The skin at the base of Clint's neck tingles. Someone was watching him. He knew who it was. He hadn't heard any footsteps and only two people in the world were quiet enough for him not to hear.

"Wake up, Barton." Clint nearly jumped out of his skin at hearing Fury's voice. Make that three people. He slowly opened one eye, hoping his shock hadn't been too obvious, and looked up at Fury. Clint was reclining on the sofa in Phil's office, like he did after every mission, or any day really, waiting for Phil to come yell at him for skipping another debriefing.

"Good morning, sir. Is there a problem?" The sir slipped out before he could stop it. He was almost too tired to care about Fury's small smile at the word. It'd been a long week. He'd just have to make up for it with more snark later.

"Sit up."

Clint groaned but shifted to follow the order. He only half-assed it though, slouching half over the armrest still. Couldn't let Fury think he was becoming a proper agent. To Clint's surprise Fury sat down next to him. He seemed as tired as Clint was. But it was more than fatigue; it was like he was at a loss for words. This fact alone sent a wave of fear through Clint. He suppressed a shudder but couldn't stave off the coldness that gripped his heart.

"What is it?" Clint was sitting straight upright now, no longer caring about anything beyond the two words he knew were coming next. The two words he'd dreaded hearing for so long. The words that would explain why Phil hadn't been in the field today; why he hadn't come to see Clint once he'd gotten free of Loki; why Clint had been asleep in this office for four hours without any sign of Phil. He knew the two words were coming, but he still wasn't ready to hear them. Wasn't ready for the aching hole in his chest where his heart used to be. Wasn't ready to lose the one thing he'd fought so hard to get back to. But the words came anyway.

"Phil's dead."

And just like that his world ended. Time stopped. He wasn't breathing. His heart wasn't beating. The only thing that existed, the only thing that mattered was that Phil Coulson was dead. And it was his fault.

The tears didn't come until later that night, when he was curled up in his bunk at HQ. The room was dark and empty; he'd barely ever used it. Which was exactly why he'd chosen it now. There were no memories here. Nothing to haunt or torture him. Nothing to distract him from the knowing shame and hopelessness that burned through his veins.

Natasha slipped in at three in the morning. She didn't say anything, just climbed into his bunk and laid down next to him. He curled up into her waiting arms. She stayed there the rest of the night, holding him. She never said a word, no comfort or sympathy, just let him cry himself to sleep. He loved her for that.

;;;

"What do you think you're doing Barton?" Coulson snapped. He sounded exasperated. Clint had just dropped down from the ceiling of his office, scaring the junior agent who'd been bringing Coulson coffee. The coffee and case files she'd been holding were now scattered around the room.

"Testing preparedness and reaction skills of junior agents, sir." Clint quoted back the line from somewhere in one of the dozen or so handbooks he'd never fully read. He saw Coulson blink slowly and take a breath that was just a fraction heavier than his usual breathing. His version of a sigh.

"Section 23 only applies while in the training center, Barton."

Clint at least had the decency to look sheepish as the junior agent finished gathering her things and all but sprinted from the room. As soon as she was gone Coulson closed the office door. The glare that Coulson shot at Clint was enough to knock him backwards into the sofa.

"I really don't know what to do with you anymore, Barton." Coulson sat on the edge of his desk and rubbed his eyes. Clint noted the dark circles that ringed them. He looked tired. More tired than Clint had ever seen him. It scared him. Coulson had always seemed so invincible, able to brush off anything. Clint had never seen even the slightest sign of weakness from his handler.

"I'm sorry, sir. I know I can be a handful." He saw Coulson raise an eyebrow skeptically. "All right, a bit more than a handful, but I can't help it – "

"And that's the problem!" Coulson burst out. "You can't help it! You act like you do because that's just who you are. You're impulsive and immature and have no concept of consequence." Coulson was pacing the office, more animated than Clint knew he could be. "You've been shuffled through nearly a half dozen handlers before getting passed on to me because, for some reason no one understands, I'm the only person you'll actually listen to in the field. I don't enjoy being a handler. I don't like feeling like a glorified babysitter. I don't like having to do more paperwork with one asset than handlers with a dozen. I don't like feeling like I can never be at ease in my own office because I don't know if you're in my ceiling or not. Or if you're going to drop down on an agent who has only been has only been here a week!"

"I'm sorry." Clint mumbled. He hadn't realized he'd been pissing Coulson off this much. He'd only been messing around. Like he always did. It was the only way he knew how to be.

"Honestly, Barton, sometimes I wonder why we put up with you."

The words hit Clint like a runaway truck. He'd been rejected before. Quite often. He was used to it, expected it. But not from Coulson. They'd been working together for almost two years. They worked well together and trusted each other in the field. They'd even gone out for pizza once or twice outside of work. He was the closest thing to a friend Clint had. The closest thing he allowed himself to have after everything in his past. He felt old walls going up as this new rejection sunk in.

"Fine." Clint choked out the word with a quick nod. He stood up and crossed to the door. If Coulson didn't want him here then he wouldn't stay. He flung open the door and let it slam shut behind him. He thought he heard Coulson swear in the office but it didn't matter. Coulson had rejected him, just like everyone else.

;;;

Clint bolted up in bed, hyperventilating and in a cold sweat. Natasha ran a hand through his hair, whispering to him calmly. After a minute his heart started to slow and his muscles relaxed. He lay back down and turned over as Tasha wrapped her arms around him. He felt her breath on the back of his neck, tickling the skin like Phil's breath always had. The thought sent a fresh wave of grief through him but he didn't shift. He closed his eyes and let himself imagine, just for a second, that it was Phil's arms around him.

