawled smoothly, his tone deliberately disinterested as he turned to stare at the wall of their safe house. He couldn't keep looking at Coulson; Clint was a bad liar, regardless of how much he tried to school his appearance, and he couldn't dare afford to let Coulson see that if he wanted to hold any sort of advantage over the Agent.

Coulson fell silent for the longest while, and Clint felt distinctively unnerved, his mouth becoming even drier than it already was.

"Okay."

Clint frowned.

That definitely hadn't been the answer he'd expected. The somewhat flat tone in Coulson's voice hadn't been expected either, and when Clint turned his head, belatedly realising that Coulson had left before even getting Clint's answer, Clint felt a brief bubble of disappointment spread throughout his chest.

The plate of food was still sitting on the table, taunting him with its smell and promise of warmth, and Clint's stomach growled as he let his eyes slip shut, his limbs feeling like they were weighed down with lead as the heavy pull of exhaustion began to roll over him.

He didn't want to sleep.

It wasn't safe.

But sleep was the only way to stave off the hunger.

Clint jolted back awake with a start, his fingers instantly latching onto the knives he kept on his legs when he heard the gentle sounds of someone in the room with him.

"Easy Barton, anyone would think that you were about to be murdered."

Clint's head snapped around, instantly finding the source of that humoured, calm voice. Coulson was sitting at the table with what had to be reports scattered around him. Judging by the cup of coffee beside him, he had to have been there a while.

Coulson had been watching him sleep?

Clint didn't know whether to be annoyed or relaxed by the thought.

The mere idea that Coulson had been able to essentially sneak up on him, watch him sleep, potentially do anything he wanted to Clint whilst he had been vulnerable and unprotected, was something that made Clint want to freak out and possibly punch the overly calm and robotic Agent in the face.

It was a mistake. He could've been taken out. He could've been compromised in any number of ways, and that was enough to make Clint feel angry at himself for thinking that sleep was more important than his own personal safety.

However, the more Clint stared disbelievingly at Coulson, at the way the Agent was gazing at him like he was actually worth being cared for, like Clint meant something...

Clint released his grip on his knives, feeling the way his stomach cramped as he pushed himself up onto his feet.

Cataloguing every route in and out of the room, Clint made his way over towards the table, grabbing the spare chair on the opposite side of Coulson. The plate of food from earlier was gone, and Clint couldn't help but stare almost longingly at where it had been, beginning to wish that he hadn't lied earlier.

He was starving.

He didn't like it.

It reminded him way too vividly of the circus, of not knowing when or where your next warm meal was coming from, his hands shaking from the hunger pangs as he too often cried himself to sleep from the pain.

The scratching of Coulson's pen paused, and Clint could feel those all-knowing eyes on him again. The rustling of what sounded like a brown paper bag peaked Clint's attention for a brief moment, startling him out of his childish wishing as he wearily glanced up at Coulson.

Coulson's hand was extended, something clasped in his fingers. Clint was reluctant to take it. Coulson didn't push him. They both waited in silence, almost like a Mexican standoff, until Clint felt his own desire to know what the hell Coulson was offering override any potential threats and fears.

It was a small ball of dough, glazed in dark sugar, and so warm and soft in Clint's hand that even holding it felt like some kind of precious luxury. He must have been staring at it for some time, because he was suddenly aware of Coulson laughing at him, pulling another one from the bag sitting beside him and biting down on it with a crunch.

"Found them the last time I was posted out here on a mission. Nice little shop, family recipe apparently," Coulson intoned inflectionlessly, almost as if he was doing a debrief, and Clint couldn't help the slightest smile that tugged at his lips. "Not quite as good as proper donuts, but enough to make being stuck out here more than worthwhile, believe me."

As Coulson's tongue snuck out to clean off the sugar clinging to his fingertips, Clint raised the ball of dough to his lips before pausing for a moment.

He had no idea what it was, but if Coulson was willingly eating it, then it obviously meant that there was nothing dodgy with them, right? Coulson hadn't flailed over and died, and Clint doubted that Coulson would go through the effort of his little story if he'd spiked Clint's with something unpleasant. His stomach growling, Clint decided it was worth the risk, taking a small bite as his eyes never fell from Coulson.

It was almost heavenly. The rich gooey dough, the crunch of the sugar, and the comforting warmth immediately reminded him of the donuts at the circus; a treat, a reward, a perfect little morsel that to his young and undeceiving eyes could never possibly be tainted.

He'd eaten nearly half a dozen of them when he became aware of the soft, unreadable smile that Coulson was giving him.

It took a handful more before Clint found that he was unable to stop himself from giving the faintest grin back.

~x~

4. New York

Coulson's apartment wasn't anything like Clint imagined it could be, but that was probably because Clint was convinced that Coulson actually lived and slept out of his office, his entire life revolving around those four square walls and the neverending inbox of enquiries and pleas for help.

He'd never allowed himself to think that Coulson, his badass handler, actually had a life outside of SHIELD, and it felt almost rude to be imposing on that, even if he didn't have much choice.

When Coulson had found out from medical that Clint wasn't allowed to be left unsupervised for the next 24 hours, Coulson had immediately taken it upon himself to take charge of the fallen archer. Clint had protested and whined and threatened, but the combination of a splitting migraine brought about by concussion and Coulson's unrelenting stare that promised repercussions if he wasn't obeyed meant that Clint had given up trying to fight him off after a while.

