A/N: This going to be a two (maybe three, but probably just two) chapter story and is mostly finished, so it shouldn't be long before the update. Thanks to dysprositos for the usual shining beta work – any mistakes are post-beta at this point. Feedback is appreciated as I realize my Coulson here is a little. . . hesitant, which may strike some people as odd. However, I imagine his shift in roles after Loki would be tumultuous for him, so I'm messing with that here. Thanks for reading!

"When is he due in from London?"Natasha asked, sipping her coffee as they stood in the hallway under the harsh headquarter lights. She was dressed in a black jeans and a fiery orange sweater and Phil thought she looked like she was going out for the night. He wondered who she might be going with.

"Tomorrow. Eleven-ish if the extraction goes all right tonight." Phil replied. He hadn't spoken to her in a few weeks. She'd been on her own mission, then other things had gotten in the way, so this was actually the first time he'd seen her in a while.

"Don't you have a seminar tomorrow?" she asked.

"Yes. I'll meet him at the apartment after."

"Do you want me to check on him?"

He wasn't sure. Clint's usual come-down from long ops was slow and intense, and Phil knew there was potential for some trauma on this case; he didn't really know what kind of shape to expect Clint to be in. "….Yes?"

"I'll be discreet."

If anyone could be with Clint, it was her. There were times when she got him to eat or turn things in without his realization that it was her manipulation that got him there. Phil watched that sort of thing with admiration and gratefulness. "Okay. Thanks."

"Do you know if he's okay? If the mission was successful?" The concern in her voice was audible, and Phil knew that wasn't something to mess around with.

"No. I haven't heard anything." He'd actually been stifling the urge to knock down Nick's door to find out what the status was for two weeks, but if he was getting a new assignment himself, he'd better get used to not being constantly in the loop with Clint and Natasha.

"This one was too long," she said quietly.

"Six months."

"Too long," she repeated.

"Yes," he agreed. One month was too long. Despite the occasional burner phone texts, which had stopped after three months, this one was way too long.

"Is Sanders bringing him in?"

"Yes."

"You trust Sanders?"

"Of course." He did. Of course he did.

"I wish it were you."

"So do I." He did. It should always be him. But that was impossible now, and he had to get used to it.

"Does Clint know ab—"

"No." Phil cut her off. He didn't want to hear it again. It might be juvenile of him, but the thought of telling Clint that particular piece of news was daunting and he didn't want to think about it right now.

"Oh. That'll be hard." She took a step backward at this, reading his taught stance and probably seeing his walls tighten as clearly as he could feel them doing.

"Yes." He didn't know what else to say to her right now. Everything had gotten turned around in the six months Clint had been gone. Phil's relationship with Natasha was strained for the first time since she'd settled in at SHIELD ten years ago, and it seemed like neither one of them knew what to do about it. He just kept hoping she'd give him some direction.

"Well."

"You'll check on him?" He tried to keep pleading out of his voice.

"Yes," she assured him.

"All right. Thank you."

"I'm not angry with you anymore, you know?" she added as she walked away.

"Good." He tried to keep the relief from being too obvious, but he had a feeling he failed.

She gave him a small smile and waved. "I'll see you later, Phil."

"Okay." He watched her disappear around a corner and stifled a sigh. He hadn't been sleeping well, and too much had happened while Clint was gone. Phil just wanted to rewind the last six months and start over. Do-overs should totally be allowed, even for high-level agents who were supposed to be ultra-competent.

He went back to his apartment, cleaned it from top to bottom, made sure the refrigerator was stocked with all of Clint's favorites, and went to bed thinking of how, if all went well, it wouldn't feel so empty tomorrow night.

The next morning, after another fitful night, Phil dressed for his seminar and pulled on a professional mask. He just had to make it through these next five hours or so. Then he could deal with the things that mattered.

When Phil stopped the seminar for lunch, it was almost one o'clock. He glanced down at his phone and frowned when he read the text message that Natasha had sent him. It said, 'Come to Medical. Surgery. He's going to be fine.' Phil excused himself from the other agents, promising to be back in time to begin again at two, and tried not to run down to Medical.

Natasha was waiting.

"He messed up his knee," she said abruptly, standing up to meet him. "Pretty badly, they said, and he's got a few nasty burns."

"Burns?"

"Sanders is still in debrief, so I don't know the story. Clint was doped up on painkillers when they brought him in. A few second degree burns on his neck and one on his left hand."

Phil sucked a breath in over his teeth and crossed his arms. "How long has he been in surgery?"

"Two hours. That's what they said it should take, so he should be out soon."

Phil sat down on a nearby bench and leaned back. He could wait and see if could at least get some news before heading back to the damned seminar. An undercover op ending with injury meant the extraction didn't go as planned. Sometimes extraction was the hardest part. Phil knew that. He needed to keep harsh thoughts about Sanders away until he got the full story.

