Whiskey, Tears and Humanity

by Ciara in cotton socks

Phil's funeral is ostentatious, over-the-top and nothing like it should be. Fury is tactless, Steve is secure and Natasha just wants to fix things for Clint like she fixes everything else. Little does she know, she might need Clint to fix her, too.

The funeral takes place a week after the Manhattan incident, once the cleanup of the city is finished and things have begun to return to some semblance of normalcy. It is a small but ostentatious affair in a small church with a small adjoining cemetery, attended by a small gathering of SHIELD agents, former army colleagues and a select few personal friends. Phil's cellist sits in tearful silence next to his immediate family throughout the ceremony, which is notable only for its brevity and an abundance of gaudy floral arrangements.

Outside, after the casket has been lowered into the ground and the traditional three rifle volleys have been fired, Natasha Romanoff moves swiftly around the periphery of the small gathering. It is bright in the cobbled churchyard, but the sunlight is deceiving and there is a notable chill in the air. Natasha pulls her calf-length black coat closer to her body and readjusts the oversized sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Her heeled boots click against the cobblestones, loud against the backdrop of quiet, respectful murmuring. A subtle glance at her cell phone reveals no new updates and Natasha shivers in a manner which may not be attributed to the cold weather.

By the grave, a flautist is playing.

Natasha's gloved hand is on the rusted side gate, ready to ease it open and make her escape, when she hears her name being called. She turns to see Steve Rogers striding towards her, resplendent in his military finest. A row of gleaming medals sit proudly on his chest but he looks downright uncomfortable and can offer Natasha only a watery half-smile as he approaches.

'Agent Romanoff,' he says, and he shakes her hand. 'Good to see you again.'

'You too, Captain.'

Steve sighs and glances around the cemetery, which is emptying steadily around them.

'It was a nice service,' he says. 'Fitting. I think Agent Coulson would have liked it.'

'Phil didn't like to be the centre of attention.'

An uncomfortable silence falls between them for a moment. Steve scratches the back of his head.

'The others are here somewhere,' he says eventually. 'We were thinking of getting a bite to eat afterwards, if you'd like to join us?'

Natasha shakes her head and sighs, her expression closed. 'I think I'll pass, thank you.'

'Of course,' replies Steve. He hesitates and then places a tentative hand on her shoulder. 'You know we're all here, if you ever want to talk...'

Natasha snorts and turns her body away a little. 'Yeah, I'm sure Stark's a great counsellor. Again, I'll pass Cap.'

'Fair enough,' says Steve. 'Just take care of yourself, alright?'

'Sure, sure.' Natasha salutes and opens the gate, striding across the parking lot quickly and evenly.

'Agent Romanoff,' Steve calls after her. She rolls her eyes, breathes deeply and turns to face him once more.

'Yes?'

'Bring Agent Barton home safely.'

Natasha doesn't bother asking how he knows Clint is MIA, nor does she make him a promise she's not sure she can keep. Instead, she allows herself to meet his calm, safe gaze for the first time and nods before turning once more and making her way out of sight. As she walks she can't help wishing, not for the first time today, that Phil was here. Phil knew Clint better than anyone, better than Natasha and quite possibly better than Clint himself.

That's the problem, Natasha reflects as she slips into the waiting SHIELD-issue black town car. Phil knew.

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

Half an hour later, Natasha exits the town car for the third time. She has tried two of their usual boltholes to no avail, and is beginning to feel a little uneasy. Clint is supposed to be at a psych evaluation at headquarters right now, but she knows he hasn't checked in. This in itself is not unusual; Clint has never been fond of protocol after all. However, with the day that's in it, she would be much more content if she could track him down, and this is her final stop within city limits. There is, of course, the possibility that he's taken off somewhere international under one of his many aliases, but Natasha is banking on the fact that Clint is somewhat of a creature of habit. It is not a particularly positive trait for someone in their line of work, but right now Natasha is grateful for it and hopes that he follows one of the usual patterns.