It wasn't anything fancy, Coulson's apartment. It was the complete opposite to the military precision neatness of his office though. There was shelves cluttered with books and photos and a disarming amount of Captain America memorabilia that Clint had taken the piss out of him for for at least 30 minutes once he'd finally been able to see straight again.

The couch was pretty damn nice though, cracked leather and incredibly soft, and Clint was having trouble keeping his eyes open as he sunk into it with a sigh, his eyeballs feeling like they were going to bleed from the pounding in his skull.

He wasn't going to admit that it was completely his fault, but he'd kind of conceded Coulson's point that it was mostly Clint's fault he'd ended up in medical. After all, when everyone else was running away from the superhumanly strong alien thing that the two of them and some other Agents had been sent after, it probably hadn't been his smartest decision to get closer.

Shooting said superhumanly strong alient thing with tranquiliser arrows that had apparently zero effect on it other than making it extraordinarily mad probably wasn't the smartest decision he'd made either.

It had picked up a lorry and thrown it straight at Clint; if it wasn't for Coulson screaming in his ear and Clint's innate cat-like reflexes, Clint most likely would've been scrapped off of the streets of New York and into a body bag. He'd managed to duck for cover, but not without getting a wicked shot around the head that had clean knocked him out.

When he'd come back around to a kaleidoscope of colours exploding in his head and the violent urge to vomit his lunch back up, blood trickling from his left temple, the first thing he'd seen was Coulson leaning over him. He looked terrified - not slightly worried, but fullblown terrified that was written all over his face and his actions like a flashing neon sign - and the fragmented memory of Coulson's hand against his cheek, his fingers cradling his neck and his whole attention focused on Clint like Clint was the most important thing in existance was enough to make Clint's stomach knot indescribibly.

It wasn't the first time Coulson had touched him - not by a long shot considering the missions they'd had together - but it had been the first time Clint had felt like his skin was tingling from the contact, and the first time Clint's chest had clenched so tightly.

It had taken them years to reach this point; the awkward co-existance that seemed to define their professional relationship since that first mission back in Croatia was one that hung over them for what seemed like an eternity. He wasn't sure when it had began to subtly change; now, there was shared smiles and secret little injokes, banter over the comms and a sense of trust and unspoken respect between them. Better than that, there was a solid friendship that was being built upon what were initially very rocky foundations, and Clint had grown to cherish it more than he thought he would.

However, if over the last few months those smiles and glances had been underlined with something neither of them were quite willing to put a name to, or if Clint found his days being defined by how much time he spent in Coulson's presence, or how much faster his heart seemed to beat when their bodies brushed together, then that was something that Clint would deal with on his own terms.

Something he would deal with when he felt like he would be able to think a reasonably coherent thought without blacking out.

He could hear the sounds of Coulson doing something in what Clint presumed was the kitchen, and there was something about such simple domesticity, seeing Coulson in this new light and environment, that made Clint feel distinctly uncomfortable.

He felt like a voyeur, seeing something he was never supposed to see.

But the lump that suddenly stuck in his throat, the fervent beating of his heart in his chest and the safety that he felt - the instinctive knowledge that nothing would ever harm him if he stayed exactly where he was with his handler - was enough to make Clint feel like he had been punched in the gut.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

Clint nearly startled when he felt the couch dip beside him, the sudden warmth of Coulson's body radiating against his bare arm as the Agent leaned over, depositing two cups and a packet of donuts that he'd expertly juggled, instantly soothing the nausea that he felt for the briefest of moments.

Coulson just laughed at him, and the sheer honesty of it made Clint shiver.

"Probably the only time I'd ever be able to sneak up on you and still have all my fingers intact."

Clint smiled lazily, eyeing up the donuts.

"Only for you, Sir."

Coulson, who'd been halfway through opening the bag, abruptly paused, his eyes coloured with something that made Clint's mouth run dry as Coulson smiled softly.

"Coming from you, Barton, I think that's the biggest compliment I've ever had."

Clint's chest tightened again, that weird hazy fuzziness dulling his normal alertness and worries into nothing more than background noise, and Clint wasn't sure whether or not to be happy or scared out of his wits.

As Coulson handed him a donut - jam, sugar glaze coating; sturdy and reliable, just like Coulson himself, Clint thought rather amusedly- Clint tried to focus all of his efforts on eating without being horribly ill, even if it felt like he was doing it purely to avoid any awkward comments.

If Clint didn't know any better, he'd have thought that Coulson's single minded consumption of his coffee and donut was Coulson doing exactly the same thing he was. It wasn't uncomfortable, the loaded silence that seemed to settle over them, but it was edged with a tension that didn't help Clint's racing train of thoughts.

Like how relaxed Coulson was in his presence.

At how much younger Coulson seemed to look when he wasn't having to run around keeping Fury and the Juniors in line.

Like the way that Coulson's lips glistened from the sugary sweetness coating them.

At how Clint was hit with the sudden urge to move closer, to throw himself around Coulson and never let go of him.

Clint choked on his bite of donut.

