Sleep had never been an easy thing for Clint, not in all his thirty-six years. To be honest, the best catnaps he got were probably in his sniper nests, because that edge, that thin line of hair-trigger alert was almost more relaxing than the long stretch of leave he was looking at now. He sighed, wondering if he could get in on demo and recovery, or even training; anything to make him sleep better at night. Especially now...Clint made his way down the hallway in medical, his shoulders taut, his stomach rolling painfully. This would be the first time he visited since the helicarrier...and he had no idea what to expect.
Coulson's 'death' hadn't lasted but a few days, thanks to Stark's hacking, and for once, he was rather thankful for his interference; after the attack on New York, Clint had been raw, broken, lost...and Stark had dragged his drunk ass back to the Tower, set him up in an apartment, and told him to lay low for a couple days. Not three days later, Tony'd come into Clint's new living room, eyes glowing with triumph.
"He's alive." Clint had been in the middle of his eighth beer, had it halfway to his lips, and had it been any other moment, any other person...he'd have said "Bullshit." and downed his booze. But Tony was a different breed from the agents and circus freaks he'd always been used to; Tony wasn't just Iron Man, he was also a kinda decent guy. Kind of an ass, but decent. And Tony didn't lie. Not like.../him/...
"Where?"
"SHIELD. But he's in bad shape, Barton; they've got a lot of work to make him right." Small wonder, that; he'd seen the footage, felt his heart stop dead in his chest, though he'd laughed, weak and broken, when Coulson...Phil, had fired the prototype weapon right into that Asgardian fucker. It was priceless...and barely saved them.
Barely saved him. "...Fury's, well, furious with me, so I suggest we wait till Agent's a little bit more stable to go visit. But he couldn't keep me out forever, and he knew that. He's always known that."
"You hacked SHIELD's servers to find out where Coulson was."
"I've done far worse things for far worse reasons. Besides...I did it on Natasha's request." Clint set the beer down at that, blinking.
"You're actually serious."
"I actually am."
"Holy shit."
"Yup. Look...I know shit's gone all pear-shaped...especially this week from Hell. But New York's still here...Coulson's still alive. The casualities are incredibly light, though we lost a lot of good women and men..." Clint took up the beer again at that, intending to drown out the rest of his sentence, the rest of the whole fucking conversation, when the bottle was yanked out of his hand and forcibly tossed against the wall. He stared at the brown shards in the creamy soft pile, at the stain of dark liquid now marring the light gray wall. Tony looked pissed now, his grin turned into a grim frown, eyes shooting daggers at the archer. Clint wondered when he'd stopped caring. He just shrugged.
"...now you've got beer in your carpeting."
"It's not the first time. Shut down on me like that again, and I'll call Romanoff down here." He did flinch at that, just a little, but those brown eyes caught every movement, and they narrowed. "I mean it. I get it. I do. You were fucked around with so badly that you shouldn't have even been fighting; but you came out anyway. You saved those kids, helped us save the world. You took the knowledge you'd learned while you were enslaved to that jackass and /used/ it against the sons of bitches. I don't know of anyone who's survived that kind of brainwashing, let alone alien brainwashing. But shutting down? That ain't the key to getting yourself through it. You want to rant, to fight, to kick someone's ass? Fuck, I will get drunk with you and join you. You want to help? We will find all the people and places that need a strong arm. You want to cry, to break? We'll put on goddamn Up or Wall-E and we'll all bawl our eyes out. Fuck, I'll even pull up Princess Bride." Tony looked almost desperate now, and some small part of Clint, the part he'd ignored for the last week, piped up a little, making him lift his eyes to Stark's. They were still vacant and lost, but...
He could feel a curl of warmth in his stomach. The good kind. Like when Nat had first tried diner food after defecting, or Coulson made homemade margueritas. The kind that made him remember that there were good people in the world and that he wasn't just a flunky anymore. The kind he never thought he'd feel again. He hadn't realized he could miss something so much.
"...As you wish." A smile broke over Tony's face, and he grinned, just a little.