She nods to her po-faced driver and stares up at the storefront before her. O'Dwyer's is a small, slightly dingy, Irish tavern, nondescript and uninteresting to passersby. It is a place Natasha has visited several times, a favourite of Phil's from his days as a recruit. He brings- brought- her and Clint there after particularly successful missions, and once or twice after less-than-successful ones. Natasha cannot suppress a shiver as she remembers the last time they were here, nestled in a corner booth with a clear view of all entry and exit points. It had been after Budapest, when Fury had held off on the backup they requested and Clint had been shot and she, Natasha, had been forced to dig the bullet out of his shoulder with a penknife and only a bottle of raw vodka as anaesthetic. Phil had yelled at Fury later, in Clint's private room in the helicarrier's medical bay, a vein bulging dangerously in his neck, and hadn't even reprimanded Natasha when she broke the arm of Clint's temporary replacement in two places. Upon the archer's release, Phil had brought the pair of them here and Natasha had suspected that he had been waiting for Clint to heal fully before laying into them for the disastrous turn the mission had taken.

Instead, he had bought each of them a tumbler of finest Tullamore whiskey and told them in a low voice that if they ever tried to give him a heart attack by pulling a stunt like that again, there would be no crevice on the earth or under it where he would not find them. Then he had clapped a hand to Clint's uninjured shoulder and ordered them all another round while in the background the in-house entertainment for the night, a lively traditional folk band, struck up a rousing reel.

Today when Natasha steps inside, there is no band playing. The dark pub is sparsely populated- it is Thursday, and early afternoon at that. A couple of elderly regulars sit on stools at the bar, squabbling over the results of a horse race being shown on the grainy TV in the corner. The slender young girl collecting glasses looks up as Natasha enters and smiles warmly. She pushes a stray strand of black hair behind her ear, tightens her ponytail and fishes a small blue notepad from a hidden pocket in her emerald-green apron.

'What can I get you?' she asks expectantly, and Natasha is pleasantly surprised to hear the distinctive south-of-Ireland lilt in her tone. Cork, she thinks, or maybe Kerry; she and Clint spent a couple of months posing as American tourists visiting for what passed as summer in Ireland in order to nail a child prostitution ring. So many Americans claim Irish ancestry and many of them work in bars such as this one, with false accents and over-the-top eccentricities. It is refreshing, particularly to someone in Natasha's line of work, to see someone genuine in a place like this. She offers the barkeep a rare smile and shakes her head.

'I'm just looking for a friend,' she explains, scanning the room swiftly. 'I think he might have been in today- 5' 8", sandy hair?'

'Bit of a looker?' the girl asks, unabashed. Natasha nods; there is no point in denying that Clint is attractive. Upon receiving confirmation, the barkeep looks relieved and jerks her thumb towards the back of the bar. 'Booth by the door to the kitchen. I'm glad you're here actually, I was about to cut him off and call somebody to take him home.'

'Thanks,' Natasha says hurriedly and heads in the direction the girl is pointing in.

Sure enough, hunched up in the back booth with his cheek against the scrubbed wooden table and surrounded by an alarmingly large collection of glasses is Clint. His eyelids are drooping and Natasha's stomach lurches when she notices the grimy tearstains streaking his one visible cheek. She slides onto the bench next to him and gives him a gentle nudge.

'Clint,' she says quietly. 'Clint, come on. It's time to go.'

'You go Tasha,' he slurs. 'Go 'way. 'M fine on my own.'

'Looks like it,' counters Natasha , her jaw jutting out in a challenge. 'I'm serious Barton, time to go. Saddle up.'

The archer glares at her with an alcohol-glazed gaze and forces himself to sit upright.

'Said I'm fine,' he growls. 'Now leave me alone Tasha. I don't want to talk to anyone. Not today. 'Specially not to you.'

'Fine, we won't talk then. I'll just sit here. Or I can knock you out and haul your ass out of here. You choose.'