When Coulson glanced over at him, his eyes filled with concern and worry as his hand hovered above Clint's near shoulder, Clint found that he actually wanted Coulson to touch him.

"You okay?"

That gentle voice, laced with warmth and honey and the sort of attention that Clint almost felt he could curl up and fall asleep in, struck a chord inside Clint. Struggling to swallow down his food, Clint's gut knotted at the intensity of Coulson's tone.

When Coulson's tongue snuck out to suck the drops of jam and sugar, his eyes still fixed on Clint's, the knot twisted so damn hard that Clint wasn't sure he could breathe anymore. An inexplicable, bone deep longing thumped in time with his pulse, a longing that Clint was initially unable to put a name to.

"Yeah, I'm cool."

They both continued to eat and drink, Coulson seemingly happy that Clint was with him, and Clint feeling that insistent gnawing and questioning feeding into the migraine and confusion he felt.

Two hours later, the penny dropped.

Clint waited until Coulson had finally fallen asleep, half propped against his shoulder, before he fled.

He never looked back once.

~x~

3. New Mexico

"I need eyes up high, with a gun."

Clint dropped his recurve onto one of the spare chairs that littered the empty room. No-one else was going to be there for a while; Coulson was too busy trying to contain and interrogate the slightly screwed up guy who'd manage to take down half of SHIELD with his bare hands, and those that were free knew better than to get in Clint's way.

"Barton, talk to me."

As Clint started peeling off the layers of soaked fabric clinging to his skin, water dripping from his hair and making him shiver as it hit his shoulders, he wasn't entirely sure what to think.

He'd known before he'd come out that it was going to be awkward.

He just hadn't figured that it was going to be this awkward.

Coulson's words had been soft, but not warm. They'd been underlined with exasperation, stress and an all-consuming exhaustion that was completely out of character for the Agent. Clint knew that the mission hadn't been an easy one by any stretch of the imagination, long days and early starts and walls that seemed to stop Coulson dead whenever he started to make any headway into whatever the fuck it was that sat in that crater, but Clint had never thought that Coulson would look and sound the way that he did.

Clint's stomach knotted hard as he threw his shirt and field gear into the corner, exposing himself to the cold that rattled around the room. He knew that he couldn't entirely blame the mission for Coulson's sudden distance and the bitterness of his orders.

"You want me to slow him down, Sir, or you just gonna send in more guys for him to beat up?

"I'll let you know."

It was like they'd gone back in time by nearly seven years, Clint trying to make light of a situation and get a rise out of Coulson, only for the Agent to immediately shut him down. Clint would never have admitted it to anyone else, but it hurt. It made his chest feel tight. It made him feel colder than any combination of ice and rain possibly could.

The tension had built considerably. It reminded him way too much of their early missions together, when they danced around, not knowing how to approach each other for fear of flaring the situation.

It reminded him way too vividly of the sudden distance that had fallen between them since Clint had disappeared from Coulson's apartment. Since Clint had finally come to the abrupt realisation of what it was he felt whenever he was with his handler.

Since Clint had panicked.

"Better call it, Coulson, 'cos I'm starting to root for this guy."

"Last chance, Sir."

Clint knew he'd been trying to antagonise Coulson over the comm, but more for his own sanity that any enjoyment he would've recieved in the past. He needed to hear Coulson's voice. He needed to know that nothing had changed between them. He needed to know that Coulson was still there.

"Wait, I wanna see this."

There was irritation lacing Coulson's tone, and Clint had struggled not to react to it whilst he'd been swinging around from that Godforsaken platform in the middle of a storm. Normally, Coulson had no need to verbalise his orders to Clint so explicitly; normally, they both knew exactly what the other was thinking.

Who knew that a month of Clint trying to avoid his handler so that he could try and get his emotions in order would be enough to apparently and irrevocably destroy their working relationship and the unspoken trust they had in each other?

Stripping right down to his underwear, Clint went rifling through the extra bags that littered the room; he couldn't find a towel, but he found an old shirt of his that was just as good, and he dried himself off, changing into a jumper and pants.

"Alright, show's over, ground units move in."

The bitter finality and resignation of Coulson's order, the way that the Agent's head had hung low and his shoulders had been slumped, had been what stuck with Clint though. Standing there surrounded by Agents and people who respected him, soaked through to the bone in the middle of a raging storm, Clint didn't think he'd ever seen Coulson looking so dejected.

So lonely.

Clint swallowed against the lump that threatened to choke him.

Yeah, he probably hadn't helped matters much either. It wasn't until he spent a month actively avoiding Coulson that Clint became aware of just how much time they spent together. He knew that Coulson wasn't the kind of guy to open himself up to just anyone, and the idea that Clint had just run off from him in the middle of the night with no explanation, shunning any contact, made Clint realise that Coulson was probably feeling just as bad, if not worse, than Clint had been.

Clint almost felt sick. He couldn't carry on doing this. He was going to end up making himself ill from the fear and worry.

Taking a few deep breaths to try and recompose himself, Clint walked into what constituted the makeshift kitchen, putting the kettle on and pulling out the two cleanest cups he could find.

Clint had been nearly half asleep, the cup of coffee sitting opposite him luke warm when Coulson finally returned.