His mind went to his nightmare. He'd had nightmares before, nearly every night, about work or his childhood. They were the only dreams he ever remembered. He'd never once dreamt about Phil. He wasn't even sure if the dream counted as a dream since it was actually a memory. A horrible memory. It had been one of Clint's lowest moments in life. But Phil was in it, and how could he call anything involving Phil a nightmare? He still hadn't decided what to call it when he drifted back to sleep.

;;;

Clint was in the shooting range, packing away his bow. He'd be damned if he'd leave it behind. Hell, SHIELD practically owed it to him. And they'd have no use for it once he left. No one else was any good with it. He placed it gently into the sleek black carrying case. Resisting the urge to grab his quiver of special arrows, he flung the case over his shoulder and headed for the elevator.

He tapped his foot impatiently, watching the numbers count downward as the elevator descended to the main floor. He'd considered taking his SHIELD issued SUV but decided against it for much the same reason he'd left the quiver of arrows. They were SHIELD property and he didn't want them to have any reason to come after him. He'd overstayed his welcome enough as it was.

The elevator doors dinged open and he crossed the glistening marble lobby. He strode out the glass doors and along the crowded city streets, keeping his head down and mind clear. It hurt too much to think about today, about the two years he'd spent finally feeling at home. Trying not to think about it only made the thoughts press more urgently on his heart and mind. By the time he reached his apartment he was fighting back tears.

He fumbled with the key, trying to deny that his vision was blurred. Ten minutes and he'd be packed and gone. He didn't have much, a few old mementos and a spare change of clothes. Just pack his things and disappear, like he'd done so many times before.

He finally unlocked the door and pushed inside the tiny apartment. The second the door closed behind him his knees failed and he collapsed to the floor. Tears were streaming down his face now. He curled up on the ground, hugging his knees to his chest. He'd been stupid to think anyone would ever want him; to trust anyone; to let himself feel at home. Never again. Never. Not ever. He'd never let anyone close again.

"Just because you can be a pain in my ass doesn't mean I don't want you."

Clint looked up to see Coulson perched on the edge of a barstool in the kitchen. Clint buried his head back into his knees. He must have been muttering his thoughts aloud. Great. Way to go Clint. Revealing just how fucked up you are to the person who just rejected you. "You said you didn't know why you put up with me. You said I was immature and selfish and more trouble than I'm worth." Clint croaked, his voice raw from the tears.

"I was frustrated. I would prefer at least a little notice when you plan on using my office as a nest is all." Coulson sighed and rubbed his temples. "I've been working on something for Fury and haven't gotten much sleep this week. It's a piss-poor excuse, I know. I'm sorry."

Clint rolled up so that his back was against the wall but kept his knees curled to him protectively. Like somehow they could shield him from the pain Coulson's words were causing. He knew Coulson was trying to backpedal, he'd seen it before. Someone trying to take back the truth that had slipped out on accident. Trying to keep him around as a plaything for a little while longer. "Doesn't change the fact that you don't want me… How did you know I'd be here anyway?" It was still the middle of the afternoon. As far as SHIELD was concerned he was supposed to be at HQ.

"About half a second after you stormed out of my office I realized how big of a mistake I'd made. I saw you packing on the security feeds and went to the range to find you and apologize but you'd already left. So I came here. I've been waiting a while. I was beginning to think you'd ditched town without coming back for any of your stuff." Coulson's voice was as flat as always but Clint thought he could hear a bit of strain behind it. He wrote it off as his imagination. Coulson's only strain at the moment was the fear of Clint's disappearance reflecting badly on him at work.

"Yeah, well, you can have it." Clint sniffed and wiped the tears from his eyes. Anger was starting to replace the sadness. It always did eventually. It pissed him off that this had happened enough times in his life for him to have a familiar pattern of reaction. "I don't need this crap. Any of it." Clint aimed the last part at Coulson. He thought he saw the man's mouth twitch.

"Barton." Coulson whispered the name. He crossed the room and knelt down next to Clint. Coulson reached out a hand to touch Clint's shoulder but he shied away from it and Coulson dropped it with a sigh. "I forget sometimes, how fragile you are. How many times you've been used or abused then tossed aside like a piece of garbage." A strangled gasp escaped Clint's lips. "I'm sorry that I was insensitive. I'm sorry for making you feel like you don't belong at SHIELD."

That was the final straw. The one thing beyond all else that Clint couldn't bear to hear right now. He didn't belong at SHIELD. He didn't belong anywhere. Coulson had proved that to him today. He was sick of being mistreated, sick of the abuse, sick of being seen as just a tool to be used, but he could handle it. He was used to it. What he couldn't handle was being seen as weak. "You shouldn't have to tiptoe around me like I'm a piece of fucking china!" Clint screamed. He saw Coulson flinch slightly. "You shouldn't have to be thinking about my fucked up past! I know I'm messed up. I know I'm broken. I know I'm –" The word caught in Clint's throat. "I'm useless."

"No!" Coulson's hands were on either side of Clint's face, turning his head so that they were staring eye-to-eye. "You are many things, Clint Barton. You are the wittiest, happiest man I've ever met. You love life more than anyone. You live moment to moment because you understand how uncertain the idea of a future is. You are a strong and kind-hearted person who has been through Hell on more than one occasion and has come out even stronger and kinder. Not to mention that you just happen to be the best damn shot with a bow in recorded history." Clint smiled a little at the compliments, not fully believing them. "You are many things, Clint Barton, but you are not useless." Coulson's lips twitched, like he wanted to add something but he stayed quiet.

"Does this mean you still want me?" Clint smirked and Coulson's lips twisted up into a smile.

"Yes, Barton. God knows why, and people will call me a masochist for saying this, but I actually enjoy being your handler."