"That's what I'm talkin' about. Movie night at seven, bring your pillow and jammies. Snacks provided by Steve and Bruce. Booze provided by my liquor cabinet." He'd left after that, taking a beer with him, and Clint had given up on drinking and decided to clean instead; he got most of the beer out of the carpet, and found the shards the hard way, with one foot in the wrong spot. But other than a couple of band-aids and a change into his sweats, he found himself rather comfortably nestled in one of the enormous couches in Stark's den, nursing a very potent glass of whiskey and slowly inhaling the two pounds of puppy chow in the bowl next to him. Natasha had curled herself up around one enormous pillow, her eyes half-lidded and tired, and hadn't complained when Clint had all but nested next to her. Though she did steal his Nutty Bars. The bitch.
"...Tony said you were drinking earlier."
"He's Tony now? You always bitched about Stark this, Stark that."
"That was before."
"Before I led that fucker into the city?"
"Before he fed me and talked Pepper into letting me borrow clean clothes. And take a three hour hot bath. And after Loki dragged you into the helicarrier and tried to make you take the blame for his evil. I spoke to him, Clint. I talked to that monster." Clint's gut dropped, and he shuddered.
"I told him everything about you..."
"You told him nothing. He ripped it from you. There's a difference...He was going to kill me using you. And then kill you afterwards, after you'd come out of that spell. He thought us lovers..." Clint glanced at her, faintly in shock.
"...He didn't...see Coulson?"
"Evidently not. And really, Barton, the thought of you killing me is amusing at best." She snorted, curling her lip in distaste at Loki's presumption, and he found himself laughing, his voice cracking. "And the thought of us being lovers...pah, the fool." He doubled over wheezing, and slim finger carded through his hair, calming him enough to breathe. "...And besides. You were fighting him. You were fighting him /hard/. Hill could see it, and she's despised you for years. Fury never once blamed you; in fact, it was he who authorized changing your priority to 'Immediate Recovery'. All of the agency was looking for you. Because they, my dear partner, knew who you were. You were the guy who shot a bow and quoted Blazing Saddles; the guy who made gumbo and cornbread and bitched about college football. You were the trainer who was always patient, always encouraging...
"The person behind your eyes during that week was not that man. It was Loki and his power. We all saw how hard you were fighting; if you'd wanted to, you could have taken us down so easily that we'd have never had a chance to see that bolt coming. You could have killed me in moments. If, and only if, you'd truly wanted to. Instead, you pulled every punch, every shot. Did you know, the guards that were removed in Germany? Only one died; he was shot by one of the flunkies. The man whose eye was needed? He's half blind now, but your speed kept him alive. That was Loki's doing. Not yours."
"I still..."
"You still fought on. With no rest, no food, and no chance to even pause, you fought him. That's how I was able to knock you out. That's how I was able to get you free. Because you are a good man, and you fought him off like a caged hawk, all talons and beak." He winced a little, but let the subject go for the time being.
"Okay, okay...let's...just watch the movie, okay?"
"Alright." That was nearly three months ago now; he swallowed, clutching his pass in one hand like a talisman. And maybe it was. In that time, they'd had a hell of a lot of work to make things better. He, Cap, and Bruce had worked the streets, while Tony and Natasha had done the press and corporate circuit, working hard to get money and supplies for those still without power, food, water. He'd gotten through the nightmares, the sorrow, the pain by working himself to the bone every day, and sleeping deep every night with a handful of pills and the occasional drive-by cuddle from Natasha. But...this foray was different. Far different. And he was terrified beyond belief.
He paused at the final desk before Coulson's room, offering up his fingerprints, retina, and pass. The nurse looked bored, and she waved him through with a stern reminder that visiting hours were over in forty-five minutes. He nodded, a little too fast and a little too much, but went on down, his motorcycle boots squeaking on the clean white floors.
Coulson's door loomed in front of him, steel and painted white wood, a neat placard on the front with his room number and agent ID. 78640002. A number he'd had in his head for a long, long time...he ought to know it, after all. He'd called it out too many times, searched for it...and now...his hand rose, almost unwilling, and knocked lightly on the door. There was a pause, a long, pregnant pause, and the door cracked open, darkness deep beyond. He swallowed, and rough, cracking fingers touched the door knob...
It swung open into a dark, empty room, and his brow furrowed, confusion masking the sudden spike of fear in his heart.
"Phil?" His own voice echoed softly in the quiet, and he stumbled back, hardly realizing that he'd half-fallen against a bigger man, and strong arms caught him, held him enough so that he could get his feet under him...and he floundered, spinning in half-anger, half-fear. "You-"
"Me. Agent, I had no choice."
"You could have...could have told me he was really..."