His eyes bleary with exhaustion and the seeping cold that had worked its way under his skin from being exposed to the storm, Clint almost missed the moment that Coulson eventually realised he was there.

Almost.

Coulson froze by the door, eyeing Clint up suspiciously. His shoulders were tense. Coulson almost never looked visibly tense. Clint swallowed down the lump in his throat, trying to supress the shiver that rolled down his back.

"You look wet, Sir."

It felt like he was trying to talk whilst gargling shards of jagged glass, his voice raspy with exhaustion. If his tone sounded like it was cracked in any way, then Clint profusely hoped that Coulson thought it was because Clint was tired, not because it had been the first thing Clint had said to him outside of comm lines since he'd committed his guilty midnight flee a month before.

Coulson's weak smile was empty, and it made Clint hurt.

"So do you, Barton."

Clint's entire body felt like it was throbbing, and he couldn't find the energy to be able to indulge in any serious banter or conversation with Coulson. It felt wrong; he was so overwhelmingly desperate to let Coulson back in, but it's like his brain wasn't playing ball with the rest of him.

Clint gave a frustrated sigh as he buried his head into his folded arms, letting his eyes slip shut for a brief moment. When he heard nothing but silence, he glanced hazily at Coulson. The Agent hadn't moved from his position by the door, his gaze never once dropping from the drained archer in front of him, and Clint felt his stomach knot.

He had no need or logical reason to feel so despondant or depressed, but that didn't stop him.

"Coulson," Clint whispered raggedly, and the intensity reflected back at him made him pause. He didn't know what he could say to make the stabbing pain in his chest disappear.

Coulson's face softened, the tension that had held his frame so rigidly disipating into nothing as Clint struggled to work out what he wanted to see. He wanted to apologise; he wanted to apologise for abandoning Coulson, for not trusting him, for not having the courage to admit to his handler what was happening. Before Clint's ache addled mind could form the words though, Coulson had taken a step further into the room.

"I know, Barton."

Coulson's voice was thready, tainted with a bone deep weariness, but there was an understanding there. Forgiveness. A fragile warmth penetrating the simple words that Clint hadn't heard in a month.

The pain stopped.

They both just stared at each other. Clint's pulse seemed to skip multiple beats.

"I made coffee," Clint eventually choked out, dipping his chin lazily in the direction of the other cup. "It's probably cold, but..." Clint just shrugged, his eyes dropping back to the table.

It was difficult to carry on staring at Coulson just then. Clint knew with a bitter certainty that, between the exhaustion, the cold and the hint of relief running through him, it would be absolutely impossible for him to hide the gamut of emotions that had to be flashing through his face.

Coulson had always had this knack of knowing exactly what Clint was feeling, even before Clint himself knew what it was.

The chair opposite him moved, and Coulson, still dripping wet and looking paler than Clint had ever seen him before, sat down. He dropped a small container on the table between them; Clint hadn't even seen him grab it, which did nothing to disguise just how shitty Clint was feeling.

Coulson wrapped both of his hands around the cup and took a deep gulp, giving a full body shiver at the little bit of warmth it gave him. Placing it back down, Clint gave a deep sigh before glancing back up.

There was still an awkwardness lingering, a crack in their veneer that Clint knew would take more than a cup of coffee to fix, but he felt more relaxed than he had in a month. When Coulson's eyes locked on his, the Agent gave him a soft, genuine smile that made Clint's heart ache.

"Thank you."

Their eyes never leaving each other, Coulson unclasped the lid of the container, sliding it towards Clint. Leaning up a bit, Clint couldn't repress the weak grin that curled his lips when he saw what was inside.

Donuts.

It was a peace offering, Clint knew that without a shred of doubt, and it was one that Clint would never have been able to refuse.

It took nearly two hours, three more cups of slightly warmer coffee, and an empty container, before Clint finally gathered together the courage.

"I'm sorry, Coulson. I'm really sorry."

Coulson swallowed thickly around the mouthful of sweetness he'd been eating, and Clint felt cold again. It was silent. Clint's head was pounding away as he gazed back down at the table. The lack of response from Coulson was worse than any verbal or physical answer he could've given, and Clint felt the nausea burn his throat.

Why did he always screw shit up?

Clint braced his hand on the table, getting ready to push himself to his feet. He couldn't sit there. He couldn't spend another moment in Coulson's presence without feeling like he was drowning. He was a coward, running away again, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Before Clint had moved the chair though, Coulson's hand extended to rest on top of his, and Clint found himself completely unable to move. Coulson's hand wasn't pinning him there, he wasn't asking anything of Clint, and Clint almost felt sick with the gratitude and affection he felt.

Coulson's hand was warm. It was steady.

Clint's eyes slipped shut. Goddamn it, he really was worse than some lovesick fool.

He couldn't keep lying to himself anymore.

"It's okay Clint," Coulson whispered back just as softly. "I'm sorry too. I don't know what it was that I did to upset you, but I apologise."

Clint's heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice.

You made me fall in love with you.

Please don't apologise for that.

~x~

2. SHIELD Medical

"You have heart."

It had been those words that had completely destroyed Clint's life. It had been the violent blue fog, the desperate desire to please and do what was wanted of him, to obey every single order that fell from Loki's sinister lips, that had destroyed more important lives than his.