'Tasha,' he whines pitifully, and where Natasha would normally punch him in the ribs for such an offence, she instead stealthily snatches his glass away and puts a hand on his arm. It earns her another baleful glare, but Clint does not argue or attempt to reclaim the glass, the remaining contents of which Natasha downs. Whiskey, as expected. A sigh flutters through her pursed lips and she pinches the bridge of her nose.

'Jesus Barton,' she murmurs. 'What are you doing here?'

'Fury said... He told me not to come. To the funeral, he told me not to come to the funeral, so I figured here was as good a place as any to be on a Thursday morning. Afternoon now, I guess.'

'What?' Natasha's voice is venom, evident even to Clint in his current state of inebriation. He shakes his head at her, an action he seems immediately to regret, because he blanches quite spectacularly. 'He said what?'

'Told me I shouldn't come to the funeral,' Clint repeats bleakly, and he cranes his neck towards the bar. 'Want another drink.'

'No you don't,' snaps Natasha, fury threatening to explode from her chest. She thinks this is probably what Banner feels like right before the Other Guy makes his presence felt, and she wishes dearly that Director Nick Fury was in front of her right now so she could rip him limb from limb. 'Where does he get off, telling you that?'

Clint shrugs hopelessly. 'Said some people might be 'uncomfortable' if I was there. Said it might upset the family. Didn' wanna upset the family Tasha. I've caused them enough pain already.'

Natasha swears loudly and the patrons of O'Dwyer's glance in their direction. She gives a forced smile and scoots closer to Clint once they go back to their own conversations. With a trifle more force than is necessary, the fiery assassin grabs her partner's chin and forces him to look her in the face.

'Listen to me Barton,' she seethes. 'And listen carefully. What happened was not your fault. There was no possible way to prepare or defend yourself against the crap Loki pulled on you. We're assassins Clint, we're spies, we deal in reality and that shit was nothing we were familiar with.'

'But Tasha-'

'No buts, Barton. What Loki did to you was batshit crazy, but it could just as easily have happened to Fury or Hill or anyone else. Hell, if I'd been at base it could have been me! Just think about that for a second Barton, alright? It could have been me, and you and I both know that if it had been, and it was me sitting here wallowing and pickling my liver after missing the funeral of the man who was the closest thing we have to a friend, you'd kick my ass. Wouldn't you?'

'I guess.'

'You would, and you know it.'

'You don't get it,' he whispers hoarsely. 'It just hurts, Tasha. It hurts all the time, and I thought it would stop after a while but it hasn't, it just hurts and hurts and I can't turn it off! I can't sleep, I can't train, I can't breathe without seeing it- all of it, everything, and Phil. It never goes away Tasha, an' I... I just wanted to forget for a little while. 'M sorry.'

'No,' she sighs, torn between sympathy for Clint and annoyance with herself. 'No, don't be sorry. I'm sorry Clint. I should have been here for you today.'

'No, you had to go to the funeral.'

'I could say goodbye to Phil any time,' says Natasha, softly. She pointedly ignores the quiver in her voice on the word 'goodbye'. 'I don't need some preacher telling me how. The whole thing was ghastly Clint, Phil would have hated it. You would too.'

'Well it's a good thing I'm a recovering psychopathic menace to society then, isn't it?' Clint says with a bitter smile.

'Oh shut up. Come on, I'm taking you home. No. Arguments.'

Either she looks dangerously fierce or Clint is starting to sober up, because instead of protesting he just nods glumly and allows Natasha to help him into his dark brown leather jacket.

'Have you settled your bill?' the redhead asks, slipping from the bench and offering her partner a hand in assistance.

'Yeah,' he says with a nod. He shirks her offered hand. 'And I can walk, Tasha.'

