Phil Coulson was a world class paper pusher, a born bureaucrat, a pain in the ass, and about a half a dozen other ways to say he was damn good at the job of keeping order, at least according to a lot of the people who worked with him. Handling weird shit, calmly and with aplomb, that was Phil's job. Most SHIELD personnel thought he was Fury's lackey, doing the shit work of keeping the pencil-pushers in D.C. and other agencies off Fury's back by showering them with reams of efficient forms and documentation, most of which were really just bullshit to a higher power. But what most didn't know was that Phil Coulson was also a bad ass; he was trained in over seven different forms of martial arts, knew how to use weapons ranging from an AK-47 to a glave, and had studied the military strategies of Napoleon and Sun Tzu.
His greatest asset was his ability to go unnoticed, to blend in, to be bland. As he liked to say, he was baloney just like Richie Cunningham in Happy Days; if aliens wanted an example of an everyman, Phil was perfect. His suits with white shirts and colorful ties would be at home in any major Fortune 500 company. Slightly balding, black framed glasses, Phil looked like the favorite neighbor down the hall, the one you trusted to water your plants and feed your cat while you were out of town. It was an immensely useful trait, one that let him walk right into a hostage situation, look at home at a society soiree, and go completely unnoticed in any location.
That was why Loki didn't see it coming, didn't in fact expect the seemingly mild-mannered agent to hoist that large weapon and try to stop him. It was also why Steve and Tony ran right into a battle of overwhelming odds when they heard. Why Thor finally knew his brother was not the boy he grew up with, and why Bruce finally realized that the other guy could be useful and let himself believe Tony's words, to think that he could be more than just the monster of his nightmares. But it wasn't why Tasha's carefully constructed life came crashing down; no Natasha Romanov knew Phil Coulson in a way very few people did … only Nick Fury and Clint Barton and her … the real man, the one who liked a damn fine cup of coffee, listened to pop music shuffled with classical symphonies and Gregorian chants, who was a connoisseur of the best burgers joints in the world. To her, he was a friend, not just a handler or a superior; he was one of only two people she truly trusted to watch her back. So when she heard that he was gone, that the medics had 'called it,' the only thing that kept her together was knowing that Clint would need her to be strong for him, that the devastation of hearing about Phil might be more than he could handle. Because Clint … Clint was going to blame himself, wrap his insides up with barbed wire and bleed out slowly, painfully, until he simply stopped feeling anything at all.
Clint Barton was, after all, in love with Phil. Had been for years even if he'd never done anything about it. Tasha knew, had known before Clint did, knew how long Phil had felt the same, understood why the two of them never spoke of it or acted on it. She heard the way they joked, how Clint was truly himself with Phil, watched them fall into an easy pattern of friendship filled with jokes and beers and occasional nights out, understood why she was always invited, why there was enough pizza for three whenever they ordered out from Fat Tony's. And she knew why Clint was going to fall apart, rip open the seams of his carefully sewn life once the fighting was over and he thought about what Loki had made him do, remembered every word spoken, every confidence betrayed at the bequest of that son-of-a-bitch godling.
Phil was the glue that held Clint Barton together, the reason he'd stayed at SHEILD, the first thing Clint thought about when going on a mission, and the last thing Clint dreamed about before he went to sleep. And Clint was the reason Phil knew that they needed his death to spur them on to greatness; Clint was driven by past wrongs, haunted by the dead, and Phil had learned that from every single time Clint pulled back that bowstring and never missed. Damn the spear and the mindfuck that roiled Clint's brain; Clint shouldered the blame, sunk into a morass of what ifs and why nots and mind-numbing regret. Clint was, after all, the one who had planned the attack, come up with the strategy, was almost successful in taking down SHIELD. But Clint had never spoken a word to the Asgardian about Phil, no matter how much the scepter's power forced him. Phil, he'd told the want-to-be god, was just a paper pusher, a bureaucrat, a nobody SHIELD underling. Of all the things Loki had demanded, Phil was the one thing Clint never gave up or surrendered. Phil was the only part of Clint that Loki never touched. But none of that would matter to Clint; he would always believe that he was the reason Phil died.
Everyone mourned Phil Coulson, coming together at his memorial service. The other agents recognized his efficiency, the unrelenting loyalty to SHIELD. They told stories of their missions with him, his fairness and calm voice in their ear, the way his ops always came off, how they never worried about being left behind. Fury spoke a few words about the best man he'd ever known, his right hand, his one good eye. Steve eulogized a hero, Thor spoke of the great son of Coul, and Pepper cried for the friend who had saved her more than once. Natasha came, but sat quietly by the door, slipping in after it started and out before it finished. Tony locked himself in his workshop and didn't come out for seven days, pausing only to take delivery of new equipment and take-out food that Jarvis ordered for him.
Clint didn't go back to the Helicarrier at all, not to his apartment, not even to Stark Tower. He didn't have any words to say, the only words he wanted to hear gone forever, never to be spoken aloud. In the cheap motel room he'd paid for in cash, he curled up on the bed and allowed the memories to overtake him, the doubts to weight him down. They'd find him eventually, he knew; Natasha would be the first, and she'd drag him back. But for now, he'd mourn in his own way, in secret, his heart shards of slivered glass that sliced his soul and left him bleeding. It was, after all, exactly what he deserved.
Phil Coulson was a paper pusher, an ass-kicker, a loyal friend, and very much alive, even if he was confined to a bed and hooked up to far too many machines. His first word upon waking was to ask about Clint; last he'd known, Barton was still under Loki's control and leading the attack. It was a full week before he comprehended why no one was coming to visit him, nine days before Fury dared beard the lion and came to see old friend. Phil ripped the director a new one and demanded Clint and Natasha be told he was alive. By then, Clint was gone, and Natasha was lost hunting him; even Stark with his technological miracles couldn't find the Hawk. Within two weeks, Phil was sitting up and directing the search, determined to find Clint and bring him back. He told everyone it was to prove that Barton was forgiven, that they all knew he'd been under the influence of magic and wasn't to blame – and most people bought that, but not everyone. Most importantly of all, Phil quit lying to himself. All their excuses had made sense before but now … now all Phil could see was lost time, time he and Clint could have been together. Wherever Clint was, Phil was going to find the man's very fine ass and drag Clint back home, preferably to Phil's apartment, specifically his bed. Because, of everything Phil Coulson was, he was a stubborn SOB who got what he wanted. And he wanted Clint Barton. More than anything he'd ever known.