He was weak.

He was a monster.

There was so much blood on his hands that it made Clint panic he could never be clean again in his life.

He'd tried to ask Natasha. He needed to know. He needed to know how many lives he'd taken, how many families he'd ripped apart.

"How man-"

"Don't. Don't do this to yourself."

She refused to tell him. He knew that she was only trying to protect him. She was worried about him. Clint could barely understand why.

Why was he worth being worried about?

What was the point in trying to protect him?

He already knew.

Coulson's blood was blacker than the rest.

A cold sweat broke out down his back as he felt that sickening blue haze tint the edges of his vision, the bile burning his throat as he struggled physically against the straps that held his wrists down. He felt so raw, so exposed, like he'd been turned inside out for nothing more than some fun and his own pathetic weakness.

When the remnants of the fog fragmented, leaving his mind suddenly silent, Clint collapsed back against the bed. He knew he'd been screaming. He knew he'd been crying. He knew he was a mess.

But there was nothing he could do.

This was more than he deserved.

As the hours and days stretched on, the panic and fear became an all-consuming guilt and depression that Clint almost didn't want to fight against.

He knew that Natasha was getting worried just from the way she looked at him whenever she came to see him. There was a pain in her eyes, but not for herself. It made Clint feel violently sick, his skin crawling under her gaze, knowing that he could've so easily killed her and not cared so long as it made Loki happy.

The medics were getting worried too.

They'd attempted numerous psych evaluations over the last few days, but Clint refused. He couldn't let himself be opened up again. He didn't want to be opened up again, not when there were hundreds of people who needed care and attention. Not when there were people more deserving of help than he was.

His wrists were rubbed raw beneath the straps, but he never let Natasha undo them, regardless of how many times she asked or pleaded with him. He didn't know what would happen if he was free, and he didn't think he'd be able to live with himself anymore if he hurt her.

Clint swallowed roughly. That was a lie.

He already couldn't live with himself anymore.

His life had stopped being worth living when he'd seen the disturbingly clear image of Coulson slumped to the floor at Loki's feet, seen the blood on his lips and the wound in his chest all as if Clint had been the one to stab that damned spear through Coulson himself. That cornered part of himself, shoved into the darkest parts of his own mind beneath the suffocating blanket that had been Loki's presence in his head, had all but broken at that point.

Everytime he closed his eyes, all he heard was Coulson's weak, rasped voice.

"You lack conviction."

Clint could no longer decipher whether Coulson was talking to Loki, or to him.

Clint came awake with a scream, his eyes wide with sheer terror and tears streaming down his face as he struggled against his bonds. His heart had almost stopped in his chest, his head throbbing from the sudden hysteria that attacked Clint from every angle, and Clint was powerless to stop it.

A hand settled softly on his knee, and Clint startled so badly that he thought he was going to pass out from the shock as he started to hyperventilate.

This hadn't been the first time he'd woken up in the throes of a panic attack from the memories and nightmares that haunted him, but it had been the first time somebody was there to see it.

His head snapping to the side, he was able to make out a blur of red, the whispered hush of russian that carved itself through the fear, and Clint's fingers instantly grabbed whatever he could reach. Curling his fingers so tightly around Natasha's wrist that he could've broken it, Clint desperately clung to her presence like the anchor it was.

Her free hand came up to cup Clint's cheek, her fingertips gently brushing across the streaks of tears that refused to abate.

"Breathe, Clint."

Clint choked on the ragged inhalation he sucked in, coughing and retching violently as Natasha's hand on his knee rubbed small circles to try and relax him. Every breath he took felt like it was burning him, his muscles spasming against the tension in his body, and it took every ounce of strength that Clint had to finally control his breathing enough that the pain finally dissipated.

Collapsing back against the bed, Clint just stared at Natasha in complete silence, his entire body shivering from the aftermath of his panic. The tears were still rolling down his face, but Clint couldn't care anymore. He felt way too lightheaded, too nauseous, too exhausted to even think, and Natasha looked as if she understood.

She could never understand.

She had never been so helpless in her life.

She was stronger than he ever would be.

After what felt like hours, Natasha went to stand. Clint convulsively grabbed her hand, his eyes blown wide with fear, and she gently teased her fingers through his hair.

"I'm not leaving, Clint," she intoned softly, her voice warm and honest, and it was only his trust in her not to abandon him that allowed him to let go.

He watched her, his vision glazed and bloodshot, as she moved to the end of the bed, pulling something out of a bag to sit on the end of the mattress by Clint's feet.

It was a jumper.

Clint felt like he had been stabbed in the throat, struggling to breathe around the lump that formed.

It was one of Coulson's jumpers.

Natasha must have noticed his moment of realisation, because she simply sat back in her chair, grasping the soft fleece between her fingers like it was a delicate piece of porcelain as she stared at Clint.

"I thought this would help."

Clint was powerless to respond, his entire focus coming down to the fabric that Natasha was neatly folding in her hands. It seemed like such sacrilege in his mind to see small, feminine fingers caressing the jumper instead of rough, calloused ones, but as she tilted Clint's head up, placing the wadge of clothing beneath his cheek, he couldn't bring himself to care.