Only apparently no, he can't, because as soon as he stands upright he sways worryingly and his first attempt at a step towards the door sees his legs cave under him, Natasha's strong, secure grip the only thing which prevents him from crumpling to the floor face-first. She hooks his arm over her shoulders and wraps hers around his waist. Together they limp awkwardly towards the door, Natasha smiling tightly at the barkeep as they stumble out onto the street. The town car is waiting and Natasha manages to manoeuvre her intoxicated partner inside with little trouble. Once they start moving Clint drops his head to her shoulder, his fingers fiddling absently with her hair, which has begun to tumble down from its reserved chignon. Ordinarily she would slap his hand away and threaten him with a knife or some other lethal weapon or body part. Now, however, with Clint trembling at her side and his words earlier- It just hurts Tasha- ringing in her ears, it is all she can do not to wrap her arms around him until the pain goes away. The emotion is strange to Natasha; although she has always been somewhat protective of Clint as her partner, in the field, she has never felt so concerned for his emotional state. Distracted, she massages his bad knee sympathetically.

'Tasha?' Clint mutters, voice laced with drowsiness.

'Yeah?'

'I don't want to go home. Not tonight.'

'I know,' she says, and instead directs the driver to the small apartment she owns in Hell's Kitchen under the alias of Naomi Ross, a talented ballet dancer who is supposed to be touring Europe with some prestigious company at present. Clint nestles closer to her, his cheek cool against her neck.

'Thanks.'

The rest of the car ride passes in silence; for a while Natasha thinks Clint has fallen asleep, but then she realises that the soft snuffling is an attempt to conceal sobs, not snoring. She doesn't say anything but runs a hand through her partner's short, sandy hair like she did in Budapest, hoping to offer some sort of comfort. She isn't sure if it works, but Clint presses a little closer to her and the sobs subside a little.

Clint is fatigued now, and getting him up the stairs to her top-floor apartment requires a lot of exertion on Natasha's part; she feels her muscles strain and resolves to up her core training upon her return to active SHIELD duty. Nonetheless, she manages to get him inside and onto her sofa without major incident. Clint sprawls limply and moans while Natasha makes coffee in the kitchenette, muscles screaming in protest and the corners of her eyes prickling alarmingly. It is harder to breathe now, for some reason.

She hands Clint his coffee- it is instant and bitter and godawful, but it is hot and somehow comforting. Natasha takes hers to the other end of the sofa, slips off her boots and draws her bare feet up beneath her, surveying Clint over the rim of her mug.

'I wish I could help,' she says after a long, tense pause. Clint, startled, almost drops his coffee in his eagerness to stare at her. Natasha sighs and puts her mug down on the bare floorboards. She has never felt more useless, her hands flapping awkwardly in a vain attempt to express herself. Falsehoods come easily to her; it is the truth which is difficult. 'I'm supposed to be your partner, Clint, and I want to help you, but I have no idea how! I've been wracking my brains all week, but I keep coming up empty. All I can think is What would Phil do?, and then I remember that Phil's not here anymore and that's the problem and there's nothing I can do to fix it for you, nothing! I fix things, Clint, it's my job- they give me something to do, and I get it done. But I can't fix this Clint, no matter how much I want to, and I... shit, I just wish I could.'

She finishes lamely and abruptly, her breathing heavy and laboured. Clint stares, his mouth hanging open, and then holds up his coffee cup.

'You made me coffee,' he says. 'That helped.'

Natasha just snorts and swipes at her eyes, because at some point during her absurd little rant they decided to start leaking.

'You're an idiot,' she spits, but her voice holds no venom now. She takes another gulp of coffee, relishing the burn as it goes down.

'And you're a good friend,' Clint says, his voice quiet. He scoots his weight a little across the leather upholstery, so that his thighs brush against her kneecaps. 'I think we're both very screwed up right now Tasha.'

'We've always been screwed up,' she points out darkly, and Clint rolls his eyes, exasperated.

'Fine, we're more screwed up than usual then,' he amends. 'I think it's probably a good thing that we're screwed up together, at least this way there's someone to understand all our crazy.'

Natasha narrows her eyes at him, but a fond smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. 'How do you get so wise when you're drunk?' she asks suspiciously, and it earns her a shaky laugh.

