The sun shone bright on the morning of Philip Coulson's funeral. Fumbling hands had hesitantly buttoned up a shirt and straightened a tie, and now he stood, silent and stoic, in the back of the Church. It was just a small village Chapel, but it was packed out to the door, with people craning to see as the service continued. Coulson's family was sitting pride of place in the front row, dressed in black with sober faces and downcast eyes. Representatives from S.H.E.L.D were there, unobtrusively, hiding in the shadow much the way Clint was himself. The Avengers weren't officially supposed to make an appearance, none of Coulson's family knew who he really worked for, but Clint could see Tony, Steve and Bruce buried in the middle of the mourners. Thor was stuck in Asgard; apparently intergalactic diplomatic relations wouldn't cease to grieve for a single mortal man. Clint couldn't see Natasha, but he knew she was there. She could never miss it. It was her who had dragged him out of the bottom of a bottle and forced him to come to this thing.
He would have hated it, Clint thought, he always hated getting attention. The only way he could do his job was if people didn't notice him; if he faded into the background and they barely even saw him until they had a knife at their throat. He would probably be pleased Captain America came though. Clint could see his face, the crinkle of an eye and the twitch of his mouth that meant he was holding back excitement. He had seen it many times as Phil dragged him to Con after Con after Con, coming home with arms laden down with artwork and trading cards and posters.
It struck Clint like a blow to the chest that he would never see that face again.
How the hell was he supposed to survive without Coulson? He had been close to death before S.H.E.I.L.D had scooped him out of the grimy waters of western Utah and gave him a home. S.H.E.I.L.D and Coulson had given him something to make amends, a chance to be something more than a weapon. To fight the good fight, just once.
And then he had found Natasha. With Coulson's voice in his ear ordering him to take the shot he put down his bow and believed that Coulson would let him take this chance; would trust him. He's still amazed that they weren't shot on sight. But Coulson just looked at him, gave a slight nod and started to contact base for extraction.
So then there was three. They were the specialist team, they were never separated, and they never failed. They worked in perfect synchronisation, instinctively knowing who was going to do what, how they could work this.
Natasha was the one who had thwacked him on the head until he admitted his feelings for Coulson. Natasha was the one who hinted and hinted and hinted and threatened and forced them both a gun point to mutter out their feelings, their red faces glaring at the floor.
Coulson became Phil. They became one. Suddenly Clint had someone to drag him away from the range when he had been there for 13 hours and to rag at him for not picking up his socks and to just hold him when he returned from those bad missions that always left an ache somewhere deep inside him. Suddenly Phil had someone to laugh with, to cook him dinner and bring him coffee when the paperwork got too much for his stressed and overtired eyes. They balanced each other. They had a future.
Then the world changed forever.
Tony Stark decided he wanted to be a superhero. The Hulk and the Abomination destroyed most of New York. They found Captain America and dragged him up from underneath the ice.
Clint remembered how happy Phil had been about that. He had been too excited to pretend to be nonchalant about the news and he swung through the kitchen, like a child on Christmas morning, giddy from the excitement. Clint had to admit he had been a little bit jealous of the Captain. He had always sort of wondered what someone like Phil was doing with an old ex-carnie anyway, and then stupid Steve Rodgers shows up with his stupid abs and perfect hair and impeccable manners. And Phil had admired him forever and now he was actually real and well fuck... Clint was a little worried.
But then Loki happened.
The Avengers happened.
Clint had blurred memories of a blue haze, and he awoke to Tasha taking care of him.
The battle happened. They won, apparently; and New York was saved. Everyone was celebrating but Clint had a lump in the back of his throat, his stomach was in knots and he kept jumping at the slightest sound, constantly looking over his shoulder for Phil to come in, laden down with paperwork that he demanded 'needed to be filled out right now and don't even think about trying to get up into that air vent Barton, because I will shoot you and handcuff you to your hospital bed don't think I won't'. But Phil never came in. And he never would again.
Clint pushed his way through the crowd to outside where the gleaming light burned his precious eyes and he was glad. Glad because he didn't want to see a world without Phil, or accept that his chance at a life, at a future, had been stolen forever.
How could anyone say they had won this battle when they had lost so much?
He walked off, into the horizon, alone.
It's been a while.
This was difficult for me, both to write and to upload. But I felt that it had to be done.
Please let me know what you think of this... attempt, at portraying more genuine emotions. Potentially more to come, depending on how well this is received.
Thank you for reading.