It felt warm; if Clint closed his eyes, he could almost trick himself into thinking that it was because Coulson had just taken it off.

He couldn't even muster together the energy to ask Natasha how she knew.

She always knew these things.

It smelt so much of him too; that perfect mixture of coffee and skin and Coulson that made Clint aware that he was starting to tear up again.

It felt vaguely rough as well, as though Coulson had dropped sugar all down it from one of his donuts and not been bothered to clean it off.

It was comforting, and it grounded him more than anything else he'd attempted.

As his eyes drifted shut, Natasha's fingers softly intertwining with his, Clint conjured up the image of them both sitting in Coulson's office, splitting a pack of donuts as they talked about anything and everything that came to mind.

Coulson would smile at the splodge of jam that Clint had somehow managed to dribble down his chin, and Clint would just grin back.

It helped to ease the pain as Clint finally succumbed to the physical and mental exhaustion that had plagued him, surrounded by the safety that Natasha and Coulson always made him feel.

It hurt.

It hurt badly.

Clint knew that it would never stop hurting.

But it was something.

~x~

1. Avengers Tower

Clint had been half way around the world when he finally found out.

He wasn't technically cleared to resume active duty, and the psych still had him down as warranting major investigation before he could really even be back on base, but Clint had ways and means.

He couldn't stay in New York.

He couldn't stay at SHIELD.

It reminded him way too much of just how much he'd failed.

Of all the blood that still soaked his hands, regardless of what he did to try and make it disappear.

When he'd gone to Fury, looking and sounding like the wreck he felt on the inside, Fury had very reluctantly agreed to send him out on a long term mission as far away from New York and Loki and Asgardian sceptres as humanly possible. Fury hadn't been angry at him, only concerned, that one good eye staring at him as though it could unravel every tangled web Clint had managed to spin around himself.

Clint had only just been able to stop himself from being violently ill.

He'd told Natasha what he'd done, but only her. He knew that she would understand where the others didn't. He knew that if there was anyone left in this world who'd possibly be there when he came back, it would be her.

It was Natasha who told him.

"Fury lied."

It had been silent for a good few minutes, Clint clutching the phone in his hand like it was the most precious thing in the world, before Natasha finally managed to whisper out the words.

"Clint, Coulson's alive."

He'd dropped the phone on the floor at that point.

The Senior Agent in charge had instantly agreed to allow Clint a release from his mission once Clint had threatened to put multiple arrows through his body if he'd dared to say no.

Clint had been on a flight back to New York within 3 hours.

When Clint arrived at the tower, it was obvious that the rest of the guys were torn between crowding Clint with questions and giving him space.

When Clint had stormed into the living room, his face ashen and his chest heaving from the run across New York from SHIELD base, still wearing half of his field gear, the sudden silence that had descended across the room had been suffocating.

Unsurprisingly, it had been Stark who'd broken the intense quiet.

"I hear Japan's nice. Of course, it would've been nicer to have you here just so that you could've kicked Fury's ass, but oh well. We were more than covered anyway and Natasha wanted to make sure that everything was okay be-"

Tony had instantly stopped talking when he'd seen the look on Clint's face. Clint had vaguely become aware that there were hands on his shoulders and soft murmers in his ears, and it took him longer than he cared to admit before he realised that there were tears rolling down his cheek.

No-one called him on it, and Clint was beyond grateful. The situation was so fragile and surreal without having his every thought and feeling being analysed as well.

"Come on, Clint," Clint barely heard Steve's exhausted, gentle voice when he felt himself being directed through the living room and into a separate network of corridors. "It'll be fine."

Clint wasn't sure how true that would be, but he couldn't find the heart or the strength to protest anymore.

On the walk, Steve and Stark filled him in on all the details, although Clint knew that only fragments of information were infiltrating the disbelief and cloying anxiety that was clouding his senses.

"So, yeah, he was dead, but now he's not..."

"Fury thought it would be in the best interests of-"

"Of himself, self centred bastard..."

"Actually, he's been alive for nearly 2 months now..."

"Scar tissue..."

"Brought him in..."

"Part of the family..."

"He asked about you."

It was with a moment of such crystal clear clarity that Steve opened the door in front of them and ushered Clint in. If Clint had resisted, or if the sudden fear on his face, had been obvious to anyone else, then they weren't commenting on it.

It no longer felt like a dream, or a sickeningly vivid hallucination that had haunted him in the middle of the night whilst he'd tried restlessly to sleep after the nightmares, but that still didn't mean that it felt real.

Clint felt like his mind had finally snapped, and if it wasn't for the very real sight of Coulson laying in a bed on the opposite side of the room, or the fact that there was still very real hands forcing him to step closer, then Clint knew he'd have broken.

Coulson looked weak.

Vulnerable.

Clint wasn't sure he could breathe.

The Agent was asleep, his skin paler than Clint remembered, and there were deep lines and furrows creasing Coulson's face that Clint knew hadn't been there before Loki. He looked gaunt. There was a slight stubble dusting his chin. His hair was definitely a bit greyer and thinner than it used to be.

But it was still, undeniably, Coulson.