"He's in Tahiti." Clint blinked behind his ruby lenses, the sunglasses hardly masking his dumbfounded expression as Fury sighed, looking older than he had in a long time. This shit with New York, it'd fucked everything up...and this was no different. But...what the fuck did he mean by /Tahiti/? The medical stronghold he knew about was outside of Munich!
"Wait a sec...Tahiti?!"
"What, you've been there too, especially after Budapest. We just kept your dumb ass sedated." He stared, then threw up his hands and growled right back at Fury, annoyed now, rather than upset. Of course Phil was somewhere else...he couldn't be that damn lucky, ever.
"What the hell, sir?!"
"What do you mean, what the hell?! I came down here to let you know!"
"And you couldn't have told me that /before/ I fuckin' worked myself into knots?"
"My apologies, I had the World Council to deal with."
"You coulda left a note!" Fury glared at him, Clint glared right back, and finally, Fury sighed.
"...Okay, fine, I could have left a note. You're right...but I had no idea you were coming down till the security clearances popped up. And to be honest, I thought Stark had told you already." Clint settled back on his heels, arms crossed over his chest, and the muscles flexed as his shoulders tightened.
"So Tony knew?"
"I would assume so, he knows everything else, save for what's not been put into the computer network." He sighed and rubbed his one good eye, scars marking the darker tone of his skin. Clint had always admired those hands, partly because they were so like his; that was really what had persuaded him to join the agency; hands like his, that had dealt death and life in equal measures. Phil's hands, Hill's hands, Nat's hands...all of them, all of them had worked hard in their lives to get here, to be here.
And that was what he used when he trained the newbies, the juniors, the fresh meat out of school and off the streets. Straight-laced perfectionists and freaks like he'd once been...he'd trained them all, taught them all, shown them their weaknesses and helped them discover their strengths. A little pride sparked at that, and his chin lifted, eyes growing calmer, little by little. This...this he knew. And he knew well.
"Still, I would have appreciated the heads up, sir."
"...I know. And for that, I do apologize. I had no desire to keep you separated from Phil, but he wasn't doing too well here, and well..."
"You lost him once already."
"Four times, actually. The first eight seconds was terrifying, the first minute was fuckin' heart-stopping. He wasn't healing well, and so we had to find another solution." Clint swallowed, his eyes quiet.
"And that solution was...?"
"Asgardian healing." That sound must have been his stomach falling through the floor, and Clint felt himself sway, mouth dry.
"You...you called on.../them/..."
"On Thor's mother Frigga, yes, and a whole group of healers. They did what we couldn't do. They got him stabilized and alive. Last report I had from the Shell was half an hour ago, and he was starting to regain consciousness." Fury sighed and pulled out a small tablet, pulling up the report and handing it to Clint to survey. Clint cradled the small device and flicked through the files, pushing his glasses up to rest in his hair. After a few moments, he handed the tablet back, swallowing the lump in his throat.
"He's going to be having problems for a long time, isn't he."
"For a little while. But they predict a full recovery, with no long-withstanding health issues." Clint looked up at him now, his eyes quiet.
"How do you know for sure?"
"...I don't. I don't have an answer for that, nor do I have an answer for the other questions I know you're going to have. But I do know this. Phil Coulson is alive, Agent Barton; he's alive, and he'll come back to serve and protect once more. And hell, I'll fund his homecoming party and Stark can provide the booze." Clint cracked a smile at that, just a thin one, but definitely a smile, and Fury outright grinned, clapping him gently on the shoulder. "And for what it's worth, Clint, I'm glad you're back too." He blinked, an uncharacteristic flush going over his cheeks, mostly because of embarrassment.
"I...didn't do anything special, sir..."
"You survived, Agent. And you came back battered, and broken, but then again, who isn't here? We're all broken toys the world didn't want anymore."
"I..."
"I wouldn't have given that order if I didn't believe you wouldn't come back. You, the best marksman in the world, fucked up a headshot. You broke your own damn record shooting me in the vest. That's when I knew your sorry ass was still in there. So stop getting all mopey and shit, and help us rebuild this city...do that, and I'll get him back earlier for you. Disobeying direct orders too, mind you." His mouth opened, though whether it was to thank him or tell him he was fucking insane, he wasn't sure. Fury just waved him off. "Just go do something physical and feel good and crap. You need it more than you think." Well, there was some truth to that statement, he supposed...and he watched as the Director stalked off. Maybe he was right. Just maybe.