He hated not being part of Clint's op, but both Clint and Natasha had been sent out with different handlers on their first missions away from the Avengers as prep for everyone's' new roles in SHIELD.

Both of them would be running their own ops from time to time now that Phil was being shifted to team leader of Omega, the new group tapped as a special investigations unit. Clint hadn't done a long-term undercover op in a while, but Fury had decided he needed to do it so that, when he was asked to handle one from the outside, he'd have some recent experience. Clint and Natasha didn't know that was the reason, though.

Phil, who had managed to bravely enter a relationship with Clint Barton four years ago (and had kept it mostly-healthy for those four years) and had recently stood up to a demigod, hadn't found the courage to tell them about his new team yet.

He sighed and looked over at Natasha, who was watching him worriedly. "I'm sorry for how it worked out with Compton, you know."

She nodded and looked away. "He's incompetent."

"I thought he'd learn from you and Jake. I didn't see – I didn't think that outcome was even possible," Phil said.

She nodded and sighed. "I know. Like I said, I'm not angry anymore. But Clint's going to be hurting physically and maybe messed up from a six month undercover job. You know how hard those are on him. He gets too involved. Losing Jake is going to be bad."

Jake Friar and Clint had been friends for years. Clint was pretty social once he settled in at SHIELD, and Jake and a few other agents roped him into an ongoing poker game. Clint and Jake would take time off to go rock climbing, turning it into a competition with beer at the end as a prize. Jake was a few years older than Clint, and was a hell of a sniper in his own right. Because they shared jobs, they rarely went on missions together, instead turning them into tall tale sessions together afterward. Clint once said that hanging with him was mindless and easy.

He looked toward the hallway that led to where Clint was in surgery. "I know. I'm sorry."

"It's not really your fault," she said, and he just nodded.

He felt like it was, but since he'd recovered from Loki's attack, now over a year ago, he'd been very protective of Clint and Natasha and his time with them. Each moment they spent together felt like a gift to Phil, and he didn't want to ruin anything. It felt like that's all he'd been doing the last six months, ruining everything.

Phil looked at his watch and saw that he had about ten minutes to get back to his seminar. When he looked up, though, he saw Dr. Susan Davies walking toward him. She had a tired smile on her face and he reached out to shake her hand when she approached. "Dr. Davies," he said. "How is he?"

"The surgery was successful, Agent Coulson. He'll be in recovery for about an hour and then we'll transfer him to a room. We'd like to keep him overnight for observation, but I know how he is. If you could try and convince him. . ."

Phil smiled. "Yes, I'll try. Thank you." He worried a bit about Clint insisting on leaving AMA as he often did, but if he and Natasha could gang up on him, they might have a chance.

She nodded. "I'll send both of you a copy of his therapy requirements and schedule."

Natasha pulled her phone out of her pocket as the doctor left. "I have a meeting in twenty minutes. I'll get Bruce to come sit with him until you're done, okay?"

"He won't mind?"

"It's Clint. He'll come."

Phil nodded. She was right. Bruce was better than Tony about being dragged away from his lab if it was important. "Tell him I'll be done at four-thirty."

He went back to his seminar, his thoughts straying more and more toward Medical by the time he was done. He even told them to send their questions via email instead conducting his usual Q&A at the end. Phil felt like he had ants under his skin and he knew it would stay that way until he could see Clint.

He shuffled his papers into his briefcase, shook a few hands, and headed for Medical. When he got there, he was surprised to see Bruce sitting in the lobby instead of in Clint's room. Bruce stood when he saw Phil and ran his hand nervously through his hair.

"Bruce?" Phil asked as he approached. Bruce and Clint had struck a surprisingly easy friendship since the Battle, and Phil enjoyed the man's company more than he ever suspected he would. Bruce and Natasha would often come to Clint and Phil's apartment for dinner during the weeks when things were quiet. Right now, Bruce looked worried.

"Phil, uh," Bruce answered, glancing back at the hallway where Clint's room was. "He woke up about an hour ago and had some water, and I explained where you and Natasha were." After a sigh, Bruce cocked his head and squinted a little before he said, "He threw me out."

"What?" Phil was stunned. Clint wouldn't throw Bruce out.

"Yeah, told me he appreciated me coming by but that he wasn't going to be very good company. I told him it didn't matter," Bruce held up some folders, "I brought stuff to work on, but he just glared at me and told me he wanted to be alone. I tried to insist on staying, but –"

Phil had a bad feeling in his stomach. "But what, Bruce?"

Bruce met Phil's gaze. "He told me to fuck off and leave him alone."

Clint tried to ignore the throbbing in his knee and sleep, but it wasn't working. He refused to be dosed with pain meds off of schedule – he knew he was paranoid about addiction and loss of control, but he couldn't help it. So he looked at the clock and knew he had at least another hour. He looked at the door, willing everyone to stay away now that he'd gotten rid of Bruce. Part of him had hated telling Bruce to fuck off, but most of him just didn't want to have to look at another person right now. Phil would be in soon and Clint wouldn't be able to get rid of him as easily, so he was grateful that Bruce had quietly shuffled off as quickly as he had.