Clint felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

The jumper that Clint had clung to like a lifeline for those first few weeks after New York was neatly folded on the cabinet by Coulson's head. It felt almost impossible for Clint to reconcile himself with the idea that Coulson, warm and breathing and alive, was not just an illusion in his sleep deprived mind, and Clint found that he kept focusing on the jumper as a way to compose himself.

Stepping in closer, Clint could see the way that Coulson's fingers were lightly clenching by his side, the pulses of tension that occasionally threaded themselves through Coulson's sleeping form, and Clint was struck with the compulsive need to soothe the tension away. A thick lump stuck in his throat, his vision going blurred and hazy from the film of tears threatening to fall again, and Clint knew that there was no point trying to hide it as he sat down in the chair beside Coulson's bed.

Tony and Steve were talking to him about something, but Clint wasn't listening. The bone deep surge of protectiveness that washed over him, the quiet realisation that flowed through him as he reached out his hand, loosely curling his fingers through Coulson's, was more important.

Clint gave the softest of squeezes, not really entirely sure of what he should actually be doing. He was never normally around long enough to see the aftermath of devastating events involving people he genuinely cared about, but it was like his body instinctively knew what it needed to do, how it needed to touch and be touched, and Clint just let it guide him as he massaged his thumb into the clammy, warm skin of Coulson's palm.

Clint gave a painful, bittersweet smile when the tension seemed to melt from Coulson's body, his handlers fingers tightening their grip around his unconsciously as Coulson resettled into his restless sleeping, and it took a long time for him to become aware of the hushed, awed silence that seemed to fall across the rest of the room.

Tony and Steve disappeared.

A few hours later, Bruce and Natasha were flagging him instead. As Natasha laid a familiar plastic box down on the chair next to Clint, Clint's eyes flicked furtively at her in a silent gesture of thanks before he let his attention drift back to Coulson.

"I thought maybe that you'd be hungry," she simply shrugged as Banner glanced over a few odd bits and pieces of machinery that were quietly beeping away in the corner.

For the first time that night, Clint felt a weak smile curl his lips.

"Thanks Tash, but I'll save them for a little while. You know Coulson would kick my ass if I had donuts without him."

A soft grin, full of understanding and affection that was not nearly as foreign to Clint as it was to everyone else, spread across Natasha's face.

Of course she knew, Clint thought tiredly. She always knew.

His hand and eyes never once wavering from Coulson, Clint shook off the heavy weight of exhaustion and achiness that crept over him, nodding an acknowledgement to both of them as they left.

It was hours later, when Clint was on the brink of sleep, when Clint felt a faintly soft squeeze around his fingers. A pair of bloodshot brown eyes met his, and a sudden rush of warmth seemed to eradicate every single one of the anxieties and concerns that Clint felt lingering in his mind.

An entire unspoken conversation seemed to pass through them, neither of them willing or even able at that point to break the poignant silence that had fallen over them, and when Coulson's eyes briefly flicked to the box of donuts sitting next to Clint - still unopened - Clint couldn't keep the heartfelt smile off of his face.

Coulson's eyes were brimmed with emotions that Clint could barely begin to understand, and Clint was tempted to solely blame the drugs that Coulson was on for just how open Coulson was, but before he could do anything, Coulson very weakly lifted their joined hands to his lips.

"Don't run away again."

The words were rasped and heavily slurred from exhaustion and painkillers, but as Coulson brushed his lips across Clint's knuckles, barely caressing the skin, Clint felt like his heart was being clenched in a vice.

Smiling down at the agent, not denying the tears that were filling his eyes as he felt the ball of warmth and emotion unfurl in his chest, Clint tried to keep his voice as steady as possible.

"Never. No more running. Besides, I'm not letting you have all the donuts."

A faint, honest smile curled at Coulson's face for the briefest moment as he pulled their intertwined fingers beneath his cheek to cushion it, and as Coulson began to succumb to the exhaustion again, Clint heard a faint whisper.

"Better than donuts, Clint. You everytime."

Clint squeezed Coulson's hand in his, and as Coulson's eyes slipped shut, all of the tension melting out of him as he nuzzled his cheek into Clint's fingers, Clint felt all of the guilt that had haunted him for months finally start to slip away.

Coulson's blood was no longer quite so black on his skin.

~x~

+1. New York

When Clint began to stir groggily, he started to become aware of the feather soft kisses being trailed down the side of his neck, and he couldn't supress the shudder he gave when warm lips caressed his ear.

"Morning beautiful. Time to get up Clint."

Throwing a token protest as he turned his head back into the pillow, Clint heard the soft chuckle that came from behind him, and he couldn't hold back the smile he gave when he felt the very tips of Phil's fingers tracing idle circles on his exposed ribs.

"5 more minutes," Clint mumbled around the fabric, only just managing to keep the whine out of his voice.

"You said 5 more minutes about 2 hours ago," Phil whispered, but he didn't try to pull the covers back or force Clint out of bed.

There was a hint of amusement underlined with affectionate exasperation, that tone that only Clint was capable of eliciting from the Agent, and Clint felt that warmth spread back through him again.

"We still got time though," Clint replied lazily, sighing when Phil's fingers teased through the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

"Yes, but a lot less time than we could have had if you'd woken up earlier."

There was heat tainting Phil's tone as he nipped the tip of Clint's ear very gently between his teeth, a very obvious suggestion that even Clint wasn't tired enough to ignore, and Clint mustered together the energy to flop rather overdramatically onto his back.