'Part of the mystery, sweetheart,' he sighs, eyes drifting closed. Natasha nudges him, harder than she did in O'Dwyer's.

'Alright boozy, bedtime.'

He cracks an eyelid. 'I can just sleep here,' he says, hopeful. Natasha snorts again.

'And complain for the next fortnight about the state of your back? I don't think so,' she informs him. 'Come on, you can have my bed. My superior muscles can take the sofa for one night.'

'You sure?'

'Would I offer if I wasn't?'

'Fair point.' A pause. 'Tasha?'

'Yeah?'

'Can you help me up? I can't exactly feel my legs.'

She shakes her head but eases Clint to his feet. They fall into the familiar pattern from the bar, his arm draped over her slim shoulder blades and hers wrapped firmly around his waist. The position is intimate, but as partners they are used to the other invading their personal spaces and neither finds it awkward.

The bedroom is neutral and inexpressive, sparsely furnished and with no personal effects apart from a battered copy of A Tale of Two Cities sitting on the bedside locker and a couple of non-SHIELD approved outfits hanging on the outside of the wardrobe. Natasha deposits her charge on the double bed and sets about removing first his shoes, then his socks. Clint manages to shrug out of his jacket without assistance, but ends up with his dark plum t-shirt trapping his head. The redhead cannot help smiling as she comes to his rescue.

'You're awesome,' Clint mumbles as she removes the offending article of clothing. He is almost childlike, looking up at her with big grey eyes swimming with tears and his hair sticking up in every direction. Natasha rolls her eyes. 'You're always looking out for me Tasha. Always taking care of me.'

'And you are drunk,' she replies. Clint removes his jeans with only a little difficulty and allows himself to be manhandled under the covers. 'You going to throw up tonight?'

He shakes his head.

'Good. I'll just grab some water and a couple of aspirins for the morning. You try to get some sleep.'

She fetches them quickly and returns to find Clint with his face mashed into his pillow, a hand tossed carelessly above his head. With a sigh she places the water and painkillers next to him and adjusts his position, placing him on his side. She pads silently across to the chest in which she keeps most of her clothes and slips from her constricting black dress and coat into a threadbare grey SHIELD training shirt pilfered from Clint's locker on the helicarrier and a pair of simple cotton shorts.

Clint stirs as she steps over the threshold and moans under his breath.

'Phil,' he murmurs, and the name is a keen so broken it makes Natasha's chest burn. 'Phil, no, please.'

'Clint,' she soothes, hurrying to his side. What she hopes is a comforting hand rests on his bare shoulder. 'Clint, it's alright. It's just a dream. I'm here.'

'Tasha?' He comes into wakefulness suddenly, equal parts panicked and confused. It takes a moment for recognition to settle and when it does he flops back on the pillow, ashamed.

'You alright now?' his partner asks doubtfully. He gives a weak nod in response and a relieved Natasha turns to leave. Clint's fingers fasten around her wrist almost desperately.

'Tasha?' he says again, the name tripping from his lips almost clumsily. 'Will you stay? P-please?'

She doesn't reply, but instead removes her wrist from her grip and pads around to the other side of the bed, climbs in and hooks herself around Clint's hunched, stocky form. She presses her lips to his shoulder and strokes his hair with the tenderness of a lover. She feels the tension leave Clint's body and his breathing begin to even out. Though she does not say it, she is as grateful for his request as he is for her acceptance. Nobody else misses Phil like she does, and their shared grief is oddly comforting to her. She closes her eyes and presses closer to her partner, who shifts a little to accommodate her. Together they drift companionably towards sleep. Natasha is on the verge of unconsciousness when she hears Clint murmur again, although she cannot be sure whether it is in a dream or in wakefulness.

'Love you Tasha.'

She doesn't have the energy to tell him that love is for children, or the courage to tell him she might- maybe- love him back.

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

Friday morning dawns, as crisp and clear as the day before. The cemetery is empty, save for a wizened old lady with a stick sitting quietly before the large war memorial at the south end. Overhead, a lone crow caws balefully from its position on a telephone wire.