Clint closed his eyes and tried to sleep, tried not to see a little blond girl with bright green eyes and a pixie smile, tried not to see her mother, a ginger-haired beauty, tough as they come with a sparkling laugh that hid her power. He tried not to hear the little girl's scream or see her mother's body jerk under the streetlight as the bullet meant for him tore through her.

Of course, it was all he could see.

He heard the door open and looked up as Phil came in. He flicked his gaze over Clint's body, assessing, and his eyes travelled up to meet Clint's, but Clint let his own drift shut. He could practically feel Phil's physical presence as he stepped into the room, and seeing Phil after six months should help Clint deal, but Clint was tired, worn out, and angry. If there was one aspect of Clint's personality that he and Phil still struggled with, it was his anger. He had gotten good at keeping it tamped down when it did show up, and it didn't rear up as often as it had when he had been young and angry all the time, but when it did get loose, they didn't deal with it very well.

Right now, he was burning with anger.

"Clint," Phil said softly, stepping to the bedside and leaning over, waiting.

Clint kept his eyes shut, but he tried not to clench them. He couldn't look, even after six months. He was afraid of what would happen if he met Phil's gaze. Phil was forgiveness, and Clint didn't want to be forgiven. Phil was resolve, and Clint didn't have much of that left. Phil was ease, and nothing seemed easy at the moment, so he didn't let himself look, and instead felt Phil run his hand down his cheek and then grasp his hand, lacing their fingers together.

Phil didn't talk anymore, and Clint was grateful. He grasped Phil's hand tightly, letting his grip ease the pain as he waited for that next dose. He let Phil's silence moor him, let Phil's intimate knowledge of him wash over him and hold him still without forcing anything. He didn't want to talk, or see, and Phil just held his hand, steady, resolved. When the pain meds finally kicked in after the hour was up, Clint sunk into dreamless sleep and knew that Phil would be there when he woke.

He did wake about four hours later, his head groggy and his leg starting to throb once again. Phil still held his hand gently, and Natasha was curled in a chair a few feet away. Clint drew a sharp breath when he saw her red hair, hearing another scream in his memory, feeling his anger simmer to the surface. But Natasha woke, and Clint saw her cool eyes, assessing like Phil had done, waiting just like him – they both knew Clint so well – and he settled his breathing, safe here, home.

This time, when Phil spoke, Clint looked up at him tiredly.

"Clint, hey. Are you awake?"

Clint nodded and Phil reached over to raise Clint's bed. The movement of the bed jolted Clint's legs, and he hissed in pain as he adjusted himself on the mattress.

"Sorry, sorry," Phil said. He held out a glass of ice water with a straw, and Clint took it.

"Thanks," he whispered.

Natasha moved from the chair to the other edge of the bed and ran her hand down his cheek. He didn't begrudge her the reassurance. He did his own assessment of her as she moved, seeing no visible injuries, but there was something in her eyes, something other than happiness to see him, something sad again.

"What's wrong?" he said, handing the glass back to Phil when he was done.

She shook her head. "Just worried. Six months and an injury extraction? That doesn't sound good."

He leaned back and looked at a point over Phil's shoulder. "No, it wasn't good." He knew Phil wanted to know, too, but was letting Natasha do the pushing. That, at least, was familiar. Six months without familiar had been exhausting. He looked at Phil and then at Natasha and said, "I mangled my knee in a jump I wasn't ready to take. Did they say when I can get out of here? I'd really like to sleep in my own bed."

"Tomorrow," Phil replied. "They need an MRI before you go, as a baseline."

Clint sighed and closed his eyes. "Can't I just come back for it?"

"No," Phil said. "Clint, you've been out of the country for six months. You know the rules. You have to have at least a cursory debrief and several blood tests before you can go home. Hill is coming by tomorrow morning."

"None of that has stopped me before," he grumbled, and he reached for more water, which Phil handed over.

"And I'm asking you to play this one straight. That way, when we do go home, you can stay for a while, okay? Tony's already forced SHIELD to let you use his PT person, and Steve and Bruce are rumored to be making you cookies and homemade pretzels as we speak. Wouldn't want to get there prematurely," Phil answered, watching Clint carefully.

Clint took a sip of water and processed all of that. The team was waiting for him. This was new. Cookies and pretzels (oh god, could Bruce make some killer pretzels) were good, but he didn't actually like the sound of people standing around welcoming him home. He'd never had it before, and he really didn't want it now. "I yelled at Bruce. Why is he making me pretzels?" was the only thing he could come up with to ask.

"Because he's a smart guy who knows you weren't being a jerk on purpose," Natasha answered. "And his pretzels always help."