"Like Fury would mind if you were a few minutes late."

Phil rolled his eyes, but there was no irritation behind it as he propped himself up onto his elbow, staring down at Clint like he was some kind of masterpiece.

Knowing that he was the all-consuming centre of someone else's life didn't scare Clint as much as it used to.

"Clint Barton, you're a bad influence, I swear."

Clint hummed slightly in agreement, his eyes falling half closed as Phil leaned in, pressing a soft, indulgent kiss to Clint's lips. Clint's hand immediately latched onto the back of Phil's neck, drawing Phil in closer. Phil's sigh of pleasure was swallowed up by Clint's mouth, and the older man rolled over so that he was half draped across Clint as they continued their leisurely exploration of each other.

This had fast become one of Clint's favourite ways to spend the mornings, with Phil curled up across him, no pressure or stress of the day clouding the tenderness and peace that the Agent showered him with. Here, like this, it was just the two of them wrapped up in each other, and nothing else mattered when they were like this.

Despite Clint's best efforts to maintain the contact for as long as possible, Phil pulled back, his forearms framing either side of Clint's head as he just looked down at him. Clint felt himself blush beneath the intensity of the gaze fixed on him, but Phil seemed to notice when it was becoming uncomfortable for him, dropping a quick kiss onto Clint's forehead before he pushed himself up off the bed.

Clint watched as Phil's half naked form crossed the room towards the bathroom, smirking when Phil briefly seemed to pause and admire the way that Clint's training shirt from the day before had ended up draped across the back of the laptop in their rush to strip each other, before he collapsed back into the pillow, just staring up at the ceiling.

He had no idea how things had ended up here, but that didn't mean that he was going to complain about it.

He highly suspected that Phil's confession had been the result of a few creative threats from Natasha and Stark, and the calm encouragement of Steve not to carry on beating around the bush like they both had been since Clint had come back from Japan.

He wouldn't have been surprised. Despite just how bad the rest of the team were when it came to other things, they were incredibly supportive of the fragile relationship that Clint and Phil had cultivated.

Some signs were more subtle than others - Banner's steady stream of advice and offering of a vintage bottle of wine had definitely been much preferred by Clint over Thor's booming exclamation of a new 'warrior bonding that needed celebrating in the true spirit of Asgard tradition' - but the sincerity and approval was more than honest.

Okay, so Stark still banned them from PDA's in the communal kitchen, and they'd both had more than their fair share of squirming embarrassment when Fury of all people had called them both into his office so that he could thoroughly ensure neither of them were being coerced or compromised by their changing relationship, but Clint could survive that.

Clint had gradually learnt to accept himself, and Phil had grown to accept that there were still some grey areas Clint needed to work through.

It was okay though, Clint thought as a rare, open smile curled his lips, a swell of affection knotting his gut. He wasn't aware of just how much he was willing to accept from Phil in the beginning. Now, Clint knew that there was no hesitation or second thought when it came to every word, every emotion and action that came from Phil.

"Clint Barton, get your ass up out of bed before I force you to explain to Fury why you decided to make him wait."

Clint's eyes snapped over towards Phil as he emerged from the steamed up bathroom, his tie hanging around his neck as he fixed his watch strap, and Clint couldn't help but laugh at the mock despair in his voice.

"Why don't you make me get out of bed, Sir?"

Clint fluttered his eyes coyishly, a seductive promise colouring his drawl as he stretched his arms above his head. To his credit, Phil was able to completely ignore the show Clint was trying to put on for him, sitting on the edge of the bed as he started pulling on his shoes.

When it became apparent that Phil wasn't going to answer him, Clint gave out a childish huff, pushing himself out from underneath the covers and sitting up so that he could wrap his arms around Phil's shoulders. Plastering his bare chest to Phil's back, Clint was unable to stop himself from nuzzling his nose into the curve of Phil's throat, smiling against his skin when Phil leaned back into him.

Phil flicked his eyes furtively towards Clint, an appreciative light filling his gaze as he simply stared at the younger man.

"Well, maybe if you're good, Agent, I'll make sure you can get back in it later."

Barking out a chuckle at Phil's deadpan expression and the professional, almost serious tone of his voice even despite the wicked intentions Clint knew Phil had to be imagining as well, Clint caught Phil's lips in a kiss.

It wasn't unlike the millions they'd shared in the past, but that didn't mean that Clint wasn't going to savour every second of it.

Pulling back, Clint hid his near embarrassment at the girlish feelings he knew he was broadcasting all over his face as he buried his cheek into Phil's shoulder, sighing in blissful safety when Phil let him indulge in his need for a bit of tactile expression.

"Come on, if you manage to get up and dressed in the next 15 minutes, I promise I'll even buy you a donut from that place around the corner for breakfast."

Clint's chest ached at the strength of the love he felt for the man wrapped around him.

"Triple chocolate glaze?"

"Get dressed in 10, and I might even throw in an extra long lunch break for you to enjoy as well."

The wolfish smile that crossed Phil's face made Clint laugh to cover up the sudden yearn of desire and desperation.

"Yes Sir, Sir!"

Clint was ready in 5.