Natasha and Clint enter through the same rusted side gate she used the day before. Natasha wears black jeans, military boots and an olive-green duffel coat, while Clint follows behind her, his face pale and a pair of Aviators jammed over his sensitive eyes.

'Remind me never to drink again,' he grumbles, and Natasha sniggers. 'What? You wouldn't understand hangovers, you're Russian.'

Natasha grins good-naturedly at that and falls back into step with him, linking their arms companionably.

'If you behave, I'll make you breakfast when we get home,' she tells him, and Clint perks up a little.

'You're awesome.'

'I've been getting that a lot lately,' she says with the ghost of a smirk and steers Clint down a narrow gravelled pathway. 'It's just down here. You sure you want to do this?'

'Yep.'

Natasha nods and leads her partner down the path to their destination, a large granite headstone with a fresh earth mound before it. Like at the church, there is an overabundance of floral arrangements, ranging from cheap and colourful to gargantuan and gaudy. Natasha observes the site with distaste and a quick sideways glance shows that Clint has similar feelings of disdain.

'Jesus,' he whistles. 'That's... uh, that's loud.'

'You're telling me. Look at the inscription.'

It is flowery and long-winded and says nothing that really applies to Phil Coulson, all in curling French-inspired font and gold engraving.

'I told you you'd hate it,' Natasha says knowingly, and Clint makes a choking sound.

'Do- did- these people know Phil at all?' he asks, sounding almost bitter. Natasha slips her hand into his and gives it a tight squeeze.

'He was an enigma,' she says after a moment. 'A brilliant enigma with questionable sanity- hey, he put up with us for ten years, you had to wonder sometimes too!'

'Fair enough.'

'Look, the point is nobody knew a whole lot about Phil Coulson, except for Phil Coulson. And maybe Pepper Potts. But we knew him as well as anybody, because he was our friend. That's why it hurts so much Clint, but I'm starting to think, in a weird way, that the pain is a good thing. It proves that we're human. And I think that's what Phil always wanted us to realise. It's why we were so desperate to avenge him, it's why you were such a mess last night and it's why I need you just as much as you need me. We're human. We grieve. And we love.'

Clint stared at her for one long moment, and then hugged her so forcefully that Natasha had to use her elbows to jab him in the ribs in order to make room for her to breathe.

'I think we should give Phil a proper tribute,' he whispers into her hair, which today hangs loose around her heart-shaped face. Natasha pulls back to look at him and is pleased to see him grinning impishly. 'Maybe take out that drugs kingpin in Sofia? Fury won't find out until it's too late to stop us...'

'You read my mind.'

/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/

Five days later, the two assassins sit in disgrace before Director Fury, who is busily reading them the riot act. The rest of the Avengers are just outside the glass doors, all of them attempting to look like they weren't eavesdropping, apart from Stark who is gleefully imitating Fury on his blindside. The kingpin has been duly dealt with, and Natasha has broken their new handler's nose, as well as two ribs for good measure. Both assassins are being threatened with everything from suspension to forced kidney donation, and both are attempting not to smirk.

Eventually, Fury's rage runs its course and he storms out of the room in a streak of cursewords and badass longcoat. The other Avengers scatter skittishly, apart from Tony who bows to Fury and applauds the two assassins before strutting off to torture the lab technicians, his favourite new pastime. Natasha and Clint are left alone and can finally share a smirk.

'To Phil Coulson,' Clint says, his voice low, and Natasha smiles gently, her hand on his shoulder as they gaze out into the vast expanse of sky before them.

'To Phil Coulson,' she echoes. 'He made us who we are. He made us human, and he made us know love.'

FIN

A/N: I hope you like it, and would appreciate any and all reviews. Also, to my fellow Clintasha/BlackHawk fans, I hope there were enough little hints of future romance in there to satisfy you, at least temporarily... Thank you for reading (especially if you reached the end of this Author's Note, which is really starting to ramble and needs to be stopped. Now.)

Much love,

Ciara